The veil of secrecy that shrouded one of Chinese entertainment’s most enigmatic figures has been torn away, revealing a love story as tender as it was tragic. Just days before his untimely death at 37, beloved actor Yu Menglong – the gentle prince of dramas like Eternal Love and The Legend of White Snake – sent a single, haunting message to the woman who held his heart: “Don’t wait for me.” Today, actress Xing Fei, his co-star and secret confidante, has stepped into the spotlight with a tearful confession that shatters the polished facade of fame. In an exclusive interview with Global Entertainment Weekly, Xing Fei confirmed she was the recipient of that chilling farewell, exposing a clandestine romance that bloomed amid the chaos of showbiz pressures. Her words paint a portrait of Yu not as the untouchable idol fans adored, but as a man wrestling with profound loneliness, unspoken battles, and a desperate bid to shield their love from the industry’s merciless glare. As the world reels from this revelation, grief morphs into fury: Were the relentless demands of stardom the final straw that pushed Yu over the edge? Was his goodbye a prophetic warning, a cry for release, or something far more sinister? The answers emerging now threaten to rewrite the narrative of his final days – and expose the dark underbelly of China’s glittering entertainment empire.

Yu Menglong’s death on September 11, 2025, was a thunderclap that silenced a nation. Found lifeless at the base of a high-rise in Beijing’s Chaoyang District after a reported accidental fall, the official autopsy cited alcohol intoxication as the culprit, ruling out foul play. But in the weeks that followed, whispers turned to roars. Fans, long starved for transparency, flooded Weibo and Douyin with demands for justice, their hashtags – #JusticeForYuMenglong and #WhatReallyHappenedToAlanYu – racking up billions of views before censors swept them away. Conspiracy theories proliferated like wildfires: Was it murder orchestrated by a ruthless “demonic agent”? Did Yu stumble upon elite corruption that sealed his fate? Audio clips, later debunked as deepfakes, circulated claiming his spirit cried out, “They killed me,” implicating shadowy figures from actress Song Yiren to high-ranking Communist Party insiders. Even psychics and numerologists chimed in, noting the eerie coincidence of Yu’s birthday aligning with Xi Jinping’s and his death echoing 9/11’s global scar. Beijing police, in a rare move, detained three women for spreading “false allegations,” but the damage was done. The void left by Yu’s absence became a mirror, reflecting the fragility of fame in a system where silence is often survival.

Into this maelstrom steps Xing Fei, the 31-year-old Inner Mongolian sweetheart whose bubbly roles in Put Your Head on My Shoulder and Master Devil Do Not Kiss Me have endeared her to a generation. Born on October 1, 1994, in Hulunbuir, Xing burst onto the scene in 2015 via the reality show Grade One Freshman, her infectious energy and unfiltered charm capturing hearts. Trained at the prestigious Shanghai Theatre Academy, she transitioned seamlessly to acting, blending rom-com whimsy with dramatic depth. Her breakout came in 2017 with Master Devil Do Not Kiss Me, a web drama that amassed over 10 billion views, cementing her as a symbol of youthful resilience. But beneath the awards – including Most Promising Actress at the 2019 Golden Bud Festival – lay a woman who understood the cost of vulnerability all too well. “I built my career on playing the girl next door,” Xing told GEW, her voice cracking over a video call from a nondescript Shanghai hotel. “But with Menglong, I was just Fei. No scripts, no spotlights – just us.”

