#cql angst

So he smiled while waiting. Surprisingly, the act of waiting was enjoyable; every time he flipped the calendar, he felt like he could see them in the distance—far away and slightly blurry, yet undeniably beautiful, even in the hazy blur.

Over time, he began to acknowledge his aptitude for patience. Not that it surprised him; he had always been peerless in waiting. He was proficient after years of discipline from living in a clan, the Ivory Dawn, with incorrigible rules that were pertinacious and pedantry. 

He revered the rules and lived by them every day and night, the thousands of rules that shaped and bent him into the person he was, crafted by the wisdom of his ancestors. 

Rules like these: Do not be awake after 9 pm, do not rise after 5 am., do not stoop while standing, do not sit with a disgraceful pose, do not make an uproar; causing noise is prohibited, do not hurry rashly, do not act impulsively, do not smile foolishly or laugh for no reason, sneering for no reason is prohibited, do not drink alcohol, do not consume meat, do not be difficult with food; eating more than three bowls is prohibited, do not talk during meal times.

However, he had never had to wait for something he desperately wanted; it was suffocating, as though his lungs were starved of air.

Even after the year had passed, even after flipping the last page of the calendar, they never came. Lan Wangji sat miserably alone in his room in the big siheyuan owned by his clan, surrounded by family members, seniors and juniors. From his place on the floor, where he played his guqin sorrowfully, he stared through the window at the peaceful snow falling, his heart crushed with lament.

He wished the snow would stop and time could turn back to the day they promised to return. If he had known, he would have vehemently refused to let them leave. It was his culpability that he was without his other half; the new year had passed, and they were yet to come back. 

Among the happy people outside, his clan had started to celebrate with the guests from other clans from far-off places; the air was alive like electricity, charged by the Tanggu drums, laughter, and revelry. They were all celebrating their triumphs of the year. But he was the only one who cried. His sobs were silenced by the gloomy and sombre melody his fingers coaxed from the guqin . As the mournful notes filled the room, he wondered, with a pang of shame, what the higher-ups would think if they saw him playing the elegant and beautiful instrument so emotionally, so disgracefully.

To Lan Wangji, there was no 1st of January; his calendar had no end. He couldn't be abandoned if he didn’t step outside his room. December lingered—first the 32nd, then the 33rd. As far as he was concerned, it would always be December until they returned to him.

On day 108 of his endless December, his older brother, Lan Xichen, delivered a letter to his room and attempted light-hearted small talk. Lan Wangji, however, showed no interest. He dismissed his brother’s efforts with a curt “Mh,” offering nothing more. Anything else he might say would risk breaking thirty rules at once—an offence that would force him outside to face punishment. But even that punishment paled in comparison to the never-ending December. 

He remained steadfast, refusing to leave his room. The thought of stepping outside gripped him with quiet terror. What if December slipped away the moment he left, taking with it even the faintest hope of their return?

The letter was nearly illegible—only someone who truly loved the sender would take the time to study its uneven strokes and wobbles with care. So Lan Wangji did just that, meticulously analysing it. He compared the handwriting against old poems and the secret notes the sender used to pass him during lectures when he came to study at the Ivory Dawn—notes that always left Lan Wangji furious from the rule-breaking and embarrassed by such frivolous behaviour. He had never met someone so unruly. Slowly, he pieced together the meaning, realising along the way that the letter mirrored the sender’s exact manner of speaking.

“I know it's very hard; I know it won't be easy. I know it’s lonely. Can you believe my words and wait for me? If you wait, I will come back soon, and forever, I will be with you.” With those words,  Lan Wangji’s endless December ended. His year officially reset. It was now the 17th of April.

Time passed. Looking at the falling autumn leaves, his heart fluttered softly. It was just one more season, he thought.

On the day the first snow fell, beautifully blanketing the world, he thought it was time for them to come. Surely, they would come now. He imagined them as one of the white snowflakes swirling in the wind, and for a moment, he could almost see them running up to him, just as they used to, with bright smiles, chanting his name, and bursting with exciting news or gossip—it was against the rules to gossip. Lan Wangji could almost hear his past self responding in his usual measured way: “Impudent,” or “Ridiculous.”

Even in the long silence, there was anticipation. It gave him space to imagine their days together—how they would laugh, how things might finally feel whole again.

But the year passed. He flipped the final page of his snow bunny calendar—the one his brother had given him—and still, they never came. The new year arrived once again. Among the happy people, in scenes where everyone laughed, Lan Wangji was the only one crying. Surrounded by happiness, he felt utterly wrong, out of place. To him, there was no January 1st; his calendar never ended. It was 32 days, 33 days. Until they returned, it would always be December.

He tried to close his eyes, to tidy up his mind of them, to erase the traces of their glowing joy, and hold onto the memories he hated instead. But it was futile. Why could he only think of their pretty face, their warm voice? Now, he could no longer see them, no longer hear them. The harder he tried to hate and resent them for deserting him, the more deeply he realised how pathetic he had become.

It was very hard . It was unbearably lonely . The whispers around the siheyuan were true, he now understood. He had been ruined the day the first snow fell—an entire two years ago.