Chapter 9: New Century Relationships

“It’s a societal illness. People entrust their sincerity to tangible things—pets, games, alcohol, money—but never to other people. Work is stressful, and the other person isn’t worth the effort required to make sacrifices. Even if you force yourselves together, there’s still the struggle of adjustment. Sincerity carries weight, and placing it on someone else requires considering whether they’ll accept it.”

Jian Zhaowen returned home, closing the door to visitors, chain-smoking cigarette after cigarette. A subtle time lag seemed to develop between him and his surroundings. In the early hours of the morning, he could hear the cat leap from the table to the floor; at midnight, a faint fragrance drifted past the window. A message came in—an invitation to Tan Ya’s birthday party. Jian read the message three times, reluctant but ultimately decided to attend due to social obligations. The bar was extravagantly booked, with swirling lights and smoke creating an ethereal atmosphere. When the DJ appeared, the crowd revealed their true colors. Most attendees were media professionals or young entrepreneurs; even the least prominent among them were influencers with tens of thousands of followers, dressed in designer brands and luxury pieces. Jian felt a flicker of emotion—this was a circle Philip’s age couldn’t penetrate. Without him, Jian realized, finding these dazzling young individuals wouldn’t be easy.

Tan Ya, the young female entrepreneur hosting the event, carried a mahjong clutch shaped like the character “發.” Her slicked-back hair accentuated her sharp facial features. As the birthday celebrant, she flitted between groups, smiling broadly. Upon seeing Jian, she greeted him warmly: “Is Qiu Nuo not coming?”

Jian shook his head.

“Did you break up?”

“We’ll catch up on that next time.” Before Tan Ya could continue, a friend visiting from Beijing intercepted Jian. These friends ran marketing accounts on Weibo, raking in millions each month from ads, and were loyal users of small apps themselves. At first, the conversation was relatively normal—Jian himself had a WeChat account with a decent number of followers, though he didn’t take ads. His friends joked about selling it. Jian clinked glasses with them, laughing: “I only use my account to share personal life and express radical opinions. When I’m bored, I get chased by self-righteous moralists for ‘offenses.’ What’s the point of monetizing it? If I wanted the money, I’d just start a new account. With bought followers and mutual promotion, it wouldn’t take long to start running ads.” The marketing gurus wagged their fingers at him: “Jian Zhaowen, you don’t get it. Our entertainment accounts promote each other, but we want your account for a new type of audience. You can’t keep shearing the same sheep forever—they’re not stupid anymore. Where’s Qiu Nuo? Oh right, she’s with someone else now…”

No matter where he went, people brought up Qiu Nuo, even though they’d broken up ages ago. Each time his friends tried to bring her up, Jian firmly shut them down. Finding the topic dull, they quickly moved on. To hear some industry gossip and maintain relationships, Jian forced himself to sit through an hour of conversation on the couch, only to discover that all sixty minutes were filled with idle chatter. From ancient scandals to modern gossip, it seemed that gossiping was humanity’s most enduring genetic trait. Stories of celebrities hooking up with influencers, influencers picking up female fans at bars—some fleeting encounters, others turning into long-term flings—all circulated freely. Mentioning names elicited gasps, and those sharing the stories basked in their own cleverness: “You’ve heard shocking gossip—remember to treat us to drinks when you have the chance.”

Of course, Jian knew all too well—the data from LoveDate had passed through his hands. Information he thought deleted still lingered in the backend; the internet’s memory was deep-rooted. New apps featured no shortage of stars singing lewd songs, hidden from public view to avoid scrutiny and facilitate PR when necessary. But this wasn’t something worth discussing openly—fame had stratified, bodies commodified. Those seeking pleasure exchanged it with those craving status, link by link, in glaringly unequal transactions.

“Forget celebrities—ordinary people are the same. No one really needs romance anymore. Everyone knows the drill: eating, sleeping, watching movies—it’s all about having fun. Falling in love is exhausting, and then consumerism robs you blind. Don’t even mention long-distance relationships—I find the commute from Chaoyang to Haidian unbearable. With that kind of time, you might as well play games—” A friend sighed wistfully: “Timi.”

“A while back, I slept with a minor celebrity,” chimed in a young director, launching into vivid descriptions of a woman’s physical details. His storytelling was graphic: “Her skin was dark, her voice unpleasant—we had to turn off the lights. She thought I liked her, but really, it was because—her acting fee was low.”

