Chapter 25: No One Waits Forever for Someone They Can’t Have

After sending three friend requests that went unanswered and having no phone number to reach him, Yu Zhimei sighed repeatedly in frustration. The connections between urban dwellers were so fragile.

With Volvo’s new series entering the domestic market, “Talk About Cars” successfully landed a major deal. Xing Zong couldn’t hide his excitement over the phone: “Eight hundred thousand yuan in ad fees, three video episodes—Ad King, think carefully about how to handle this!”

Monkey and Xiaolong were filming cars in the suburbs under the scorching sun, their throats parched. Yu Zhimei felt like smoke was rising from her head: “Shouldn’t this be placed in Xing Ge’s series? We initially discussed ‘Talk About Cars’ as a nostalgia-driven program starting with classic cars. If we start monetizing now, the audience will criticize us.”

“Yu Zhimei, why do you keep mentioning nostalgia lately? Didn’t you say before that the more ads you get criticized for, the more it’s worth it?”

She had indeed said that—if media creators felt hurt by online backlash, it was probably because they weren’t compensated enough. That time, when comments turned toxic after a video went viral, she consoled her colleagues. But this context was entirely different. With the camera crew waiting under the blazing sun, she could only say: “Let me think about it. If it doesn’t work out, at least release a few more nostalgic episodes before scheduling this one.”

If she kept talking about nostalgia, who else could it be for but Jian Zhaowen, the artist?

After hanging up, Monkey and Xiaolong were arguing over lines. Xiaolong wanted to change a memory segment into a comparison with another domestic car model, while Monkey thought comparisons would spark controversy. Xiaolong, ever rational, argued: “This kind of comparison creates a stronger impression—it’s what people remember. No one cares about your or my storyline, nor our stories. We’re just tools to talk about cars, Monkey. Don’t get too immersed.”

“If that’s the case, why even make the show? Just read out the car specs. Without a story, this program is just an empty shell.”

Yu Zhimei stared absently at Monkey, who noticed her strange expression: “Sister Mei, Yu Zhimei! What are you thinking about? How should we revise it?”

“Don’t change anything. Boss says there’s a big business opportunity. This episode—let’s focus on storytelling.”

That evening, Xing Zong and the boss came to pick them up after work. After securing the Volvo deal, new clients from domestic joint ventures also showed interest in “Talk About Cars.” With a 100 million play count and high reply rates across all platforms, they were set to meet in Beijing on Monday night. Xing Zong’s smile grew bold: “Plan well. We’ll do two more live streams. This will meet our advertising revenue goals for the next six months. Higher income means higher company valuation, Yu Zhimei. This wave depends on you.”

Hearing this, Yu Zhimei nodded. No matter how many times she had to negotiate with clients and revise scripts, as long as communication was thorough and the result satisfactory, she would invest the time.

The boss looked around: “I’m a bit hungry.” Xing Zong said: “Let’s eat. I’ll treat today.”

Suburban restaurants differed from those in the city. Without elaborate plating, farmhouse dishes came in large portions: dried tofu, smoked frog legs, paired with a bottle of yellow wine—all local specialties. Yu Zhimei stared at the frog legs seemingly jumping out of the plate. While washing her hands, she switched seats, sitting only in front of the zhuangyuan cake and a pot-sized soup. Hunger without suitable food was torture. Monkey pointed out the truth: the dishes were all the boss’s favorites. Xing Zong brought his family out for relaxation, not to visit the set. As they discussed “Talk About Cars,” Xing Zong initially held back, but after a few drinks, his smile widened: “Because of you all, I am where I am today. I’m so lucky—I met Monkey in 2016, then Xiaolong and Yu Zhimei in 2017. Now, the company has sustained profits, and fan growth remains steady. Content serves profit. In the second half of the year, I plan to hire another content director to take over other projects from Yu Zhimei, lightening her load. Sister Mei, I know you initially wanted ‘Talk About Cars’ to focus on classic cars, but with funding from ads, we can keep the show running. Eventually, ‘Talk About Cars’ can cover all nostalgic cars—a roundabout way to achieve your dream.”

“I understand. I’m happy if the company does well. Nostalgia can’t feed us.” Yu Zhimei smiled outwardly, but the zhuangyuan cake tasted increasingly bitter. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind: rely on work when love fails, rely on love when work fails. Life felt utterly nonsensical.

Exhausted from the day, Yu Zhimei drove Xiaolong and Monkey, who had been drinking, back to the city. Xing Zong pointed to distant skyscrapers, planning to stay in the suburbs for the weekend. Before parting, Xing Zong sat in the passenger seat, slightly drunk: “Headache whether I drink or not—what’s going on?”

The boss gently massaged the back of Xing Zong’s head, then pulled him in for a kiss. Monkey and Xiaolong laughed and backed away: “Can’t watch this. We’re leaving.”

But Yu Zhimei stared at the boss’s hands and gentle eyes—the intimacy only shared between close people. For the first time, she saw Xing Ge completely exposed and weary.

Early Monday morning, Yu Zhimei knocked on Xiao Ma Ge’s door: “Xiao Ma Ge, give me Jian Zhaowen’s contact information.”

“In such a rush, why?”

“On a business trip—I need to find him!”

Two hours on the plane later, Yu Zhimei anxiously sent friend requests to Jian Zhaowen. Three requests went unanswered, and she didn’t have his phone number. Frustrated, she lamented silently: urban connections were so fragile. The client-arranged hotel was far in the suburbs. By the time they discussed the car series and budgets for several episodes, it was already nighttime. She took a taxi to the city, arriving late at night. Standing outside the apartment building, she called dozens of times, but he didn’t answer. Finally, the call went to voicemail. The mall lights made the night feel unnatural, the sky orange-purple. Walking from the main entrance to the side entrance, she ended up sitting on the stairs, sipping a cup of takeaway bubble tea. Her makeup had worn off. A security guard approached: “Miss, what’s wrong? Forgot your keys?”

