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Psst! We're moving!
Seeing this Weibo post, Yan Man’s heartbeat skipped a beat, then began racing faster and faster.
It felt like speeding through a mountain tunnel—her hearing momentarily dulled, leaving only the amplified sound of her breathing and heartbeat echoing in her ears.
Her fingers trembled slightly, her mind nearly blank. She instinctively clicked into the comment section.
The post was too recent for top comments to have formed yet—all were streams of “AHHHHH,” stretching almost to the character limit. She had never seen so many fan IDs, almost all containing some variation of “Yan Ye.”
If Weibo had a specific trigger button, she half-expected fireworks to explode on the screen right then.
[Am I hallucinating?! Am I hallucinating?! Public confirmation within my lifetime AHHHHH!]
[Love this official announcement.]
[So that couple caught on the rooftop—it was you guys, right? It was you guys, right? Damn, what a playful couple.]
[Ye Lin!!! Yan Ye shippers owe you big time 5555.]
[Did they not post last night because they were busy with… uh, activities ? Thanks, truly feeding us so much wholesome content...]
[So romantic I’m dead! This man specifically timed it for 7:25—exactly Yan Man’s birthday!!!]
[Holy crap, no wonder they didn’t post last night—it was past midnight by then...]
[Ye Lin: seemingly shy, but actually totally owning it.]
It wasn’t until reading the comments that Yan Man noticed. Going back to check, she realized his post was indeed perfectly timed at 7:25.
No wonder he hadn’t mentioned anything to her—he’d been planning this all along.
A few minutes later, the top likes in the comments were almost identical sentences.
[“Not cold anymore, full from eating Ye Lin’s dog food.”]
[“Got more? Want more couples’ feed.”]
[“Got pics? Show us some Yan Ye moments.”]
[“Your husband, come claim Yan Man.”]
[“When are you two doing endorsements together?”]
Yan Man couldn’t stop laughing. After taking a screenshot, Simon asked her, “Aren’t you going to respond?”
She made a sound of acknowledgment, realizing she probably should.
But the netizens had already said everything there was to say. After some thought, Yan Man decided to start with a simple retweet and would post a new tweet later.
Yan Man: “Wait, let me handle this first. I still want to check out that marketing account.”
With that in mind, Yan Man focused on recalling the name of the marketing account and absentmindedly tapped the retweet button, sending it without thinking.
Four words appeared above the screen: “Retweeting Weibo.”
Simon beside her: ???
Ye Lin, who received the notification on his phone: ???
Before she could see Simon’s expression, Yan Man finally remembered the name of the marketing account and searched for their profile.
As expected, the comment section under their post quickly turned chaotic.
[Dumb marketing account thinks Ye Lin didn’t post because Yan Man was trying to stir trouble. In reality, the reason he didn’t post was that Ye Lin wanted to time it perfectly for his wife’s birthday.]
[Did you see Yan Man’s response? The four words “Retweeting Weibo” made me laugh so hard. Who’s this pathetic marketing account accusing her of stirring trouble?]
[Ye Lin: From paying for her to being paid by her.]
[Yan Man is so cool, I love it. You can tell she’s someone who’s been deeply loved—that kind of confidence doesn’t come from nowhere.]
[KSL] [Blogger, please don’t delete this. I’ll laugh till Chinese New Year thanks to this (sorry).]
The sub-comments quickly filled with jokes. Yan Man was engrossed in scrolling through them, almost forgetting about her own retweet when suddenly, a banner slid down her screen—it was Ye Lin messaging her.
Ye Lin: [“That’s it?”]
Confused, she clicked into the chat and asked, [“What do you mean ‘that’s it’?”]
He shared her Weibo post. Only then did Yan Man realize her retweet wasn’t empty—it had automatically filled in the default four-word template.
[“Let me fix it,”] she said. [“What kind of response do you want?”]
Ye Lin: [“Something longer.”]
After a few minutes of contemplation, an idea struck her as she got into the car.
Soon, the original Weibo post was edited with new content.
Yan Man: [“Not cold anymore, boyfriend Ye Lin. Not cold anymore, boyfriend Ye Lin. Not cold anymore, boyfriend Ye Lin. Not cold anymore, boyfriend Ye Lin. Not cold anymore, boyfriend Ye Lin.”]
Then she commented: [“Teacher Ye, is this long enough?”]
Sure enough, nothing amused fans more than the main characters playing along. The comment section soon erupted in laughter.
[Hahahahaha loving the homework vibes...]
[@I almost didn’t recognize the word ‘Lin’ in your tags.]
[What’s long enough? Longer than Ye Lin? (Sorry, what am I saying?)]
[Already imagining it, guys. Ye Lin says if I bump into him X times, he’ll @ me that many times. But Yan Man exceeded the tag limit.]
[I think you’re joking, but I hope you’re not (?).]
[Where to bump? How to bump? Explain in detail—I didn’t understand [ear emoji].]
[Why talk about it on Weibo? Can’t you discuss it under the covers?]
When Yan Man saw this particular comment, it only had ten likes. By the time she got home, it had climbed to the top.
Ye Lin was sitting on the couch. Seeing her return, he stood up and said, “I went to the theater to pick you up, but they said you’d already left.”
“We left through the back door, so we probably missed each other,” Yan Man raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Never thought our Teacher Ye could be so romantic.”
