9 Jinjiang Literature City 09

Returning home, Youn Yun took a shower and lay on her bed, hugging a giant whale plush toy as she prepared to scroll through Douyin before sleep.

As she swiped, her finger suddenly paused.

It was a live performance of Zhao Zhiyu’s debut hit, "Moonlight," lasting just half a minute.

Under the gaze of thousands, the stage lights dimmed, and beams focused on the man sitting center stage on a tall stool, holding a guitar. Zhao Zhiyu wore a black shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forearms defined and alluring.

He lowered his eyes, fingers pressing the strings, and the notes began softly with a low, gentle prelude, accompanied by faint background noise and harmonious backing vocals.

"I saw the girl beneath the sunset in summer.
I walked into a roaring rainstorm in autumn.
The wind carries away my heart’s whisper.
You don’t understand.
How could you understand?"

It was a love song.

His deep voice, combined with an earnest singing style, conveyed sorrow and helplessness.

The camera shifted to a close-up; as he sang, he looked up, lips moving gently. Light shimmered in his eyes, and though he smiled, in that moment, Youn Yun glimpsed a trace of sadness within them.

She held her breath, her heart tightening.

When the video ended, she couldn’t resist opening the comment section.

“A smile that suddenly stiffens—it’s ‘Moonlight’.”
“I could cry through the screen. *Sobs*”
“Unrequited love is a silent drama; once spoken, it turns tragic.”
“FYI: It’s no secret that Zhao Zhiyu has a white moonlight he loves but cannot have. This song was written for that goddess, the kind he admires from afar but dares not approach.”

White moonlight goddess...

Suddenly, Youn Yun recalled one of the few moments she had shared with Zhao Zhiyu, back in sophomore year during military training break.

Their school tradition was a sophomore military training held at the Xiao Qing Mountain base. The school leaders wanted to toughen them up, so they had to hike twenty kilometers there carrying their own luggage.

Though September’s temperature had dropped slightly, the scorching sun still blazed. That morning, she might not have eaten enough and felt weak, struggling to keep pace at the back of the group.

Midway, her vision darkened, the world spun, and her legs felt weightless and uncontrollable.

She stumbled, startling the students ahead.

Youn Yun was still conscious and, in a moment of instinct, grabbed someone’s arm nearby, using his strength to avoid falling on the hard ground. Instead, she tilted against him.

She caught the fresh scent of pomelo.

Her face was pale, lips tight, sweat tracing her temple.

“Youn Yun, Youn Yun.”

She heard voices calling her.

“She must be heatstroke. What do we do?”

“I have Huoxiang Zhengqi liquid; should we give her some?”

“Don’t mess around. Better take her to the infirmary quickly.”

“Who will take her there?”

“...”

The surrounding voices sounded layered and distorted, mechanical in nature. She wanted to respond but couldn’t open her eyes.

The sun was blinding, and the air was still.

Gradually, she lost consciousness.

When she awoke, she was in the school infirmary, an IV needle in the back of her hand. Youn Yun glanced at the nearly empty drip bag, then pulled her phone from beside her pillow to see a message from her roommate.

“Youn, you had heatstroke just now. Rest well. They excused you from military training.”

Youn Yun replied, “Okay.”

Then asked, “Who brought me here?”

After a moment, the reply came:

“Zhao Zhiyu.”

Seeing that name, Youn Yun was surprised—the rebellious, indifferent transfer student had kindly taken her to the infirmary?

She put away her phone, resolving not to judge by appearances and thinking she should thank him sometime in the future.

Because of the heatstroke incident, Youn Yun was exempted from military training, which meant she didn’t see Zhao Zhiyu for a long time until classes resumed.

She was a class officer then. After gym class, the classroom was empty, and she had come early to copy the teacher’s materials.

As she entered, she saw the boy lying on the desk with earphones in, breathing softly.

He might have been listening to music or dozing off.

The room was empty; the curtains swayed with the breeze. Before him lay an open book and scattered rough drafts, a silver pen uncapped.

After hesitating, she summoned courage and called, “Zhao Zhiyu.”

Hearing her voice, he lifted his head. Thick shadows formed under his long lashes; his dark eyes looked at her faintly.

For some reason, under his gaze, she instinctively wanted to retreat. Her fingers clenched as she struggled out, “Thank you for last time.”

He seemed puzzled. “What for?”

“For the military training—I heard from my roommate that you took me to the infirmary. Thank you.”

Zhao Zhiyu paused two seconds, as if recalling it, then lowered his lashes, looking elsewhere. “No need.”

Seeing his indifferent tone, Youn Yun had nothing more to say and politely excused herself.

“Oh, then I’ll leave you to it.”

She hugged her books and returned to the podium. After a while, shuffling sounds came from behind as he packed his bag and left the classroom.

Youn Yun quietly watched the space he left, inexplicably feeling a breath of relief. She looked away but, just as she was about to go, noticed a crumpled sheet of paper fallen by the front row’s desk leg.

Bending down, she picked it up and smoothed it out. Words were written on it:

“I gaze at the high-hanging moonlight in winter.
I watch the sleepless begonia in spring nights.
How many bottles of alcohol will it take to sever our brief encounters?
When will I reach the shore where you are?”

The boy’s handwriting was messy but strong. The last two characters, “the shore,” were torn slightly, the ink smudged as if ripped before it dried.

Snapping back from her thoughts, Youn Yun lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She realized this song had been created long ago.

