Even the Moon Does Not Know

My entire life, I have served as someone else’s substitute on three separate occasions.

The first time: Sebastian’s confession was rejected, so I forged a reply to him pretending to be the person in his heart.

The second time: Sebastian was temporarily blinded in a car accident, so I posed as his girlfriend to nurse him through his recovery.

The third time: Sebastian was betrayed and cheated on, so I lied, claiming I was the one with him in that hotel room that night.

The moment I saw the profound relief wash over his face.

I knew it was time for me to walk away.

Years passed by in the blink of an eye.

When we met again, the man I assumed should have been happily married long ago was kneeling on the ground, begging with a voice broken and incoherent:

“Can you please give me one more chance?”

If anyone were to ask me who the most exceptional person I encountered in my youth was.

Without a doubt, it would be my young master, Sebastian.

Calling him young master was simply because I was the daughter of the live-in housekeeper, sheltered beneath his family’s roof.

Sebastian grew up remarkably handsome, perfectly inheriting the stunning high-end looks of his mother, a legendary cinematic best actress.

He was exceptionally intelligent too, much like his business-prodigy father, mastering everything effortlessly since primary school.

His moral character was equally impeccable; even though I was merely the housekeeper’s daughter, the strict upbringing instilled in him from childhood taught him never to look down on anyone.

He was wonderful in every way—except for one thing… he would never love me.

His temperament was aloof and sparing with words, yet he wasn’t a cold or heartless person.

On the contrary, he knew how to love deeply.

The first time he ever told me about someone dwelling in his heart was during our second year of high school.

I asked him what he liked about her.

His voice dropped low, carrying a trace of self-conscious shyness:

“Don’t you think Vivienne is gorgeous?”

She certainly was gorgeous.

Vivienne was the undisputed campus belle of our high school, naturally striking to look at.

Not to mention, Vivienne possessed an elite family background and stellar academic results.

Unlike me, whose grades were maintained near the top purely through grueling, brute-force memorization, only to inevitably expose my shallow foundation due to a lack of refined intellectual upbringing.

People like us could only grasp textbook knowledge, whereas to individuals like Vivienne and Sebastian, that was merely a tiny fraction of their richly textured lives.

I tried hard to make myself presentable, but standing beside a privileged young lady nurtured with such elite cultivation like Vivienne, I always appeared unpolished and petty.

Vivienne’s elegance radiated naturally from the inside out.

“So what are you going to do?” I asked Sebastian.

A brilliant, spirited light flashed across his handsome face: “I’m going to pursue her.”

He and Vivienne shared the same extracurricular interest club, making encounters and interactions effortlessly simple.

And as expected of a young master, whatever he set his mind to was always executed with ruthless efficiency.

Before long, the person standing by his side naturally transitioned from me to Vivienne.

They attended classes together, walked home after school, dined together, and frequented the library side by side.

From astronomy to geography, from skiing to skydiving.

Whatever topic Sebastian brought up, Vivienne could effortlessly keep pace.

Unlike me, who understood absolutely nothing.

Sebastian would always flick my forehead gently:

“Come on, is that really so hard to comprehend?”

Of course it was hard, I thought to myself. You talk to me about classical opera, but I don’t even know where to buy a ticket to watch one—how am I supposed to grasp the emotional subtext behind the aria you’re discussing?

“You should head home by yourself today, I’m giving Vivienne a ride.”

The young master was still considerate enough to lend me his personal chauffeur while hitching a ride in Vivienne’s car.

A passionate young man head over heels, he rode in Vivienne’s car to her house every single day, only to drive all the way back himself, foolishly lying to Vivienne that his driver was trailing closely behind.

One month into pursuing Vivienne, Sebastian announced he was ready to confess.

I asked him how he planned to do it, and he said he would write a letter.

I was the one tasked with delivering that letter.

However, right after dropping off the letter, remembering something I forgot to convey, I turned back—only to accidentally overhear Vivienne speaking with the school bad boy.

“You said that if I could make Sebastian fall for me, you’d accept me.”

The bad boy pinched Vivienne’s chin: “Never figured you had it in you to actually pull it off. But that’s Sebastian we’re talking about—are you seriously not moved at all? Planning to reject him?”

“You know very well I only like you…”

The usually poised and graceful Vivienne acted like a coy, spoiled maiden right in front of the bad boy.

I knew then that the young master was heading straight for heartbreak.

Yet when I returned and found the anxious, pale-faced young master pressing me for answers:

“Well? What did she say?”

I hesitated:

“If she rejects you, what will you do?”

“I’ll die.”

His reply was dead serious.

I thought to myself that such a wonderful young master certainly couldn’t be allowed to die.

So, driven by a strange impulse, I mimicked Vivienne’s handwriting and forged a reply letter to him under her name.

My original intention was merely to advise him to focus on his studies first.

Yet the young master never did things by halves.

He interpreted Vivienne’s words as a promise to be together after graduation.

And so that single letter multiplied into two, then dozens more.

Until the day the young master caught Vivienne locking lips with the school bad boy.

The young master threw punches at the bad boy and landed in the hospital; upon waking up, he abruptly declared that he didn’t actually like Vivienne all that much after all.

When I asked him why, he looked genuinely perplexed:

“Seeing Vivienne with that guy made me feel physically sick. I suppose I simply couldn’t stand the thought of Vivienne suddenly whining and acting spoiled in my arms.”

I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the young master’s wiring.

Then again, the young master was the young master—whatever he said naturally carried its own logic.