Chapter 79

“Do you know the meaning of ‘antelope’?”

On the last day at Weekly One, it passed quietly—no farewell party, no blessings. That was fine; she wasn’t in the mood, nor did she have anyone to say goodbye to. Her colleagues in the same department remained indifferent, without a single word of chat, though someone from the marketing department did send well-wishes. The intern with the lip ring had finally gotten a full-time position mid-year, but unfortunately, the leadership had changed to Pony. He gifted Gu Yi a Vivienne Westwood Saturn necklace and, unusually, a handwritten card with his blessings: 

“This brand symbolizes punk. No matter what happens, I hope you’ll keep your rebelliousness and independence! To me, you and Jacqueline are the soul of Weekly One. Without you, it’s just Half Weekly.” 

Knowing she did stand-up comedy, he even tailored the joke for her. She felt a bit touched. “I’ll take the card, but keep the gift. You just got a promotion.” 

“Take it, it’s not even as much as my monthly parking fee. My car’s parked in the lot next door.” 

“...” 

“If you’re not here, I don’t think I’ll stay much longer either,” the boy with the lip ring said with a touch of melancholy. “I liked seeing new perspectives and interesting people, but there’s not much of that left now.” 

For a moment, they both felt sentimental. Gu Yi didn’t have much to give Jacqueline. Thinking Jacqueline lacked for nothing, she simply bought a box of sweets from an import store next door, left it on her desk, and stuck on a note: “Big Boss, I’m leaving!” 

After work, as she looked toward Phase Two of the Innovation Zone, a chapter of her life quietly came to an end. She lent her apartment to Guan Xingxin for the time being, while she dragged her suitcase and hired movers to bring her belongings to Liang Daiwen’s “Van Gogh Museum.” Boxes piled high in Liang Daiwen’s living room, she collapsed onto the sofa, feeling a sense of déjà vu. 

Liang Daiwen hadn’t come back from work yet. Gu Yi thought of cooking him dinner, but the scene felt too familiar, so she put on her “Heroic Lady Massage” T-shirt and sprawled in the living room, writing jokes. When Liang Daiwen walked in and saw the room full of boxes, he froze for a moment before asking, “What year is it now?” 

Indeed, Liang Daiwen also felt the confusion of overlapping memories. Gu Yi boiled water for instant noodles and quipped, “All that’s missing are a few silkworm boxes.” 

But Liang Daiwen wasn’t in the mood for jokes. His stomach growled incessantly, and eating the instant noodles only made his stomach ache worse. He leaned against the desk in his study, struggling with design sketches while endlessly fielding calls. Gu Yi found it both funny and heart-wrenching. Unable to do anything about the broken-down robot, she couldn’t even cry herself. All she could do was sit at the doorway, scribbling jokes. Liang Daiwen gently pushed her out and closed the door to take his calls.  

The “garbage cat” was shut out. 

She slept on the living room sofa, in a half-dream, half-awake state. Liang Daiwen came to the living room quietly for water, took melatonin, and sat by her side. It was only then she realized all the shadows she’d seen before in her semi-conscious state were real—they were silent cries for help from a lonely robot. 

“Hey.” 

“Hmm?” 

“I’m here with you.” 

“Got it, I know.” 

“Are you asleep?” 

“I’m asleep.” 

For the first time in ages, she dreamed of her father. Her parents had divorced when she was seven. That morning, her mother had casually left the house, saying she had something to take care of, and told her not to come home during lunch break. By evening, when her mother returned, it felt as though she had completed a solemn farewell to a significant chapter of her life. Years later, Gu Yi realized her mother had gone to finalize the divorce that day. 

In the dream, there was always a pair of red dance shoes. She had thought those were what her mother wore that snowy morning, running to catch the first bus to finalize the divorce. But the memory had to be flawed—red dance shoes couldn’t run in the snow. No, those were the shoes her mother wore when she took her to the dance hall to find her father. Her father, who had claimed he was stuck in an inescapable poker game with friends, extended his hand—not to hold her mother’s, but to push her away. That was when her mother’s trust began to fracture. 