Excusing himself to the restroom, Jian stood up and walked out. The music was deafening, and even after walking a kilometer away from Julu Road, his ears were still ringing. He hailed a cab home but, upon reaching his building, decided to make a detour to Miaolin Dessert Shop. His ears buzzed incessantly, his friends’ words swirling in his mind. Eating together, gaming together—wasn’t that exactly what his relationship with Yu Zhimei was?

Stepping into Miaolin improved his mood somewhat. Listening to soothing jazz and watching the soft lights twirling around the umbrella in the courtyard, he thought, A drink here might help me sort out whether my feelings for Yu Zhimei are fleeting. But no sooner had he settled in than Yu Zhimei walked in carrying a cake: “He Jie, you didn’t tell me it was your birthday earlier! I bought the last cake, but I tripped on the way, and only half of it’s edible now. Jian Zhaowen, do you want some?”

This person didn’t even ask why he’d been holed up at home, clearly in a bad mood. He Jie inspected the cake: “It’s such a mess. Making a wish on this would probably not only fail but bring bad luck.” Still, she quickly salvaged it with a knife, cutting a neat slice and snapping a photo: “You should always have some hope for life. Just because the cake’s ruined doesn’t mean your birthday has to be.”

Yu Zhimei rummaged inside for wine: “Contentment brings happiness. I landed four ads this month, but because an intern missed a zero on the invoice, my salary got docked.”

He Jie lit a cigarette, her tone sardonic: “Still working and getting your pay cut—how free you must feel.”

“Ou Jinghe, you have more money than you can spend and don’t need to work. Stop complaining when you’ve got it so good.”

He Jie took a long drag: “I’d trade places with you.” Noticing Jian’s silence, she jabbed her cigarette toward him, the ashtray hissing: “Jian Zhaowen, losing your job isn’t the end of the world. Why are you wallowing like this?”

“I’m not.”

“Yu Zhimei said you’ve been sleeping for three days straight.”

“I’m just tired.”

“A man shouldn’t admit defeat so easily.”

At that moment, Shi Rui peeked in from outside—it was late, but she’d come for a drink. He Jie whispered to Yu Zhimei: “Look at her expression—she’s probably heartbroken again.” Sure enough, after downing a glass of alcohol, Shi Rui burst into tears, wiping her face messily: “We studied together in the library for half a year. Why did he disappear the moment I mentioned wanting a relationship?”

Yu Zhimei was puzzled: “Is this the same guy you were playing tennis with recently?”

“No, this one’s someone I met six months ago.”

“You sure know how to pick your battles,” He Jie quipped, making Shi Rui cry even harder.

Jian watched silently. His friends’ earlier assertions were confirmed yet again—when one party sought commitment, the other disappeared.

“This is a societal illness,” Yu Zhimei poured another round of drinks. “People entrust their sincerity to tangible things—pets, games, alcohol, money—but never to other people. Work is stressful, and there are barely a few minutes of the day that truly belong to you. The other person isn’t worth the effort required to make sacrifices, and even if you force yourselves together, there’s still the struggle of adjustment. Sincerity carries weight, and placing it on someone else requires considering whether they’ll accept it. Since no one wants marriage anyway, why bother with romance at all? It’s easier to skip it altogether.”

“But why does this keep happening to me?”

“Though it may sound harsh, once you’ve gone through this enough times and learned to accept it, you’ll grow tired of taking these things so seriously. But I don’t wish for you to become like that—old foxes vanish into thin air, leaving young people to pick up the pieces with cold indifference. If something like this happens again, just tell the other person to leave from the start.”

Jian Zhaowen had been studying Yu Zhimei’s expression, his face tinged with irritation. He Jie noticed everything and deliberately teased Yu Zhimei: “So, if one day you and Jian Zhaowen aren’t neighbors anymore, does that mean it’s over?”

“Exactly.” Jian quickly adopted a relaxed demeanor: “My feelings tend to fade quickly. But if I genuinely like someone, I’ll confess earnestly and commit to a serious relationship. Even when those feelings inevitably disappear, I’ll be upfront about it and sincerely apologize. Respect is my bottom line with women.” As he spoke, Jian suddenly realized that his so-called gentlemanly behavior and thoughtfulness didn’t include “commitment.” After exchanging several rounds of glances with Yu Zhimei, he conceded defeat. Shi Rui, oblivious to the tension, murmured: “What exactly should one seek in love?”

