Hu Yetao had always been the odd apple in the crowd.
From an early age, he'd gravitated toward things that made other boys snicker behind their hands—delicate trinkets, flowing fabrics, the graceful movements of dancers. His fascination with beauty set him apart in a world that expected boys to chase after dirt and roughness.
"Look at little Yetao playing with dolls again," his classmates would taunt, their voices echoing across the schoolyard.
Yetao would simply lift his chin higher, fingers never pausing as they braided colorful threads into intricate patterns. He'd learned young that responding only fed their cruelty. Besides, he found solace in one unexpected place—the local gaming arcade.
There, amid flashing lights and electronic beeps, Yetao discovered he possessed an uncanny talent for gaming. His reflexes were lightning-quick, his strategic thinking unmatched. The same boys who mocked his "feminine" interests stood slack-jawed as his name climbed leaderboard after leaderboard.
"How did you beat the final boss?" they'd demand, suddenly eager to include him.
Yetao would shrug, a small smile playing at his lips. "Just practice," he'd say, though he knew it was more than that—he saw patterns others missed, connections that revealed themselves like whispered secrets only he could hear.
But while gaming earned him reluctant respect, it never ignited passion in his heart. That spark came from the dance games tucked in the arcade's back corner—the ones with light-up platforms and scrolling arrows that demanded precision and rhythm.
Hours would vanish as Yetao lost himself in movement, his body flowing with an innate grace that drew silent crowds. Soon, arcade games weren't enough. He enrolled in dance classes, finding freedom in the studio that everyday life denied him.
"You move like water," his dance instructor noted with approval. "Natural talent is rare—you should nurture it."
....
The turning point came on an ordinary Tuesday evening. Yetao, seventeen and restless, wandered into the living room where his mother was engrossed in her favorite drama, "The Eternal Love."
"Sit with me," she patted the couch beside her. "This actress, Yang Mi—she's phenomenal."
Yetao settled next to her, expecting boredom. Instead, he found himself transfixed by the woman on screen—not just her beauty, though that was undeniable, but the confidence she radiated. Even in behind-the-scenes footage, she remained unapologetically herself, graceful under criticism, powerful in her femininity.
Something clicked in Yetao's heart, a missing puzzle piece finally sliding into place.
"I want that," he whispered, more to himself than his mother.
"Want what, dear?"
"To be on stage. To show everyone who I am, without apology."
His mother's eyes softened with understanding. She'd watched her son endure years of being misunderstood, of being reduced to "just a pretty face." She squeezed his hand. "Then that's what you'll do."
The journey to Chuang Asia 1 had been paved with brutal training sessions and midnight practice until his feet bled inside his dance shoes. Yetao pushed himself beyond limits, perfecting every move, hitting every note, determined to prove he was more than his delicate features suggested.
The initial audition had gone well—too well, perhaps. Producers quickly identified his marketable face, focusing cameras on his interactions with other male trainees rather than his considerable talents.
"Give us more reaction shots with Oscar," a producer would instruct before evaluations.
"Can you help Oscar with his dance break? We'll film it."
He did not hate it, since he really cared for Oscar that time. But slowly, Yetao realized he was being molded into a prop—the pretty boy whose main purpose was creating shipping material for fans. His actual performances received minimal screen time. When elimination day arrived, it came as no surprise that despite his consistent top rankings from trainers, public votes hadn't materialized.
That night, alone in his temporary apartment, Yetao allowed himself exactly twenty minutes of tears before straightening his shoulders.
"Next time," he promised his reflection in the bathroom mirror, "they'll see me."
For three years, Yetao disappeared from public view, training until his body protested and then training more. He studied past survival shows, analyzing how contestants presented themselves, identifying the precise moment performance transcended into artistry.
When the invitation for Chuang Asia 2 arrived, Yetao was ready. This time would be different.
His audition piece deliberately shattered expectations—a fox-inspired fusion dance blending sharp masculine power with feminine fluidity. Neither fully one nor the other, but something transcendent that was uniquely Yetao.
