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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 moment 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 Me 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.
Time 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 moment of distraction, the speed at which it slipped away was missed, and by the time 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 aimed 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 domestic 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 torment.
But he still found himself thinking about that boy from time to time.
"I don't want to be somebody 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 homework, 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 games 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, someone 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 time 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 come and go more freely now. Who let you in?"
"Shh, James is off today. Chris helped me out," Edgar joked back.
Then, Edgar sat down across from Anson. Hesitating for a moment, he still opened his mouth to ask, "Anson, is everything okay?"
Anson raised an eyebrow slightly, "Hmm? What do you mean? 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 mentioned the boy to Edgar, so it could only be about that incident in New York.
But that happened two months ago, and the media 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 comes 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 me. Without asking any questions, you unconditionally believed in me. I know it's your job to protect me, no matter what the truth is; you have to stand by me. But trusting me is different. You never even asked me 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 same boat; no matter what happens, the manager and PR must protect the artist, even if it means distorting the truth. But that doesn't mean they have to fully trust the artist; they could protect them while secretly harboring resentment.
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 fame 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 embarrassment and cleared his throat, "I was just... it was because... it's my job."
Everything was because Anson trusted him, right from their first meeting.
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 something warm that deserves gratitude and cherishing.
Before things got more awkward, Edgar hastily changed the subject. "So, what exactly happened that day?"