Turning The Page
[📘 Content Warning:
This story contains Boys’ Love (BL) themes. Reader discretion is advised. Please read the disclaimers mentioned in the Instagram post.]
His suitcase rolled unevenly on the polished floor as he followed the signs to customs.
People chatted in different languages, their voices blending into a soft murmur… a reminder that he was far from everything familiar.
The weight of his loss still pressed heavily on his chest, but somewhere beneath the ache, a fragile hope flickered.
Outside, the sky was a patchwork of soft gray clouds, the light diffused and gentle.
Zhan took a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs, steadying him for what was to come.
He reminded himself this was a chance… maybe not to forget, but to live with the memories instead of being crushed by them.
The apartment he rented was small but cozy.
A compact space arranged by the company to help new employees settle in quickly.
A modest space with large windows that opened to a quiet street lined with bike lanes and old brick buildings.
The faint sound of bicycles and distant chatter seeped in, giving the room a gentle rhythm.
By afternoon, he called his family and spoke with them, turning his phone to show them the house.
Yue was excited, her voice bright, but his parents’ smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes… something sad flickering across their faces.
Zhan tried to make them understand, assuring them he was fine here, that there was nothing to worry about… even as everything in his mind was quietly breaking, each breath feeling heavier than the last.
That evening, after unpacking, Zhan sat by the window, a cup of tea warming his hands.
The city lights flickered on one by one, casting soft shadows across his face.
He thought of Yibo… the words, the silence, the sudden coldness, like a storm that had swept through his life and left a barren landscape behind.
His phone lay beside him, silent.
No messages.
No calls.
He forced a small, bitter smile, yet his eyes were teary.
“Maybe this is the fresh start I need.”
He whispered to the quiet room.
That night, he stepped out for dinner, scrolling through the map on his phone in search of somewhere decent to eat.
He found a small Dutch restaurant just a short walk away, its warm lights spilling onto the cobblestone street.
Inside, he ordered stamppot with rookworst and a glass of beer, then sat alone at a table for one.
Everything felt strange and new—the taste of the food, the murmur of unfamiliar voices, even the crisp air drifting in whenever the door opened.
As he chewed slowly, he thought.
“This is my new reality… my new life.”
But the truth lingered like a shadow—the one he left behind would never truly disappear.
When he returned to his flat, he showered and went straight to bed.
He was tired, but sleep didn’t come.
His mind kept circling the same thoughts, the same ache.
Miles and oceans away, the pain was still there… raw, like a fresh open wound.
Lost in that haze of memories and sorrow, Zhan didn’t realise when sleep finally claimed him.
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The next few days passed in a blur.
Learning the tram routes, figuring out the grocery stores, and trying to adjust to the slower pace.
Zhan’s evenings were filled with long walks along canals, the reflections of street lamps dancing on the water, reminding him of flickering memories he couldn’t quite catch.
He enrolled in language classes, pushing himself to focus, to build something new.
Yet, in quiet moments, his mind wandered back to Yibo’s face… calm but distant, the resignation in his voice, and the echo of…
“Sometimes love isn’t enough.”
One rainy afternoon, Zhan stood beneath an awning outside a small café, watching droplets ripple across the puddles.
It reminded him of that rainy evening when he last saw Yibo by the riverbank.
He clenched his fists, the pain sharp but distant, like a scar healing beneath the skin.
He knew moving on wouldn’t be simple.
The distance might ease the ache, but some part of him would always carry that bittersweet love… a secret corner of his heart reserved for what was lost.
For now, he would take it one day at a time, finding strength in the unfamiliar streets, in the quiet moments and maybe… just maybe… learning to live again… without him.
—————————————–
A week later, Zhan reported to his new office — a sleek, modern building nestled in a quiet business district of Amsterdam.
He had been hired as an editor at “Verve Publishing”, a mid-sized firm specializing in contemporary fiction and graphic novels.
The walls inside were lined with tall bookshelves, soft light filtering through large windows that overlooked a narrow canal.
On his first day, Zhan felt the familiar mix of excitement and nerves.
His desk was tidy, with a laptop, a stack of manuscripts awaiting his keen eyes, and a potted plant someone had left.
A small gesture that made the space feel less cold.
His manager, a cheerful woman named Clara, welcomed him warmly and introduced him to the team.
At first, Zhan kept to himself, feeling the walls of unfamiliarity.
His routine was simple.
Home to office, office to home.
In the first few days, he ate out, sampling local cafés and small restaurants.
Later, he bought a portable induction cooktop, the kind common in Dutch apartments, and found a small Asian grocery tucked between a bakery and a bike shop.
There, he picked up soy sauce, noodles, dried spices, and other familiar Chinese ingredients, slowly returning to the comfort of cooking for himself.
He called home almost every day, telling them how things were going.
He video-called home almost every day, propping his phone on the kitchen counter or desk, sharing how things were going.
