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“Don’t let your passion fade so easily. There will always be someone who captivates you. When that time comes, don’t back down—you’re a person of loyalty and sentiment, I know. Also, for your startup to succeed, we medical people must keep pushing the boundaries of the future—don’t fall behind.”
Jian Zhaowen was trying to make a homemade projector at home, tinkering with second-hand parts he had painstakingly bought online. He finally got it working, but when he projected onto the wall, there were horizontal lines across the image. Unable to pinpoint the issue and without Yu Zhimei’s contact information, Jian lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. A seed of unhappiness had sprouted within him, growing rapidly. His phone buzzed with messages from friends inviting him to gatherings, but Jian couldn’t muster the energy to respond. His closest friends were unavailable: those married couldn’t come out, and the single ones were busy working overtime—he had become the most idle man. Overwhelmed by loneliness, he accepted an invitation from a friend willing to meet for a quick hot pot dinner before their shift.
“Why are you ordering the cheapest lamb rolls? Are you trying to rip me off?”
Pang Cong, Jian’s college roommate, had been his partner on the university newspaper Medical People for five years. Pang had pursued his studies all the way to earning a Ph.D., with two advisors, one of whom was now the director of his hospital. Crossing half the city to meet Jian, Pang launched into a monologue about medicine. Jian, long detached from his undergraduate major, could only listen quietly. Midway through the meal, Pang discreetly grabbed a napkin and wiped sweat from under his wig. Jian thought he’d misseen: “Is your thick hair fake?”
“How could I not go bald studying medicine? I’m a Ph.D.!”
Tears welled up in Jian’s eyes: “...Your wig looks pretty real.”
“Don’t laugh. It’s all about maintaining appearances.”
“Meeting old classmates doesn’t require this much vanity, does it?”
“I’m still single. What if I meet a woman who likes me here?”
“You’re supposed to be the future of our country’s medical field,” Jian teased.
The spicy hot pot grew hotter as they drank several bottles of Jian Island beer. Eventually, Pang removed his wig and started fanning himself. The white mesh cap underneath looked oddly sexy under the restaurant’s lights. As Jian listened to Pang talk about his life of night shifts and writing papers, he reflected on how the young boy who once lounged in their dorm playing video games had grown up so fast. Pang spoke with his double chin wobbling: “I didn’t have a girlfriend in college, and I worried about it every day. But given our school’s gender ratio and my looks... forget it.” He slammed his chopsticks on the table. “But honestly, I never expected to still be single now. I studied medicine for stability, hoping to gain social status and start a family sooner. Instead, I spent my youth in residency training and now spend my older years doing research and writing papers. No social status, no girlfriend. Damn it. Sure, I can rely on my abilities, but if I had your face, my social standing would’ve risen by at least 20% by now.”
Jian snorted. Pang’s inability to find a girlfriend wasn’t due to looks—it was his clear life planning and intense focus. “But isn’t everyone’s life progression the same, more or less?”
“Let’s get one thing straight. For me being single, it’s not that I don’t want to date—it’s that there’s no one to date. What about Qiu Nuo?”
“We broke up. She moved out almost six months ago.”
“The girl who cried and refused to let go—finally came to her senses, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Life’s dilemmas always resolve eventually—it just depends on whether you live long enough. I thought I’d see you and Qiu Nuo in a lifelong tug-of-war. And you—how could you just stop loving her and break up? Who can handle that?”
“No,” Jian paused mid-hot-pot-dipping. “Maybe I just haven’t met the right person yet.”
“Ah, here comes Jian Zhaowen’s classic line—” Pang recited dramatically: “‘My love fades quickly. We can date, but be prepared for me never to truly love you.’”
Jian gazed at Pang, offering no rebuttal. The story of Qiu Nuo and Jian leaving their shared apartment had always been a blockbuster drama among their friends. Girls frequently confessed to Jian, sending letters, small gifts, homemade chocolates, and admiring glances. Qiu Nuo, a dance student and a true Beijinger, had confessed to Jian one evening after skating with friends on Houhai Lake. Jian had always been gentle and romantic with women but never truly invested emotionally. Qiu Nuo was beautiful, elegant, and poised, and Jian initially assumed she was just playing around. That’s when he delivered his infamous line. But he hadn’t anticipated that Qiu Nuo’s love would be like wielding a machete—anyone she loved would bleed. Her way of loving herself was to demand that Jian change for her: she wanted apartments with elevators, Instagram-worthy hotel-style decor, designer clothes, runway pieces—everything had to cater to her tastes. Beyond that, whenever she saw Jian, she’d launch into hysterical arguments, always accusing him of not loving her enough. Among all his romantic partners, Qiu Nuo was the most suffocating. After rounds of questioning and scolding, she’d cry and say she’d die without him. Jian hated seeing women cry and always softened at the sight of Qiu Nuo’s tears. Perhaps their relationship was mutual torment, slowly eroding over time. Until one Valentine’s Day, Qiu Nuo poured wine over him at a restaurant. The wine seeped into his eyes, ran down his face and neck, and splashed onto neighboring customers. Her reason? If he truly loved her, why hadn’t he proposed?