The judges' stunned silence after his final pose told him everything he needed to know.
Then, from the center seat: "So beautiful....."
Yetao's eyes lifted to meet warm eyes belonging to none other than BamBam—international superstar, former Got7 member, and now label executive. Heat rushed to Yetao's cheeks at the intensity of that gaze.
"Thank you," he managed, bowing deeply to hide his flustered expression.
What followed defied all Yetao's expectations. Rather than offering standard critique, BamBam launched into playful flirtation, complimenting everything from Yetao's technical precision to his unique beauty. Each comment sent butterflies swirling through Yetao's stomach.
"Is he always like this?" Yetao whispered to a staff member later.
"BamBam-ssi?" The woman chuckled. "He's friendly and a king of flirting, but no—I've never seen him quite this... attentive, to a boy at that."
When BamBam unexpectedly descended from the judges' platform to shake his hand, Yetao felt a strange electrical current pass between them. For the briefest moment, an odd sensation wrapped around his pinky finger—like invisible thread tightening.
That night marked the beginning of the dreams.
....
"Do you remember the lantern festival?" Dream-BamBam asked, fingers intertwined with his as they walked beneath cherry trees in full bloom. "You danced that night that made everyone stare."
Yetao laughed, the sound familiar yet strange. "They were staring at you, not me."
"Impossible," BamBam pressed a kiss to his temple. "When you're nearby, no one sees anyone else."
Yetao jolted awake, heart racing, phantom warmth lingering where dream-BamBam's lips had touched. Confusion washed over him as he stared at his trembling hands in the dormitory's pre-dawn darkness.
"What was that?" he whispered.
The dream had felt impossibly real—not the fuzzy, disjointed quality of normal dreams, but sharp and vivid, like a memory he'd somehow forgotten. He could still smell the cherry blossoms, feel the particular weight of BamBam's hand in his.
"I must divert my focus," Yetao muttered, pressing cold palms against his flushed cheeks.
But distraction proved impossible. Throughout training, BamBam's presence became both torture and delight. The producer seemed to materialize wherever Yetao went—offering pointed advice during dance practice, "accidentally" sitting beside him at lunch, creating increasingly transparent excuses to initiate contact.
"He's definitely targeting you," Zihao teased after BamBam spent fifteen minutes demonstrating proper hand positions for a choreography section only Yetao seemed to struggle with.
"He's just thorough," Yetao protested weakly, though his racing heart suggested otherwise.
The dreams continued, growing more intimate with each passing night. BamBam laughing as they laid on a shore and enjoyed the sunset. BamBam crying silently as they argued about something Yetao couldn't quite grasp. BamBam holding him through stormy nights, whispering promises against his skin.
Each morning, Yetao woke more confused, the line between dream and reality blurring. Unlike his fellow trainees who plastered their walls with idol posters, Yetao had never been one for celebrity crushes. Yet somehow, BamBam had bypassed all his defenses, slipping effortlessly into his thoughts like he belonged there.
When Shen offered his tablet one evening, Yetao found himself searching BamBam's name, consuming interviews, performances, variety show appearances with insatiable curiosity. Hours vanished as he studied this man who seemed simultaneously strange and familiar.
As weeks passed, Yetao's feelings evolved beyond simple admiration. The flutter in his chest when BamBam entered a room. The way time seemed to slow when their eyes met across crowded practice rooms. The heightened awareness of his own body whenever BamBam stood near—all pointed to something deeper than professional respect.
During group evaluations, BamBam's focus remained disproportionately on Yetao, his praise specific and personal, his criticism delivered with such gentle care that other trainees began noticing.
"Is there something going on between you two?" Lucas asked, worried that his friend might become a prey to the editors again.
"Of course not," Yetao responded too quickly, cheeks burning. "He's just... supportive."
But each night, as fragments of impossible memories visited his dreams, Yetao began to wonder if there wasn't something uncanny about their connection—something that transcended this reality. The dreams felt too specific, too consistent to be mere fantasy.
