HIM Chapter 10: I Only Resemble Myself.
Bo Qin’s sleep schedule was completely erratic. He rested whenever he felt sleepy—no rules, no regularity. Many people criticized this bad habit. Even Chen-jie, who followed his schedule for three months, couldn’t fix it. But Bo Qin, young and full of energy, managed to survive the intense workload by relying on dance training and regular workouts.
So, after two hours of dance practice, still brimming with energy, he threw on his headphones and cap and headed to the hotel gym. It was 11:30 PM. The gym was mostly empty. He ran on the treadmill for forty minutes and, coming down, unexpectedly ran into Cheng Ziye.
Both of them looked surprised. Cheng Ziye wiped his sweat with a towel hanging around his neck and said, “What a coincidence.”
Under the lights, Bo Qin was wearing a black tank top and gray workout pants. His pale arms had sleek, defined muscles. Sweat slid down from his hairline. Cheng Ziye had to admit—Bo Qin was stunning. His features were both handsome and beautiful, and his eyes sparkled with a dark brilliance.
“Yeah, what a coincidence,” Bo Qin said as he twisted open his water bottle. “Did I disturb you just now, teacher?”
Cheng Ziye replied, “It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine—but it wasn’t a big deal either.
Bo Qin didn’t mind. He said politely, “And you, Teacher Cheng—can’t sleep?”
Cheng Ziye hummed a sound of acknowledgment.
Bo Qin didn’t push further. He picked up his water and towel. “Then I’ll go, teacher.”
But Cheng Ziye suddenly called out to him. Perhaps he was under some kind of spell, because what he blurted out was, “...Bo Qin, has anyone ever told you, you really resemble Jiang Rong?”
Bo Qin’s expression instantly turned cold.
Cheng Ziye regretted his words the moment they left his mouth. Just as he was about to apologize, Bo Qin said calmly, “Yes, many people.”
He looked directly at Cheng Ziye. “But Teacher Cheng, I don’t resemble anyone. I only resemble myself.”
He turned and walked away.
Back in his room, Bo Qin’s anger had already half-faded. He had endured too much prejudice and unfairness—baseless insults and fabricated rumors coexisted with praise and admiration, forming the main melody of his life. Accepting negativity had become a habit, and his ability to self-soothe had reached an almost masterful level.
After washing up, he went through his routine—listening to five songs each from domestic and international music charts. But tonight’s luck wasn’t good. The daily charts were filled with songs so bad he felt personally insulted. With a blank expression, he fast-forwarded through them, thinking, What kind of garbage is this?
After listening, he worked on lyrics for an upcoming release, tweaked the melody, and rehearsed lines. By the time he was done, it was 3 AM.
He thought, Xiao Zhu’s alarm must’ve gone off by now.
Sure enough, there was movement at the door. Xiao Zhu used the keycard to enter, yawning. “I knew you hadn’t slept yet.”
He brought Bo Qin his skincare products and meds, acting like a dutiful nanny. Bo Qin applied toner and lotion, drank a cup of warm water, and obediently took his meds.
“You should sleep now,” Bo Qin said with a laugh. “Your eyes can’t even stay open.”
Xiao Zhu put on a stern face and practically tucked him into bed, watching like a hawk until Bo Qin lay with eyes closed for twenty minutes. Only then did he quietly turn off the light and leave.
The moment the door clicked shut, Bo Qin silently opened his eyes.
He was wide awake. His thoughts scattered uncontrollably, returning to the conversation with Cheng Ziye at the gym. Unable to resist, he searched up Cheng Ziye and Jiang Rong.
Unsurprisingly, the two were from the same school—senior and junior. They’d worked together on Ten Years and Looking Toward the Sea.
He pulled up the hotel’s media system and found both films. He started with Looking Toward the Sea, which he’d seen many times. Jiang Rong had a supporting role and didn’t leave much of an impression. Then he played Ten Years.
He wanted to know—what made Jiang Rong so special?
The film’s synopsis read like another cliché coming-of-age indie drama. He glanced at the director’s name—Su Yang.
Ah, Bo Qin thought. No wonder. Someone like Su Yang could turn crap into art.
In Ten Years, Cheng Ziye played a supporting role but didn’t overshadow anyone. Even Bo Qin’s full attention was on Jiang Rong.
When the movie ended, dawn was breaking. Bo Qin stretched his neck and leaned into the sofa, lost in thought.
No wonder Xiao Chen couldn’t get over him—even found so many stand-ins.
Jiang Rong’s “scholar” look in the film really did resemble Bo Qin four years ago. But on camera, Jiang Rong was alive. Every gesture, expression, even the rhythm of his voice was spellbinding.
There was this fresh, youthful aura—vivid and tangible.
Bo Qin even felt a surge of sympathy for the character Jiang Rong played—Chao Sheng.
