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“Most people have no advantage in love—they’re full of flaws and lack courage. Yet, when the time comes, they feel compelled to find a partner, resorting to unconventional means.”
At the start of the new week, Yu Zhimei settled into her workstation. A new operations colleague, Lily, had joined the company. Still in her senior year of university, Lily sported long, chestnut-colored hair that flowed smoothly, earning her the nickname “Goddess” from her coworkers. Carrying her new employee welcome package, Lily was still figuring out why earplugs were included. Spotting Yu Zhimei, she gave a shy nod before heading into the neighboring office. No sooner had Yu Zhimei sat down than jokes began flooding the group chat: “Sister Mei, looks like your reign as Goddess is over.”
Yu Zhimei chuckled: “When exactly was I crowned? I didn’t get the memo.”
“It’s widely known,” came the reply. “But now that the newcomer’s here, the title should pass to the younger generation.”
Just as the message appeared, it was quickly retracted. Monkey King stepped in to smooth things over: “Everyone’s a goddess. Stop joking around! Having multiple goddesses is our company’s blessing. Back to work, everyone.”
Lily frequently posted selfies in the group chat, fostering lively interactions with clients. Even Xing Zong chimed in on the management chat: “Though she’s still in her probation period, let’s try to keep her. Having a young girl maintain client relationships will help bring in more ads.”
“This isn’t right,” Yu Zhimei interjected firmly. “You’re asking her to trade on her appearance.”
“Fresh blood is crucial,” Xing Zong countered. “Look at this room full of old men—everyone’s chattier now that we have a young employee. Our auto industry clients’ business development teams are all male. Why not let her join in on the outreach? She can even host live streams. Pairing young women with the auto industry is eye-catching, isn’t it?”
HR chimed in: “I don’t see an issue. She’s young, hardworking, and cost-effective—she’s from Shanghai and drives her own Audi to work.” Yu Zhimei glanced at the chestnut-haired girl, who was busy touching up her makeup at her desk. During her introduction, Lily had made a comment that irked HR: “Oh my, you’re already 27? Isn’t it terrifying to start aging?”
Yu Zhimei had never been swayed by society’s age-related anxieties—sagging skin, loosening muscles, the ticking biological clock, or falling further down the blind-date hierarchy. She’d once accidentally stumbled upon an “early aging” self-assessment quiz on a shopping site. Did oily foods feel harder to digest? No, she still ordered fried chicken regularly. Did recovery after staying up late feel slower? No, pulling all-nighters for a week straight was manageable with coffee curing any dizziness. Was weight harder to control? No, late nights drained her energy, leaving little for anything else. Was love becoming harder to find?
Staring at the questions for a few seconds, Yu Zhimei closed the page, only to reopen it moments later. At the end, she was redirected to the download page for “LoveDate” and laughed. So, after all this, she had been targeted by an algorithm pushing dating apps to urban singles of marriageable age. Ruru leapt into her lap, circling around before settling onto the pillow in the middle of the bed. She tapped his nose lightly: “You’ll squeeze over to my side again in a bit, won’t you? Annoying. There’s half the bed left.”
The other half of the bed had once been occupied. Yu Zhimei remembered holding hands with someone as they went to pick Ruru up. Back then, he hadn’t been called Ruru but “Hulu.” After they split, she dropped one character from his name, symbolically removing him from her life. Beyond that, during her move, she discarded dresses worn during their relationship, painful high heels, gifts received, appliances like the air fryer, induction cooker, and vacuum cleaner… She returned to a life of fried chicken and carbonated drinks. It was a drastic move. In spring, when Ruru shed fur, clumps of it triggered allergic reactions, leaving her face swollen and itchy. Cooking hot pot alone became inconvenient—her small pot felt inadequate, and adding too many ingredients caused the water to boil over. Ruru had grown accustomed to sleeping in the middle of the bed, always squeezing toward her side even when turning over. Cats, after all, weren’t quick to let go. Only after enduring the absence of essential household items and experiencing various inconveniences did she gradually admit that life required appliances. Unlike her younger self, who rejected material possessions without a second thought, she realized that with age, people delved deeper into life, and their longing for home seemed to double.
So, does a person really need love? Yu Zhimei lay in bed, listening to Ruru’s deep breathing, and for the first time, she reached her hand out to the other side of the bed.
Jian Zhaowen seemed to be spending more time in the old house recently—or at least, Yu Zhimei heard movies playing more frequently at night. Occasionally, when he smoked on the balcony, the faint scent of tobacco lingered in the living room. The distance from the living room to the balcony was only one and a half steps, but she could never bring herself to step outside. Still, she knew one thing: whenever she heard sounds related to Jian Zhaowen, her heart raced.
Until the day Jian knocked on her door while she was attempting to cook hot pot in a frying pan. When she opened the door and saw the electric hot pot in his hands, she was too surprised to speak. Jian, spotting the fish balls, shrimp paste, and beef rolls laid out in her kitchen, was equally shocked: “How did you know I wanted to invite you to have hot pot?”
“I didn’t.”
“Telepathy, huh?” Jian strode in confidently, and Yu Zhimei quickly gathered her thoughts: “If it’s telepathy, then let’s buy more ingredients. What I have here is only enough for one person.”
“I’ve already ordered delivery.”