Talking about the canals, the crisp weather, the polite neighbours, his colleagues.
But even through the small screen, his family could see it… the slow fading of his once-bright smile, the quiet heaviness in his eyes.
He was no longer quite the Zhan they knew, and though they never said it aloud, it pricked their hearts like a thorn.
The office buzzed with quiet energy.
A mix of people typing rapidly, whispering in hushed tones, and sipping coffee from mismatched mugs.
His colleagues were a diverse bunch: some young and bubbly, others quiet and thoughtful.
Among them, Jonas and Eva stood out.
Jonas, the laid-back graphic designer who loved sharing local food spots.
And Eva, a meticulous proofreader with a quick wit.
Jonas was tall, scruffy, and perpetually late.
A native Dutch guy with a sharp wit and a chaotic energy that always filled the room before he did.
He was the kind of person who remembered your coffee order and also made fun of your shoes in the same breath.
Zhan liked that about him.
Eva, on the other hand, was gentle, radiant, and organized to a fault.
She had short curly hair, wore oversized sweaters, and always smelled like cinnamon or vanilla.
A second-generation immigrant from Spain, she was a trained linguist with a passion for cooking and poetry.
Eva started bringing lunchboxes for Zhan every now and then, saying she hated eating alone and gradually, it became a regular thing.
Homemade empanadas, warm lentil soup, spicy rice dishes… each meal was like a hug in food form.
Jonas and Eva gradually became his closest companions at work.
They had lunch in the courtyard behind the office, stole fries from each other’s plates, and gossiped about the messiest authors they worked with.
Sometimes, on weekends, they explored corners of Amsterdam.
Flea markets, hidden cafes, poetry readings in abandoned bookstores.
Jonas helped Zhan get a second-hand motorbike, saying.
“You’re practically Dutch now, can’t keep taking the tram forever.”
It was matte black, a little rusty, but it ran fine.
Jonas also invited him for a bike ride one weekend, and Eva would drop by his desk to slip him a packet of snacks or a coffee when he forgot to take a break.
The two of them also helped him track down a few second-hand furniture pieces and kitchen items for his apartment, showing him where to find the best shops and places in town.
Some weekends, they would come over to his place, bringing food or coffee, and the three of them would spend hours just talking and laughing.
For Zhan, it was a rare few hours of distraction from his pain, until the door closed behind them and he was alone in his apartment again.
Slowly, the office transformed from a place of anxiety to a space where he felt seen.
And as days passed, as he reviewed manuscripts, participated in editorial meetings, and shared lunches in the small breakroom, he started to loosen up.
Zhan kept his connection to home alive without a fail.
He video-called his parents and Yue often, their faces lighting up the small screen like a piece of home he could still touch.
They would laugh over little things, share updates about the bookstore’s sales, and fuss over him, reminding him to eat properly, dress warm, and not work too late.
Liu Fang’s voice sometimes trembled, and Yue’s cheerful words often ended with…“We miss you.”
At night, when the city quieted, Zhan sometimes stared at his phone, scrolling through photos of Yibo… a bittersweet painful reminder of the life he’d left behind.
And of all the happiness that had been snatched from him in a single night.
But he held on to those moments of warmth, like anchors in a shifting sea.
Though the pain lingered, Zhan was beginning to build a new rhythm… between the hum of printers, the smell of fresh paper, and the laughter of new friends, a fragile sense of belonging started to take root.
————————————————
Time had moved both painfully slow and surprisingly fast.
It had been nearly a year since Zhan moved to the Netherlands.
His days blurred into weeks and months, a rhythm built around deadlines, editorial meetings, and manuscript reviews.
His job as an editor had quickly become more than just a career move, it became his anchor.
The company mostly handled translated fiction, children’s literature, and academic texts, and Zhan was given charge of a new series of illustrated books aimed at multicultural readers.
At first, the transition had been overwhelming.
The language, the culture, the cold, and even the coffee, everything felt unfamiliar.
But the warm and eccentric people in the editorial team made it easier.
Life wasn’t perfect, but it was getting there.
Work kept him busy.
Too busy to think too deeply.
Too tired to miss anything or anyone… for long.
Maybe this was healing.
Maybe this was what moving on looked like.
Not dramatic or sudden.
Just soft, steady, and slow, taking its own time.
Like a quiet tide pulling you toward new shores.
It wasn’t that he had forgotten Yibo, or the love, or the memories.
They were still there, etched into him.
But the ache was different now… less sharp, more like the dull sting of a wound finally starting to heal.
[To be continued…]
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Author’s Note:
Heyyy, you made it to the end of the chapter! 😊
Hope you enjoyed it — and if you did, please don’t forget to like & comment on my Insta post. 💖
Think of it as your way of telling me, “Hey, I’m here, and I loved it!” — it means the world to me and truly keeps me inspired to write more for you! ✨
The Red Ribbon 