She wondered what kind of girl could make the now wildly popular star hold on to a memory for so many years.

She must be truly beautiful.

—

Autumn in northern Beijing was rainy, with a steady drizzle through the night.

On leaving, Youn Yun noticed boxes lined up in the hallway—probably the neighbors’ belongings.

She lived in a relatively upscale building with only two units per floor. She’d been there over a year, but the adjacent unit had been empty until a few days ago when renovation workers appeared.

She didn’t think much of it, opened her umbrella, and hurried to catch the bus. The ground was slippery; the slightly damp breeze brushed her calves, cool and biting. A dull ache pressed against her lower abdomen.

She was on her period today. She had taken ibuprofen in the morning and could endure it, but her whole body felt uncomfortable. Thinking about having to record a show and smile on camera soon only dampened her mood further.

Her perfect weekend should have been spent at home, listening to the autumn rain and waking naturally, then chatting with her quirky best friend at the fan plaza, followed by sipping milk tea and idling away a delightful afternoon. Instead, she had to record some lousy variety show!

Maybe there’d be traffic jams—stuck until the show ended, then everyone would go home.

Or maybe the equipment would break down, and the recording would be postponed until next month.

Or perhaps aliens would come to attack Earth.

Exhausted, numb.

Let humanity be destroyed!

Unfortunately, the journey was smooth, no traffic, no broken equipment, and no alien invasion.

Youn Yun trudged into the waiting room. Most contestants had arrived, the room bustling with lively young girls. The show hadn’t started yet, so everyone was relaxed, exchanging polite greetings and contact information.

Youn Yun didn’t know anyone else, so she settled into a chair and played with her phone.

Just as she opened it, she saw a message from Liang Zhen: “Bao’er, come to the King’s Canyon! I found a handsome jungler, dd me.”

Youn Yun replied, “Some people party on weekends, others hustle and bustle! /disdain/”

Liang Zhen: “Forgot you’re filming a variety show. /shy/”

Liang Zhen: “Not bad, you’ve got more handsome guys and beauties over there. Enjoy it.”

Liang Zhen: “By the way, I saw on the hot search that Zhao Zhiyu is going to be a mentor on your show. Is that true?”

Youn Yun: “Yeah, why?”

Liang Zhen: “Then you better stay away from that jinx. Whoever touches him gets bad luck O^O”

Youn Yun: “Sounds like I’ve been played by him before.”

Youn Yun chuckled, head lowered typing, when the chair beside her was suddenly pulled out. Looking up, she saw him sitting right next to her.

She instinctively turned off her screen.

Zhao Zhiyu’s gaze lingered on her darkened phone for two seconds, then he casually asked, “Who are you chatting with that’s so fun?”

“A friend,” Youn Yun said, heart pounding. She had just badmouthed him to Liang Zhen, and now the man himself appeared, making her uneasy.

“Why are you sitting here?”

He tilted his head. “Not welcome?”

“No,” she explained, “I mean, this is the contestant area. You should be in the host studio’s judges’ seats.”

Youn Yun had read the show’s schedule. This episode was a solo rating competition, with contestants grouped to perform talents on stage. Mentors scored from A to F based on stage presence, dance, creativity, aura, and so on.

“The host studio is busy with set decorations and too noisy. I’m just finding a place to sit for now. After all, I only know you.”

“...”

His casual words explained why he sat there, but the phrase “only know you” lightly stirred something in her heart. Youn Yun responded softly, “Oh,” her fingers fiddling with the phone case, unexpectedly feeling a ripple inside.

They fell silent afterward.

Youn Yun kept her head down, pretending to play with her phone. The show hadn’t started, and there were no cameras in the waiting room yet, but the man’s presence was so strong that even without speaking, her attention was drawn to him.

Feeling slightly awkward, she broke the silence, “Will you be singing later?”

From her experience watching talent shows, mentors usually had an opening performance.

Zhao Zhiyu paused, then turned his face toward her. “You want to hear me sing?”

How to respond to that?

Youn Yun hesitated, then thought for a moment: “Your fans would really want to.”

“Don’t you want to hear?”

“...”

How to answer that? Saying no would be disrespectful to a star; saying yes might be overheard by his fans.

She paused a few seconds, then glanced at the girls chatting happily behind her. Since they probably weren’t his fans, she quickly nodded.

He looked at her, his fingers curling slightly as he toyed with a simple silver ring on his index finger. The narrow band sat neatly at the base of his finger, elegant and restrained.

He smiled softly. “Tell me what you want to hear.”

“Is it that easy?”

“Maybe. Depends if I can sing it.”

Youn Yun hesitated. “Then sing what you sing best.”

“I have many songs I sing well.”

Ah, perhaps this was what it meant to be a big shot—choosing a performance as casually as she asked Liang Zhen what to eat for lunch.

Youn Yun thought a moment: “Then... how about ‘Moonlight’?”

Zhao Zhiyu’s expression shifted slightly, his gaze toward her deepening.

“You like ‘Moonlight’?”

She nodded.

“Why?” he asked.

“Just... I think it’s beautiful, and many people like it. It’d be great to hear it live.”

In truth, it was just polite words. She only knew this one song, having just memorized it last night scrolling through short videos. She couldn’t name any others.

Zhao Zhiyu was silent for a moment, still focused on her. Then he chuckled softly. “Alright, your wish.”

“!”