“I want freedom,” Yu Zhimei declared.

“I want stability,” Shi Rui whispered softly.

“How many types are there to discuss?” He Jie interjected, as if the answer was eternal and unchanging: “I want love itself.”

After He Jie’s statement, everyone burst into laughter. Jian hadn’t found an answer to the riddle that was Yu Zhimei, but he wasn’t in a rush. Instead, he felt a newfound joy—a faint flicker of inspiration beginning to take shape around her.

Shi Rui persisted: “He Jie, you celebrate your birthday outside—don’t you go home?”

“I already celebrated with friends during the day. Those housewives spent tens of thousands of yuan on Japanese cuisine, showering me with gifts—but no cake. They blamed it on too many calories—hypocrites.”

“The life of a rich housewife… is it interesting?”

“Not at all. Every day, I stay home and watch Empresses in the Palace .”

“Isn’t that a TV series from years ago…?”

He Jie sneered: “Surprised? When you reach the level of true wealth, you realize terms like ‘empress’ and ‘concubine’ have never truly disappeared. These women post pictures of luxury bags online while secretly checking their husbands’ phones for mistresses.”

“If they’re cheating, why don’t they divorce?”

“What do you think? In wealthy families, wives tend to be more traditional—especially when they don’t have money themselves. The cost of rebellion is too high. Turning a blind eye is the norm. Wives use family harmony and having both sons and daughters to pressure men into maintaining appearances. For their image, they pretend to be caring husbands and great fathers.”

“So exhausting…” Shi Rui wiped her sweat: “Suddenly, being ordinary doesn’t seem so bad.”

This remark made He Jie laugh: “That’s why finding a good husband is so important. Look at me—I can have it all. Are you jealous?”

“Speaking of which, I’ve always wanted to ask.” Jian pointed at He Jie’s cheek: “Do you often get skin allergies?”

He Jie awkwardly covered her cheek with the back of her hand: “As you age, sensitive skin becomes a thing.”

Yu Zhimei stared at the red mark, saying nothing. She knew exactly what it was—when her ex-boyfriend’s stubble rubbed against her cheek, it would leave red streaks. The severity of it likely came from being held too tightly—or perhaps hugged for too long. To maintain such happiness and harmony after so many years of marriage, balancing daytime birthday parties, evening business dealings, and intimate moments with her husband in between—it was indeed enviable. Jian continued teasing He Jie: “You spend every day at the dessert shop, which sounds leisurely. But you’re practically working late nights.”

“This is my downtime. Real work starts when I get home.” Her phone rang, displaying “Beloved Husband.” He Jie shook her phone: “Work calls.” Smiling, she walked into the inner room and closed the door behind her. Her expression immediately darkened. The voice on the other end was calm: “I’m home. No one’s here. Where are you?”

“At the dessert shop.”

“It’s late. Are there still many customers?”

“Yeah, a few regulars.”

“No men, right?”

“You’re overthinking. It’s mostly elderly people here.” Through the crack in the door, Jian and Yu Zhimei clinked glasses.

“I’m relieved. Let me remind you again—once you’re married, you need to tone it down. Just casually run the dessert shop; don’t invest too much time in it. You’re already my wife. Doing this kind of thing outside is embarrassing.”

“Is it because the dessert shop doesn’t match your status?”

The call ended. He Jie stared at the screen, showing less than a minute of talk time. She stepped outside, gazing at the crescent moon perched atop the SOHO building. She refused to let an unpleasant call or hotel stays two kilometers away ruin her night. A few flirtatious messages lingered on her phone. She glanced at them briefly, then turned off the screen and walked out. One of WeChat’s features she appreciated most was that read receipts weren’t sent when viewing messages.

Outside, Jian appeared refreshed, his cheeks flushed as he called out to He Jie: “Your relationship with your husband must be great—you talk every day.”

“Of course. Are you envious? We’ve been married for eight years.”

Jian answered evasively: “You got married so young. Aren’t you afraid of meeting someone you like more later?”

“Marriage is a moral constraint. But—” thinking of her husband’s cunning eyes and smile: “Any romantic fairy tale that happens between a married couple is actually a horror story.”