The sensation of wine in his eyes was one thing—acrid. It hit Jian like a thunderclap. He realized he had always treated relationships like a game. In this era, whether in love or breaking up, two people sharing a happy moment was enough. But his default lifestyle came at the cost of hurting women who sought forever. Most people’s love required results. The next day, after the wine incident, Jian calmly proposed a breakup and decided to move to Shanghai. Qiu Nuo cried and fought for six months, but Jian didn’t cold-shoulder her. He flew back and forth to Beijing many times, sent timely gifts and apologies, and let her stay in the rented apartment as long as she wanted—even if she wrecked it. He took full responsibility, insisting only on the breakup.
Six months earlier, Qiu Nuo had blocked Jian on WeChat. He guessed she had moved out and found a new boyfriend. By the time he met Yu Zhimei, he was single again. As for worrying about hurting Yu Zhimei—when did he become someone so considerate of others’ feelings?
“What are you thinking about? Are you going to start another business?” Pang snapped his fingers in front of Jian.
“Probably. When I find the right direction, I’ll go for it.”
“Another social app?”
“Likely.”
“What about dating?”
Jian smiled, a shadow flickering in his mind, but he shook his head: “Not sure.”
The hot pot had cooled. Pang shook out his clothes and prepared to leave: “I need to get home and sleep—I have a shift tomorrow. Jian Zhaowen, meeting once every two years like this… Qiu Nuo back then forced her will onto you. Not ending things sooner was because of your soft heart. When everyone criticized you and isolated you, it was unfair. Don’t let your passion fade so easily. There will always be someone who captivates you. When that time comes, don’t back down—you’re a person of loyalty and sentiment, I know.”
“Okay.”
“I’m really leaving. Brother, make your startup a success. We medical people must explore the boundaries of the future—don’t fall behind.”
“Okay.”
After Pang left, Jian didn’t rush home. He stood on the street, letting the wind blow through him, staring at the bus stop sign for a long time. His parents lived in the same city, yet they didn’t even know he was back. He took the subway to Xierqi, wandered into a familiar snack shop, and bought a jianbing guozi set, stuffing it into his pocket. He slipped into the office park where he used to work and climbed the stairs to the fifth floor. Young strangers were working overtime. The pool table under the Xiyou sign had been replaced with a ping-pong table, but otherwise, little had changed. Jian lingered at the entrance for a while, peering through the glass windows as if looking at his past self—energetic, impulsive, pounding furiously on the keyboard, believing his typing speed couldn’t match his talent, determined to prove he could go 24 hours without rest.
“Who are you looking for?”
“Nothing. I used to work here. Just came to take a look.”
Exiting the elevator, Jian’s ears and cheeks felt hot. Staring at Xiyou ‘s scrolling ads, he sat by the roadside, repeatedly pondering the subtle unease in his heart. During product-sharing sessions, Li Yin could grasp the app’s main path and content in just five minutes, dissecting product logic, user behavior, and monetization channels, delivering a 20-minute lecture effortlessly. HR often said Li Yin had extremely high emotional intelligence, never hurting anyone’s feelings with his words—so every word had to be carefully interpreted, and expectations lowered by 20%... If that was the case...
How many minutes did it take Li Yin to see through Lovedate and himself?
“Having your own magnum opus”—was Lovedate , from the start, truly his magnum opus?
In Philip’s eyes, was he really just a lowly employee?
Had he been too arrogant in building the product?
Was Jian Zhaowen truly unworthy of being a founder?
And... had he ever truly understood love?
What exactly was Yu Zhimei to him—an algorithmic anomaly, or had he liked her from the very beginning?
Reflecting on his life after graduation, Jian realized he had been caught in endless ups and downs. His career had transitioned from passionate ambition to mere work, much like his romantic stories—none were fulfilling, and none aligned with his intentions. After founding Lovedate , he frequently shuttled between hotels in Shanghai and Hangzhou. At his busiest, he woke up unsure of his location, food lost its flavor, and he couldn’t feel settled. Shanghai’s bourgeois sensibilities made the city lack a certain vitality; its people were polished and self-serving. Employees clocked in and out punctually, prioritizing quality of life over career ambition. Deep down, Jian always thought he’d return to Beijing someday. Now, back in Beijing, he watched a wave of pedestrians pass by and realized he couldn’t return to the Beijing that once felt like home. He wanted to say so much, to express heartfelt joy, to dream as vast as the universe, to stop abandoning halfway-finished projects, to prove himself—to love someone sincerely for a lifetime and accomplish one thing he truly desired.
His phone rang. Xiao Ma Ge, who had conned him out of his sofa and speakers, sent a selfie. Behind him were piles of bottles and glasses. Shi Rui, who had confessed to him, glanced backward. He Jie, likely out of frame, and Yu Zhimei, her eyes sparkling like stars, looked blissfully content.
Jian stared intently at Yu Zhimei in the photo, his heart pounding. She had lost weight and changed her hairstyle, revealing her forehead, which made her look even prettier. Yu Zhimei had a full forehead and cheeks, with sharp corners at her eyes and mouth, making her strikingly beautiful when she was at her best. But her late-night habits gave her dark circles, and when she squinted, she looked both enchanting and pitifully tired. The girl who had hugged him in the hallway, nearly falling, holding a pair of shoes and sporting an unconventional hairstyle, had given him a fleeting sense of security in Shanghai—a connection in shared vulnerability. Moreover, during the time he lived earnestly in that old house, the cat and flowers next door, the bustling residential alleys, the music from the dessert shop, and the lively conversations with friends...
Day broke. Jian opened his door and saw the large cardboard boxes he had never unpacked since returning. He smiled—thankfully, they remained unopened.
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