Trust between adults feels like extending your hand while already anticipating the harm you’re about to endure. The more trust you give, the more devastating the erosion. 

She opened her eyes to find herself curled up in Liang Daiwen’s arms. His black T-shirt was damp from her tears. He held her tightly, his breathing steady and alert. Neither of them spoke, but their embrace grew even tighter. 

His body was soft, his warmth comforting. Gu Yi buried herself deeper in his arms. The familiar scent made her feel safe. No matter how low she sank, at least he was still there by her side. 

On Gu Yi’s first day at her new job, she immediately sensed the company’s peculiar vibe. At the entrance stood a life-sized cardboard cutout of the first season’s variety show champion, holding a sign that read, “Remember company culture: Drink less, sleep more.” The office was cluttered with books, and the whiteboard was covered in various messages, each more cynical than the last. The largest circled note read, “Cherish life, stay away from stand-up comedy, monologues, and comedy shows. Just be a boring, good person.” 

Gu Yi thought, I’ve come to the right place. 

Following the boss into a meeting, she used XMind to create a chart, listing all her prior ideas: expanding the ticket sales section of their public account to include interviews with signed performers, turning unused skits into a daily calendar for their followers, and accepting public submissions with paid royalties to engage comedy enthusiasts. She also proposed themed open-mic nights, inviting newcomers and lesser-known talents to experiment with the same topic, fostering debates and audience interaction... 

She found brainstorming for things she loved much more comfortable than during her week at Yi Zhou. The need to fabricate stories about opulent fairy-tale romances she herself couldn’t believe in no longer existed here. Her only two subordinates were a stand-up comedian and a TV host turned aspiring comedian, both “drama queens.” Not to mention the composition of the company itself—people who had delivered takeout, worked as couriers, sold phones in Huaqiangbei, or even labored on construction sites driving dump trucks. Material was everywhere. She was soaking in a honey pot of laughter. Aside from working late, she seemed to have no complaints. To some extent, it even alleviated the oppression Liang Daiwen brought her. 

Every day after coming home, she would share anecdotes about work with Liang Daiwen. Due to their involvement in a variety show, the company was in shambles. The comedians were all recording on the outskirts of the city; apart from the editing room, which remained air-conditioned and occupied, most of the company was empty. Liang Daiwen listened intently, his tone always calm, asking thoughtful questions: 

“Don’t you want to go watch the show? It’s okay if it gets late; I can pick you up.” 

She would just smile and shake her head. “If I leave, who’ll update the official account? Right now, it’s barebones and depends entirely on me.” 

“It’s rare—our scatterbrain is becoming the pillar of the company.” Liang Daiwen now expressed emotions sparingly, choosing calm tones over intense ones. 

That evening, while sketching in his study, his pencil dropped into the gap beneath the desk. After several failed attempts to retrieve it, he violently dismantled the desk panel to get it, sitting on the floor and breathing heavily, no longer in the mood to draw. After a while, he told Gu Yi, “I might take a few days off from work soon, to rest.” 

Lying in bed, Gu Yi realized Liang Daiwen not working likely meant he needed to relax. 

The next morning, Liang Daiwen’s greeting was peculiar—he kissed her forehead, which was unusual. When she returned home after work, she noticed that his frequently worn shirts, jackets, suitcase, and even power bank were all gone. Gu Yi sat in the living room for a while, calming her emotions before starting on work. After focusing to reply to emails and writing new stand-up material (most of which would probably go unused), she dialed his number. It took three tries before he answered: 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disappear.” 

“It’s okay. I know where you are.” 

“Go ahead.” 

“You went back to your hometown, to your mom’s grave, didn’t you?” 

The other end of the line fell silent, a solemn stillness seemed to transmit through the receiver. She heard the sound of shoes shifting on stone steps. 

“I guess only you could figure out where I’d be. But please… don’t come looking for me.” 

