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—"When Proust reached the end of his life and looked back on all his painful days, he realized those were the best days of his life, because they made him who he was. The happy years? They were wasted; he learned nothing from them."
Fingertips gently brushed across the pages of the book, pausing for a mont before flipping back, eyes falling once more on those words. The syllables danced lightly between his lips and teeth, finally leaving a mix of bitter and sweet flavors on his tongue, gradually settling his mood.
After "Catch If You Can" wrapped up, Anson also entered a brief vacation. He spent his days skateboarding, learning to surf, lounging on a beach chair with a thick book, and dozing off under the lazy sunlight. When he awoke, he would pick up where he left off, continuing to read.
Ti slipped by like grains of sand, grazing the skin as it flowed through his fingers—
Bit by bit. It was crystal clear. Yet in a slight mont of distraction, the speed at which it slipped away was missed, and by the ti he realized it, most of it had already gone.
These past few days, in the gaps of rest and pauses, the image of that boy on the streets of New York kept flashing in his mind. The boy who aid a gun at his father, who shouted that he didn't need saving, the boy who was on the verge of collapse in utter despair. His thoughts would hit pause.
He wondered how that boy was doing now.
Did he manage to escape with his mother? But where could they go? Did they find a safe place, free from the shadow of dostic violence? Or did they, in the end, go back, caught in a never-ending cycle of hell, heading toward a dark end?
Actually, Anson knew he wasn't a savior. He couldn't save everyone.
As he had said that day, he couldn't save the boy. The only person who could save the boy was the boy himself.
If you always wait for God to hear your prayers or a superhero to descend from the sky to solve your problems, then you are in for an endless wait. What lies ahead could very well be an infinite loop of suffering and tornt.
But he still found himself thinking about that boy from ti to ti.
"I don't want to be sobody important, and I don't need your rescue," he had said.
What he wanted was very simple.
An ordinary life, an ordinary daily routine, just like any other high school student. To be troubled by howork, thrilled by a crush, or fight with friends over trivial matters. For him, the worst thing in the world would be a surprise quiz, and the happiest thing would be staying up all night playing video gas with friends.
The ordinary and mundane life that most people despise and reject was a fantasy he could only dream of.
His fingertips once again moved slowly across the pages, savoring those words.
Once, he had hoped that in his endless dark nights, soone would tell him to hold on a little longer, that what doesn't kill him would make him stronger. Until one day in the future, he would look back with a smile and tell everyone that the painful days were the best days of his life.
Now, he wished he could pass those words and beliefs on to that boy.
Maybe, during those endless dark nights, they might think ti and again that they couldn't hold on any longer, wavering on the brink of giving up and breaking down; but… it would pass. Everything would pass, and in the end, they would evolve into a stronger version of themselves, shattering all darkness.
"... Anson?"
Until a voice interrupted his thoughts, Anson suddenly looked up. In the sunlight, he saw Edgar's worried face.
Anson collected his scattered thoughts, giving Edgar a smile as he joked, "You seem to co and go more freely now. Who let you in?"
"Shh, Jas is off today. Chris helped out," Edgar joked back.
Then, Edgar sat down across from Anson. Hesitating for a mont, he still opened his mouth to ask, "Anson, is everything okay?"
Anson raised an eyebrow slightly, "Hmm? What do you an? I'm fine, everything's fine."
Edgar hesitated but finally sighed softly. "Is it about what happened in New York? Don't worry, everything has been arranged."
Anson: ???
New York?
Could it be about the road rage driver? Anson hadn't ntioned the boy to Edgar, so it could only be about that incident in New York.
But that happened two months ago, and the dia and paparazzi had already moved on. Why would he need to worry about that?
Looking at Anson, Edgar couldn't hold back any longer. "You were in trouble that day, weren't you? Not with the driver, but before that."
"Even though there's no surveillance footage, I noticed the scrape on your hand."
"I don't know what happened, but I believe you. You wouldn't get into trouble easily; if you don't want to talk about it, you must have your reasons."
"I just want to say, rest assured, I've taken care of everything. No surveillance footage, no eyewitnesses. Whatever happened, even if the other party cos forward, it's your word against theirs. We can still control the narrative, so there's no need to worry."
Anson was slightly taken aback. He looked down at his hand, which had long since healed. "So, how long have you known?"
"Since the first day," Edgar didn't hide it anymore. "Anson, it's my job."
Anson, "So that's why you allowed the paparazzi to release that photo in the first place? To divert attention?"
Edgar didn't deny it.
That was all the answer Anson needed, and he couldn't help but laugh.
Edgar was a bit anxious. He wasn't sure how Anson would react. To be precise, even now, he didn't know what had happened that day. "Anson…"
The curve at the corners of Anson's mouth slowly flattened as he looked at Edgar. "Captain, thank you."
Edgar was stunned.
"Thank you for trusting . Without asking any questions, you unconditionally believed in . I know it's your job to protect , no matter what the truth is; you have to stand by . But trusting is different. You never even asked and just stood by my side. Thank you for choosing to be my partner."
The relationship between a manager and an artist is like being on the sa boat; no matter what happens, the manager and PR must protect the artist, even if it ans distorting the truth. But that doesn't an they have to fully trust the artist; they could protect them while secretly harboring resentnt.
However, Edgar chose to trust him.
Anson understood that this wasn't easy; it was even harder than anything else. After all, in Hollywood's world of fa and fortune, trust is often the least valuable and most foolish of things.
So, he needed to say thank you to Edgar.
Edgar blinked, trying to hide his embarrassnt and cleared his throat, "I was just... it was because... it's my job."
Everything was because Anson trusted him, right from their first eting.
Edgar thought it was only natural for him to trust Anson since he had staked his entire career on him. But now, through his actions, Anson showed him that trust is sothing warm that deserves gratitude and cherishing.
Before things got more awkward, Edgar hastily changed the subject. "So, what exactly happened that day?"
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