They never spoke of it explicitly, yet something unspoken grew between them—a private language of lingering glances and "accidental" touches. BamBam would find reasons to adjust Yetao's posture during choreography sessions, his hands lingering seconds longer than necessary. Yetao would deliberately seek clarification on feedback, creating opportunities for conversation away from others.
No confessions were made, no promises exchanged, yet by mid-season, something had solidified between them—a relationship undefined yet undeniable, conducted through subtlety rather than words.
"You're different around him," Zihao observed one evening as they stretched before practice. "More... yourself."
Yetao considered this, realizing with surprise that it was true. With BamBam, he felt no need to perform or prove himself. For the first time in his life, he felt simply accepted—his strength and delicacy equally celebrated rather than one diminishing the other.
"He sees me," Yetao replied simply.
And that was the miracle of it—in a world that had always tried to force him into boxes too small for his multitudes, BamBam's eyes recognized all that he was and all he could be. Not just the pretty face or the technical dancer, but something complete and complex.
Their silent courtship continued beneath the show's spotlights, invisible to cameras yet obvious to anyone truly watching. No words of love were spoken, but none were needed—their hearts had already begun speaking a language older than words.
Despite the growing proximity of their red strings, BamBam watched with quiet frustration as the ethereal threads refused to join. Each stretched toward the other—vibrant, alive, yearning—only to stop tantalizingly short of connection. Like two magnets held just beyond their attractive force, something invisible still kept them apart.
"Why won't they connect?" BamBam whispered one night, alone in his penthouse, holding his hand toward the ceiling as the crimson thread glowed softly in the darkness. One month into filming, and while their relationship had deepened through stolen glances and carefully orchestrated "coincidental" meetings, the strings remained stubbornly separate.
The old oracle's words haunted him: "Only when your destined person remembers, will the threads finally bind."
BamBam had tried everything—subtle references to their past life, recreating scenarios from their shared history, even mentioning specific places they had once visited together. Yet Yetao's eyes remained clear of recognition, brightening at his attention but lacking the deeper awareness BamBam desperately sought.
Still, he persisted. If centuries of separation hadn't diminished his love, a few months of patience wouldn't break him. He continued his careful courtship, heart aching with longing but determined to give Yetao the space to find his own way back.
....
The message came unexpectedly, late on a Wednesday evening.
Meet me outside in 20 minutes. Come alone.
BamBam stared at his phone, heart racing. It was through Shen's tablet, but he knew—somehow, he knew—exactly who had sent it. Grabbing a face mask, cap, and oversized jacket, he slipped out of the production building where he'd been reviewing footage.
The night air carried the scent of approaching rain as BamBam waited in his car, engine idling. Precisely seventeen minutes after receiving the message, a slender figure in a hoodie emerged from the shadows of the trainee dormitory, glancing nervously in all directions before hurrying toward the vehicle.
BamBam unlocked the doors, and Yetao slid into the passenger seat, breathless and vibrating with nervous energy.
"Drive," was all he said, pulling his hood lower over his face.
"Where are we going?" BamBam asked, already pulling away from the curb, hyperaware of the warmth emanating from Yetao's body just inches from his own.
"Chiang mai," Yetao replied, voice soft but certain. "The night viewing is still open."
"Is everything okay?" Bambam asked carefully, not wanting to reveal too much, afraid to shatter whatever was unfolding.
Yetao remained uncharacteristically quiet, staring out the window as Thailand's neon landscape slid past. "I need to find out something," Yetao replied cryptically.
Despite the late hour, Chiang mai bustled with tourists capturing the majesty of ancient architecture illuminated against the night sky.
The full moon hung low and heavy, bathing the traditional structures in silvery light that transformed the ordinary into something magical.
Disguised in their masks and hats, they blended with the crowd, two anonymous figures among many. BamBam sensed Yetao's nervousness growing with each step they took deeper into the place. When Yetao suddenly grasped his hand, BamBam squeezed back reassuringly, ignoring the electric current that shot through his arm at the contact.
"This way," Yetao whispered, pulling him toward a section of the place less crowded with tourists—a small, arched bridge spanning a pond. Moonlight danced across the water's surface, creating patterns that shifted and swayed with the gentle breeze.