“I won’t. I’ll wait for you at home. The company’s official account is barren, and there’s plenty to keep me busy.” Gu Yi held back tears, clearing her throat. “Liang Daiwen, I’ll wait for you at home.” 

After hanging up, Gu Yi broke down into sobs. There were no cameras here, and Liang Daiwen wouldn’t be monitoring her; on the contrary, he’d left precisely because he didn’t want to burden her with his gloomy emotions. Without anyone else to lean on and unwilling to seek counseling, he had chosen to go somewhere far away alone. Robots had their own unique ways of healing—when unwilling to ask for help, they needed the freedom to recover. The most fundamental trust was this: a robot, unable to forget its “garbage cat,” would always come home on time. 

She poured her efforts into uploading material to a file-sharing assistant, waiting for Liang Daiwen to change his profile picture and username to sneak a look. 

“Expensive apartments have great soundproofing. I used to argue with my neighbors to stop a man from hitting his wife; now, I can only hear the sound of my own heartbreak.” 

“You think if someone calls you a toy, you’re not one? Jump out, and you become one.” 

“If a guy doesn’t post his abs on social media, he doesn’t have them. On the other hand, if a girl has a flat chest...” 

Her phone remained silent—no message from Liang Daiwen. 

Gu Yi organized her first themed open mic night, titled Youth Crisis. Many comedians signed up, and Yu Dule registered as an audience member. The 60-seat audience space squeezed in 80 people. Even the drunken boss came, laughing unrestrainedly in the front row. Onstage, young comedians, barely acclimated to life yet already feeling aged, joked: 

“This theme is perfect for us. Why are there so few middle-aged people in this industry? Because they have houses, cars, and kids—no time. Every one of those things costs money. See? Isn’t this the trio that drives the national economy? Frankly, stand-up comedy belongs to us—young people with no money, no time, but full of crises…” 

The open mic night was livelier than she’d expected. Sitting among the noise, Gu Yi thought that even with Liang Daiwen absent, life was still fun. She had even arranged joy for others—she had grown. 

After the event, many stayed to give feedback. Despite the showcase having issues, the boss stayed to help adjust and plan. It was 2 a.m. before the venue returned to silence, and Gu Yi realized Lu Ming was sitting in a corner—the man who had just paid off his debts and faced a complete midlife crisis. Yu Dule, rarely seen drinking, stayed behind nursing a bottle, along with two other veteran comedians. No one spoke; only the clinking of bottles filled the air. 

“This stage holds so many memories.” 

“Wasn’t Yu Dule the first one here?” 

“No, it was me. We were all together in ’17.” 

“Right, I remember. The first time we were all here, a girl came in wearing a wedding dress. She said her fiancé ran off on their wedding day, but she wasn’t upset. She came carrying her laptop, finishing overtime. We even held a ‘wedding’ for her and the laptop. That night was unforgettable. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but she was so interesting—the kind of person who could live well alone.” 

“I remember that show. I wanted to ask for her number but didn’t want to scare her. Love’s choices decide your youth crisis,” Yu Dule said, half-drunk. 

Lu Ming didn’t mention Guan Xingxin, calmly drinking with Yu Dule as the wind blew through the window. The venue’s decor hadn’t changed much since their Ounce days. At that moment, they were three old comedians, weathered by life, honing jokes 24/7, tweaking them even under the covers at night, obsessed. They weren’t chasing lofty literary aspirations or high-minded goals. Few would say, “I want to be an artist,” but while drinking, they’d boldly proclaim their willingness to die on the stage of stand-up comedy. 

Since “stand-up comedy” had gone mainstream, they often found themselves shoehorned into variety shows or compared to the industry’s most famous names. But they only laughed it off, finding the comparison unnecessary. Their pride was immense, their tempers eccentric. They poured their hearts out to others, drank heavily, and rode emotional highs and lows. Male comedians didn’t care about their girlfriends’ safe periods, only their creative bottlenecks. Female comedians yearned for love but found it meaningless compared to stepping onto the stage. Boyfriends, at best, became material.