That’s what an actor is, Bo Qin thought.
He even felt a tinge of envy. Bo Qin hadn’t trained professionally, debuting from an idol group, with a focus on music. In music, he gave his fans everything—talent, effort, quality. But acting made more money, more fans. So if he wanted to stay relevant, acting had to follow.
His acting was passable. Not bad—but not gifted either. His roles weren’t cringeworthy, but they rarely stood out.
He smiled and pulled up Jiang Rong’s filmography. Surprisingly, Jiang Rong didn’t have many works after Ten Years, despite it being eight years ago. Excluding the three years he spent studying abroad, he’d only starred in three more projects—two films, one drama.
Bo Qin raised a brow and watched both films, but turned them off after ten minutes.
Same genre, same character types—but without Su Yang, they fell flat. Even Jiang Rong’s acting had lost its spark.
With some hope, Bo Qin opened the period drama. The costume color palette in the opening alone nearly blinded him. But the theme song was good—and oddly familiar.
A quick search confirmed it: lyrics and composition by Xiao Ran, arrangement by Luo Ming.
Bo Qin raised a brow. These two helped write Jiang Rong’s theme song behind my back?
He messaged the group chat. Within seconds, night owls responded.
Luo Ming: “???”
Xiao Ran: “???”
Zhu Guanyun: “Little question mark, do you have many friends?”
Luo Ming: “What got into you suddenly asking about Jiang Rong?”
Xiao Ran: “Now we look stupid for avoiding his name like the plague.”
Bo Qin: “Oh please. You both wrote his theme song.”
Luo Ming: “You’ve got it wrong, Boss! We were returning a favor! And we didn’t know he’d take that show! QAQ”
Bo Qin: “Just asking. Why so nervous? The tabloids compare me and him 800 times a day, and I never said anything. Just answer the question.”
Luo Ming: “Jiang Rong’s resources are bad? He’s on two top-rated variety shows, his endorsements rival yours—maybe even better. And he’s not killing himself with work like you. Just films those shows and stays comfortably A-list.”
Bo Qin: “I meant film resources. Is Xiao Chen really that stingy?”
Silence.
Xiao Ran: “…Xiao Chen and Jiang Rong broke up two years ago.”
Bo Qin: “.”
Bo Qin: “They dated for only two months? He pined for his white moonlight all that time… for this? What is he, running a charity?”
Zhu Guanyun: “How should I know?”
Bo Qin exited the chat. For once, he felt drowsy. He still had time, so he lay on the carpet and dozed off.
He woke to a cool sensation on his face. A droplet of liquid slid down. Without opening his eyes, he muttered to Xiao Zhu, who was applying a face mask, “Zhu… you’re making me wonder if I insured my face.”
Xiao Zhu smoothed the mask and laughed. “Chen-jie actually did insure it.”
“You spendthrift. Could’ve done something useful with that money.” Bo Qin sat up and realized he had a mat under him, a light blanket over his body. Xiao Zhu brought over a fancy breakfast box.
“I got this just for you. At least drink a bit.”
Bo Qin took the still-warm box and opened it. It was porridge from a place he liked—across several blocks from the hotel.
Sipping the porridge, he said, “Zhu, why are you so good to me?”
Xiao Zhu, making tea, replied, “If I’m so good, can’t you just sleep properly like I tell you?”
Bo Qin wisely changed the subject.
The production team had a launch event today. Though Bo Qin had barely slept, he was always energetic on camera. During the incense offering, Cheng Ziye stood beside him. As they bowed together, Cheng whispered, “I’m really sorry about what I said yesterday.”
“It’s fine,” Bo Qin replied casually. He was used to it.
Filming started right after the ceremony. Bo Qin played the second male lead, and since today wasn’t his scene, he pulled up a stool and sat beside writer Xu to watch the leads act.
They talked about acting. Bo Qin admitted, “I feel like I’ve stopped improving. I rewatched Wind Settled recently and found that my acting there was surprisingly good. Thinking about it now—I might’ve gotten worse.”
Writer Xu smiled kindly. “That’s not fair to yourself. Truly gifted actors are rare. Most of us are just… average.”
“Think how hard you fought to land that role in Wind Settled.”
Bo Qin fell silent. That drama meant everything—it was his turning point. After going solo, he had nothing. That role required martial arts skills and good looks. They hadn’t cast it even after a third of the show was filmed. Bo Qin trained hard for two months, then walked into Director Wang’s office and performed with a wooden sword.
He got the role.
It wasn’t a big part, but it was unforgettable—and brought him back into the spotlight.
Xu looked at him, “You and that role were alike—desperate, determined. Plus, it was your first drama. Your rawness, guided by Director Wang, felt just right.”
“You were brilliant in front of the camera—so full of life. That’s why people still remember that role.”
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