BamBam's breath caught as recognition flooded him. It was a bridge same like this one where he confessed to Yetao in a distant world that no longer exists. Bambam's lips curved to form a slight smile as he looked at Yetao.
Yetao led him to the center of the bridge, then released his hand to grasp the ornately carved wooden railing. For a long moment, he simply stared at the moon reflected in the dark water below, his face unreadable beneath the mask and shadow of his hood.
"This is where I got my first confession," Yetao finally said, voice barely audible above the distant chatter of tourists.
BamBam froze, mind emptying of all thought as shock coursed through his system. Had he heard correctly?
Before he could process what was happening, Yetao turned, stepping forward until BamBam found himself gently pressed against the railing, caged between Yetao's arms in a mirror image of their positions centuries ago—except then, it had been BamBam making the bold move, Yetao the one surprised.
"'I like you. I can't give you up for any other guy, you get it?'" Yetao recited, eyes searching BamBam's with an intensity that stole his breath. "This is how he proposed to me."
Tears welled in BamBam's eyes, unbidden and unstoppable. With trembling fingers, he reached out to cup Yetao's cheek. "Do you remember?" he whispered, afraid to hope yet unable to stop himself.
A heartbeat of silence stretched between them. Yetao's lips parted, but no words emerged. Then, unexpectedly, he averted his gaze and burst into loud laughter, the sound shattering the intimate bubble they'd created.
Confusion and hurt lanced through BamBam. Had this all been some cruel joke? A test? He started to pull away, embarrassment burning his cheeks.
But then Yetao looked up again, and BamBam saw tears glistening in his eyes despite the continuing laughter—tears of joy, of relief, of homecoming.
"So now you know Michael Jackson and JYP?" Yetao asked, voice breaking on the words.
The question—the question left unanswered from centuries past, at their parting—hit BamBam like a physical blow.
"Taotao," BamBam whispered, the nickname he'd used in their past life falling from his lips as naturally as breathing. Without hesitation, he pulled Yetao into a fierce embrace, uncaring of who might see.
Time seemed to suspend as they held each other, their bodies remembering what their minds had struggled to recover. This embrace was different from their previous life—different bodies, different time—yet the essence remained unchanged, souls recognizing each other across the vast expanse of time.
Around them, tourists whispered and pointed, but neither man noticed or cared. The outside world had fallen away, leaving only this moment, this recognition, this reunion.
"How long have you remembered?" BamBam asked against Yetao's ear, unwilling to release him even an inch.
"It came back slowly," Yetao murmured, face pressed against BamBam's shoulder. "The dreams started the moment we met at the audition. Every night, more pieces returned. But I wasn't sure if they were real or just my imagination until I saw how you looked at me—like you'd found something precious you thought was lost forever."
BamBam pulled back just enough to see Yetao's face, tears flowing freely down his own cheeks. "I've spent this entire life without even knowing what I was missing until I met you."
"And I've spent mine feeling incomplete without understanding why," Yetao replied, reaching up to brush away BamBam's tears with gentle fingers.
Neither noticed when it happened, but between them, the crimson threads finally stretched across the remaining distance, their frayed ends weaving together strand by strand until the connection was complete—two halves of one whole, reunited at last.
The red string of fate, broken for lifetimes, had finally healed.
"What happens now?" Yetao asked, suddenly aware of their public surroundings, the reality of their situation crashing back—he a trainee with dreams of debuting, BamBam a producer and established star.
BamBam smiled, intertwining their fingers where no cameras could see. "Now we write our own fate," he said with quiet certainty. "Together."
As they walked back through the moonlit grounds, shoulders touching, the repaired red string pulsed with vibrant life between them—invisible to others but a brilliant beacon to BamBam's eyes. After centuries of separation, countless lifetimes of near-misses and broken connections, they had found each other again.
This time, he silently vowed, nothing would tear them apart.
"In the tangled web of dreams and memories, even when the past fades into oblivion, love finds a way to transcend time and reality."