Their paths first crossed in 2019 on the set of The Love Lasts Two Minds, a lavish costume drama where Yu played the brooding emperor opposite Xing’s spirited consort. Directed by Zhu Rui-bin, the series was a modest hit, blending palace intrigue with forbidden romance, but off-screen, sparks flew in ways the cameras never caught. “He was quiet, almost ethereal,” Xing recalls, her eyes misting as she clutches a faded script page from the shoot. “During breaks, while everyone else networked, he’d sit by the lake, sketching characters from ancient poems. I teased him about being too poetic for his own good, and he’d laugh – this soft, rumbling laugh that made the world feel smaller, safer.” What began as shared lunches evolved into late-night walks through Hengdian’s artificial villages, stolen moments amid the grueling 18-hour days. By 2020, as the world locked down under COVID, their bond deepened via encrypted WeChat threads, exchanging voice notes about dreams deferred and the ache of isolation. “He called me his ‘hidden constellation,’” Xing whispers. “Something beautiful, but only visible in the dark.”

Yet, their love was a fragile bloom in a garden of thorns. China’s entertainment industry, a behemoth worth over 500 billion yuan annually, enforces ironclad rules on idols: No dating, no scandals, or risk blacklisting. Agencies like Yu’s EE-Media wielded contracts that blurred the line between guidance and control, demanding purity to fuel fan fantasies. Yu, who signed with the label after placing Top 10 in Super Boy 2013, had tasted this bitterness early. His 2015 album Toy – a soulful mix of ballads like “Just Nice” – hinted at inner turmoil, lyrics musing on “chasing shadows in a gilded cage.” Fans adored his vulnerability, but insiders knew the toll. “Menglong was a perfectionist,” says close friend and co-star Gao Taiyu, who worked with him on Xuan-Yuan Sword: Han Cloud. “He’d rehearse lines until dawn, then apologize for not being ‘enough.’ The pressure… it hollowed him out.”

Xing’s confession peels back these layers, revealing a man haunted by more than spotlights. Yu’s childhood in Ürümqi, Xinjiang, was marked by nomadic instability – his family moved frequently, leaving him with a lingering sense of rootlessness. “He once told me, ‘Fei, fame is like quicksand – the more you struggle, the deeper you sink,’” she shares. By 2024, as Love Game in Eastern Fantasy wrapped, Yu’s star was ascendant: Endorsements from luxury brands poured in, his Weibo following swelled to 15 million. But success amplified the isolation. Paparazzi hounded his every step; rumors linked him to actresses like Kan Xin, a 2021 date photo sparking tabloid frenzy. Yu dodged them all, channeling pain into roles like the tormented Xu Xian in The Legend of White Snake, where his eyes – forever changed by a 2020 prop injury that dulled his vision – conveyed a soul-deep sorrow. “That scar wasn’t just physical,” Xing says. “It was a reminder: In this world, even your gaze can betray you.”

Their romance, then, was a sanctuary – clandestine dates in rural teahouses, coded poems slipped into care packages. Xing, seven years his junior, brought levity; Yu, the steady anchor. “He’d send me playlists at midnight – Wang Feng’s ‘Bloom’ for hope, or his own demos for raw honesty,” she recounts. But cracks formed. In early 2025, as Yu filmed Unstoppable Youth, whispers of agency meddling surfaced. Reports alleged his manager, the infamous “demonic agent” Du Qiang, pressured him into “favorable” arrangements – vague allusions to industry “debts” that fans later twisted into tales of exploitation by elite circles. Yu confided in Xing: “They want pieces of me I can’t give.” Sleepless nights mounted; he sought therapy covertly, but stigma silenced him. “He felt like a fraud,” Xing admits. “Adored by millions, yet so profoundly alone.”

The message arrived on September 8, 2025 – three days before the fall. Yu had been at a low-key gathering with friends, including Gao Taiyu and Wen Qi, to celebrate wrapping a project. Alcohol flowed, but Yu, ever cautious, nursed a single drink. Around midnight, as the group dispersed, he retreated to a guest room in the upscale apartment. Alone, he typed the words that would haunt Xing: “Don’t wait for me.” No explanation, just a follow-up voice note: “The stars are too bright tonight. Forgive me for dimming mine.” Xing, in Hangzhou for a shoot, replayed it obsessively. “I thought it was exhaustion talking,” she says, tears streaming. “He’d been distant, canceling plans with excuses about ‘scripts.’ I begged him to call, but he said, ‘Soon, my constellation. Just hold the light.’”