“I’m waiting for someone!”

Exhaustion clouded her mind. Staring into the dark night, she reminded herself firmly: don’t fall asleep. Jian Zhaowen always moved at night. If she missed him tonight, she might never see him again—perhaps not for the rest of her life.

If there truly was no chance, she didn’t want it to be because she hadn’t tried.

Under the night sky, Yu Zhimei’s hands and feet grew cold. Time ticked past until 3 AM, pedestrians dwindled, and her eyelids drooped. Her high heels ached. Grabbing her bag, she flagged down a taxi. Lights flowed through the car. She thought: at least I tried. Better than sitting at home waiting for nothing.

“Did you board the plane? Remember to tell me when you land—I’ll come pick you up.”

“It’s fine. I can go home myself.”

“Why so distant? I’m worried about you traveling alone. Let me drop you off—no other meaning.”

Yu Zhimei forced a bitter smile and texted him: “Then… my laptop battery broke. Can you help me buy one?”

He fell silent. Yu Zhimei couldn’t suppress her disappointment. Perhaps the problem lay with her—always dumping life’s trivialities on others, unable to sustain a relationship. Life was meant to be handled independently. Batteries needed timely replacements, work carried on one’s own shoulders. Everyone’s life was hard; don’t burden others…

Back in Shanghai, her bones felt like they’d scattered. Arriving at the airport, Dou Yu was already there, holding two shopping bags: “Which Dell model exactly? I messaged you but got no response. Afraid you’d be anxious, I bought every 2012 model available.”

Yu Zhimei dragged her small suitcase upward: “I didn’t receive your message asking about the model…”

“Signal so bad? You should replace your phone.”

Indeed, her phone had automatically shut down. Dou Yu draped an arm over her shoulder: “If I’d known, I’d have bought you a power bank too. Tired? Let’s go home.”

The airport air smelled damp, the rain having just cleared. Yawning repeatedly, sleepless nights left her heart nearly stopping and her hips nearly dislocated. She remembered racing against Jian Zhaowen’s BMW in high heels that night—the same pair she wore now. Entering her neighborhood, she tossed them into the trash. Too painful. Dreams like these couldn’t continue. Jian Zhaowen had already moved out and wouldn’t reappear in her life. Not seizing happiness within reach would bring divine punishment.

“Teacher Yu Zhimei, are you ready to date me now?”

“Alright…”

“Then, today counts as Day One?”

“Sure.”

“Teacher Yu, you probably can’t feel how happy I am right now. I want to jump out of the car and sprint home.”

The car seemed to speed up. Yu Zhimei smiled as lights passed by her ears in streaks. She thought: in this city, her restless heart finally found peace. Though sudden, flying endlessly in the sky had indeed exhausted her.

Insisting on saying goodbye to Dou Yu by the roadside, Yu Zhimei tossed her shoes aside and dragged her suitcase upstairs barefoot. Accidentally stubbing her toe on the suitcase, she sucked in a sharp breath, pausing on the second floor for a minute. Upstairs, there was movement—probably new neighbors.

The 302 door was open, the small corridor door wide as well. Familiar acrylic shoeboxes lined the entrance, collector’s editions more numerous than before. From inside the corridor came “Fly Me to the Moon,” Utada Hikaru’s newly arranged version. She had played this song while showering the night Jian Zhaowen slept on her couch. Yu Zhimei felt her breath tremble, walking closer until Jian Zhaowen appeared in the hallway, holding two bottles of Baileys. She couldn’t believe it was real.

“Yu Zhimei!” Jian Zhaowen grinned: “What’s wrong with you? I knocked all day. Was about to fetch you some wine.”

“Didn’t you see my WeChat friend request?”

Jian Zhaowen opened WeChat—four thousand unread work messages, hundreds of friend requests: “Please, I’ve been moving things all night. Unemployed, no urgent matters, I don’t check my phone—who’s suddenly rushing to find me?”

Dizzy, Yu Zhimei realized her anxiety stemmed from assuming Jian Zhaowen had quickly forgotten her. In reality, he was just moving back and coincidentally ignored his phone. Within twenty-four hours, she had done triple her usual workload: swiftly finishing tasks, racing from suburb to city, waiting in the cold wind late into the night, returning like the protagonist of a four-act solo drama with a twist ending.

“I found a job in Shanghai. I’m back for good.”

“In… Lujiazui?”

“Zhangjiang.”

“Then why rent here? Zhangjiang is so close.”

“All khaki windbreakers and plaid shirts everywhere—I couldn’t bear it. Besides, I couldn’t forget this place.”

“People in luxury apartments miss old houses…”

“Steps away from downtown. The neighboring terrace has flowers and cats, Boss He’s dessert shop with strange sweets and motorcycles… Most importantly, gaming here is incredibly fast. Maybe the signal in this old house is great. Maybe I’ll be luckier coming back.”

None of his reasons mentioned her. Yu Zhimei watched Jian Zhaowen’s wandering eyes and chuckled softly—how ironic for a computer science master. She refused to discern whether he lied or made excuses. Jian Zhaowen, the algorithm guru helping others calculate love matches, couldn’t predict his own timing.

“Then I won’t ask. At least gaming here is fast.”

Yu Zhimei smiled bitterly: “Because I use an accelerator, idiot.”

Just as Jian Zhaowen prepared to embrace her, hurried footsteps sounded from downstairs. Dou Yu rushed up with the battery: “You said you needed a battery—why did you leave it in the car?”

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