Alec Lu.

There likely wasn’t a living soul who hadn’t heard of the name.

Born Luhan, The Chinese-American scriptwriter/director of twenty-eight years was one of the few East Asians whose names had become a staple in Hollywood. After all, he had participated in the writing of several blockbuster films. Vogue had done a thirteen-page main interview spread on him in 2017, and since then, he’d become a heartthrob due to his talent, good lucks, and passion for his work.

As his influence on the entertainment industry expanded to a global level, he gained more fans who wrote to him daily, wishing him the best and even sending birthday gifts to his Los Angeles home.

One day, he was on his way back from his daily two-mile run in the morning and checked his mailbox. It was—as expected—filled to bursting with letters from admirers all over the world. Whistling the melody of the song playing through his earphones, he sorted through the array of colored envelopes, vaguely noting the return addresses on each.

California…North Carolina…Colorado…Hong Kong…Singapore…Sri Lanka? That’s a first. He made a mental note to pin that one up on his map-printed bulletin board.

He never replied to any of the fan mail—he could spend the rest of his lifetime just writing out replies for his thoughtful fans—but he did read each one of the heartfelt letters they wrote for him personally. A lot of times, they sent gifts like chocolate and other sweets, encouraging him to keep up the good work.

He unlocked the door of his house and strode into the kitchen, discarding the stack of letters—he’d get to them eventually—to prepare h