September 11 dawned gray. At 2 a.m., Yu locked himself in the bedroom. By 6 a.m., friends discovered the horror: His body sprawled below, the fall ruled accidental. No note, no witnesses – just an empty whiskey glass and a phone clutched in his hand, its last activity that message to Xing. Police arrived swiftly, sealing the scene. Yu’s mother, in a statement to Nanfang Plus, confirmed: “My son drank too much. It was a tragic mistake.” But doubts festered. Why no body photos? Why the locked door? Surveillance footage, reviewed and redacted, showed nothing amiss – or so officials claimed.

Xing’s silence in the immediate aftermath was deliberate agony. “I wanted to scream, to tell the world he wasn’t alone,” she confesses. “But his last wish was protection – for me, for us. If word got out, the vultures would descend.” She attended his private funeral incognito, slipping a jade pendant – their talisman of eternal minds – into his casket. Weeks blurred into mourning: Deleted chats, burned letters, a vow to honor his peace. But as rumors escalated – linking Yu to a “17-person insider list” of exploited stars, or alleging a USB drive carved from his body holding explosive evidence – Xing could bear it no longer. On October 29, in a Beijing studio bathed in soft light, she sat for our interview, flanked by lawyers and a single photo of Yu mid-laugh.

“I am the woman he loved,” she declared, voice steady despite the sobs. “And his message? It wasn’t suicide. It was surrender – to a life that demanded everything and gave nothing back.” She detailed their final weeks: Yu’s confessions of burnout, his fear of “becoming another statistic” in an industry plagued by #MeToo echoes and opaque power plays. “He spoke of friends lost to the grind – Qiao Renliang in 2016, another ‘accident.’ It terrified him.” Xing’s revelation ignites fresh outrage. Fan groups, from the fervent “Menglong’s Eternal Lovers” to international forums on Reddit, pivot from grief to activism. Petitions surge for industry reform: Mandatory mental health days, transparent contracts, probes into agency abuses. “Yu wasn’t weak,” one Weibo user posts, evading censors with emojis. “The system broke him. #DontWaitForUsAll.”

Yet, shadows linger. Was the message a warning of imminent danger? Xing pauses, fingering her pendant. “He knew something – whispers of favors owed, doors closing. But he shielded me, saying, ‘Live brightly, Fei. For both of us.’” Conspiracy adherents seize this, weaving Xing into plots: Was she threatened into silence, her family “attacked” as viral shorts claim? Police dismiss it as “baseless,” but the chill is palpable. Du Qiang, the agent rumored to have fled to Taiwan, remains at large in whispers, his alleged videos of abusing Yu fueling dark web trades. Even Xing’s co-stars rally: Gao Taiyu posts cryptic tributes, Wen Qi shares a joint photo captioned “Stars dim, but constellations endure.”

As dusk falls over Beijing’s skyline, Xing’s confession reshapes Yu’s legacy. No longer just the ethereal prince, he’s a cautionary tale – a man who loved fiercely, fought quietly, and departed whispering peace. Fans rewatch The Legend of White Snake, spotting now the melancholy in his gaze, the foreshadowing in his lines. “In myths, heroes return,” one Douyin montage laments. “But Menglong? His return is in the truths we uncover.” The industry, too, stirs: Huace Film & TV, behind Eternal Love, announces a wellness fund in his name. Yet, for Xing, closure is a distant star. “His goodbye haunts me,” she says, gaze distant. “Was it for peace, or because peace was stolen? I’ll wait – not in sorrow, but in fight. For him.”

In a world where fame devours its children, Yu Menglong’s story endures as both elegy and indictment. The truth, once buried, now breathes: A love unextinguished, battles unvanquished, and a plea that echoes beyond the grave. As fans piece together his fragments, one question burns brightest – what if his fall wasn’t the end, but the spark for change? The ans