If forced to call it telepathy, it wasn’t entirely wrong. After all, when two large plastic bags arrived, Yu Zhimei could indeed pick out her favorites—duck blood, luncheon meat, and tripe—along with her beloved orange juice. With such an extensive selection, anyone could find something they liked. It simply showed that Jian had provided her with plenty of options. Watching him plug in the hot pot, Yu Zhimei couldn’t help but ask: “You don’t eat pig intestine noodles anymore? Are you starting to like hot pot now?”
“Pig intestine noodles are your preference. I figured I’d share mine with you—it’s about exchanging interests.” Jian tried to scoop Ruru into his arms: “You’re so aloof, yet so cute. Why do you act like you want nothing to do with me? Am I that ugly?”
Not only was he far from ugly, but every feature of his seemed perfectly aligned with Yu Zhimei’s aesthetic preferences. Back when she was dating her ex, she had thought that after marriage, she’d forever lose the chance to be with someone with sharp cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and full lips—the ideal type she’d always dreamed of. Now, as Jian finally managed to hold Ruru and looked up at her with a smile, she could only hurriedly retreat to the kitchen and gulp down a large glass of Sprite with ice.
After eating and drinking their fill, Jian leaned back on the sofa, his entire body sprawled on the floor. Yu Zhimei felt a flicker of irritation. His lack of boundaries clearly indicated that he genuinely saw her as just a friend. There was no need to act timid because of her feelings for him. She moved the table aside and lay down next to him: “How’s your company doing?”
“Fighting. I haven’t been to the office for a month. A colleague told me he’s working on securing Series A funding.”
“I forgot to ask last time—what kind of company do you run?”
Jian glanced at the TV: “Dating and matchmaking.”
“What’s it called?”
“LoveDate. Ever heard of it?”
Yu Zhimei let out a cold laugh: “Not only have I heard of it—I’ve been targeted by its ads.”
“Oh? So you must have browsed dating websites, made friends on forums, or… maybe even arranged meetups?”
“None of that. I just bought anti-wrinkle face masks.”
“That’s possible too. Our algorithm captures a lot of keywords. Anything related to age or gender gets processed. Most of our budget goes into ad targeting to capture people like you who are looking for love.”
“This algorithm is flawed. Who designed it?”
“Me.”
“You can do this kind of thing?”
“Of course. I majored in biomedical engineering as an undergrad and computer science for my master’s. Doesn’t look like it, right?”
A true prodigy, indeed. Yu Zhimei shifted the topic away from him: “Anyway, this algorithm is infuriating. I just want to live alone and enjoy my own happiness, but I feel violated.”
“People are constantly being offended. Men ogle young women; older singles get labeled ‘leftovers.’ Middle-aged middle-class workers get laid off by big companies, replaced by three younger employees for the same price. Fresh graduates are called ‘new blood,’ and management trainee programs only hire recent grads for their ‘freshness.’ The malice is obvious, yet people still work out, prevent aging, and buy insurance—otherwise, they can’t survive. We’re just catering to societal psychology.”
“How noble of you. As if everyone needs love.”
“Of course they do. Otherwise, why would so many people pay for VIP memberships on dating apps? Most people have no advantage in love—they’re flawed, lack courage, yet insist on having a partner. That’s why they spend money. Truly charming people don’t need these apps.”
“You sound like someone who’s never put any effort into love.”
Jian pointed at himself: “Do I look like I need to try?”
A man who took love for granted had designed an app to deceive those desperate for romance and marriage—and somehow secured investment. Hearing this, Yu Zhimei grew irritated but pressed on: “So, what exactly caused the disagreement between you and your partner?”
“He wanted to turn it into a hookup app. I insisted we couldn’t do that—there had to be some real love nurtured through the app. But in practice…” Jian paused for two seconds: “Human nature is complicated, and love isn’t easy to attain. My partner wasn’t wrong—making it purely a hookup app would’ve simplified everything.”
Yu Zhimei was captivated. Human nature was complex—a single phrase that summed up most tragic love stories in the world. She had once loved someone with all her might, only for him to find her love too heavy, too overwhelming. Now, on social media, he was devoting himself entirely to another girl who gave him little affection, yet seemed utterly happy. Meanwhile, she—now almost devoid of visible affection, keeping friendships superficial—was perceived as distant and unapproachable. Gradually, she became invisible in the realm of love. In the end, it all came down to human complexity.
“Let’s save the stories of the app’s freaks for another time. I won’t bore you with them tonight.”
“Why not? We have the whole night.”
“Come on, I’m down on my luck, and everything feels painful. Anyway, I’ll keep renting this antique of a house—we’ve got plenty of time to talk about history.”
“Aren’t you moving out?”
“No job means no pressure. Renewing the lease is fine.”
Yu Zhimei’s heart began to race again. Jian Zhaowen, clearly trying to change the subject, asked: “Want to mix me a drink? Or shall we go out for one? Of course… I’d rather have one you make.”
The clinking of ice cubes against the glass echoed as Yu Zhimei, her back turned to Jian, probed further: “You’re not staying here because of me, are you?”
Jian answered quickly: “Please, it’s like shooting a movie. Love doesn’t happen in old houses like this. Back when I designed my algorithm, I targeted apartments—at least ones with elevators. Besides, it’s obvious we’re not each other’s type.”
What kind of reasoning was that? Yu Zhimei felt a twinge of defiance: “Why can’t love happen in an old house? Don’t young people live in these kinds of places? Not everyone is a born elite like you.”
“At least not in a house this old.”
Yu Zhimei poured a full glass of vodka, unadulterated, and handed it to Jian. Without even sniffing it, he took a swig: “Damn, straight up?”
“This level of absoluteness—doesn’t it suit your style?”
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