“Who?”
“Huh?”
“Who’s being romantic?”
Yan Man stood there thinking for a long while before hazarding a guess:
“—My boyfriend?”
Lucky guess. Her reward was the slight upward curve of his lips.
“Mm.”
She snorted, wanting to call him boring, but when she turned her head, she couldn’t help but smile faintly.
Half an hour later, Yan Man posted a photo on Weibo.
In the picture, she faced the camera, her nose slightly scrunched up as if about to make a funny face, her hand resting near her brow. Ye Lin wasn’t looking at the camera; instead, he gazed down at her with a rare smile, his arm wrapped around her waist.
There was no forced posing, yet the intimacy and sweetness were palpable.
Giving the fans exactly what they wanted, CP stans were thoroughly satisfied that night:
[Please hurry up and release Floating Life in Old Years . I want to ship Yan Ye in theaters.]
Floating Life in Old Years was in the works, and Yan Man had successfully completed her first stage play. Though it was a small role, she learned a great deal about acting.
Theater acting allows performers to gain a deeper understanding of their real-time performance levels, average capabilities, and the issues that arise during their craft.
Soon enough, the audition for the female lead in Shocking Shadow arrived as scheduled.
She was very familiar with this title because her mother’s drawer still held a few tickets from past performances of Shocking Shadow . Every time the play was staged, her mother would attend.
—This was the play her mother hadn’t been able to perform in back then.
Yan Man valued this opportunity immensely, pouring her heart and soul into preparation. Even two days before the audition, she opened the photo album her mother had left behind.
This album was meant for her. Later, she brought it back to the hotel and eventually took it to her current home.
Though the album cover wasn’t dusty, Yan Man couldn’t help but run her fingers over it for a long while. Inside were images of her mother during her time in the theater troupe, including rehearsals for Shocking Shadow .
Unfortunately, her mother had discovered she was pregnant later on, and her acting career had to be put on hold, replaced by another equally talented actress.
After that, she never returned to the stage.
Yan Man knew how much her mother loved this script.
On the last few pages of the album were photos from the Shocking Shadow rehearsals.
Not all plays have recordings available online. After scouring every video platform and watching all the recorded performances of Shocking Shadow , Yan Man still believed her mother looked most beautiful under the spotlight, leaping and spinning in those rehearsal photos.
Her mother wore a black gauze dress, resembling a solitary black swan. Under the spotlight, this became Yan Man’s complete understanding of the words “shocking shadow.”
It was a story about a young girl chasing her dream of becoming the best dancer, captivating audiences with her breathtaking performance.
As Yan Man flipped through the pages, she thought she might cry. But leaning back into Ye Lin’s embrace, feeling him hold her hand, though her eyes stung with emotion, her heart gradually calmed.
It seemed she no longer felt unable to face this part of her past.
It seemed she no longer spiraled out of control at the mere mention of it, unsure of how to handle it.
She could look back now, still feel nostalgic, but also find healing and acceptance.
Perhaps it was because he had truly given her a sense of security she’d never experienced before. That feeling was something only a lover could provide. When he had said he would protect her in place of her mother, she initially thought it was just a romantic line. But as they walked this path together, not once had he failed to live up to those words.
Love gives people courage.
Some scars fall away unnoticed, beginning to heal—like Ye Lin’s, and like hers.
The audition went smoothly; she had prepared the most thoroughly, and her understanding of the play ran the deepest.
Even the points the director casually mentioned, she remembered them all.
On the day she received the news that she had successfully secured the role of the female lead, the city, which had been gloomy for days, cleared up dramatically. The sun shone brightly, and the streets buzzed with life, the sunlight dazzling.
She looked out the window, lost in thought.
Winter will eventually pass, and spring is coming.
The rehearsals for Shocking Shadow and other activities entered an orderly preparation phase. As Yan Man grew more familiar with the theater and her lines, Simon urged her to finally release the fan perk for hitting 50 million followers.
She procrastinated a little, and before she could post anything for 50 million, her follower count had already approached 60 million.
Finally, one weekend, Simon couldn’t wait any longer and threatened her: [If you don’t post soon, I’ll die right in front of you!]
For the sake of her manager’s safety, Yan Man carefully purchased supplies—buying a bunch of sparklers.
On the way back, she also came up with an idea for presenting the fan perk.
She adjusted her camera settings and chose a night to have Ye Lin help her film on the rooftop.
Using the trails left by the sparklers, she could briefly write words in the air.
She wrote, “Happy 50 million, thank you every little cookie,” and drew a simple cranberry cookie. She posted the pictures and videos, promising everyone to host a live stream to satisfy the fans’ demand to see her after such a long time.
While filming, she noticed her cat, Glutinous Rice, kneading in its bed. Yan Man picked up the camera to record a short video, uploading it to her computer for backup.
At 9 PM, the scheduled live stream began.
She thoughtfully told Ye Lin, “I’ll stream in the study so I don’t disturb you.”
“No need,” he said. “You can stay here; I’ll move.”
After a pause, he asked, “Can I watch?”
“Of course,” Yan Man replied. “But why do you want to watch? It’s just some chatting.”
“Watching you chat is fine too,” he said. “In case anything happens, I can help handle it immediately.”
Yan Man didn’t know what kind of situation he was referring to, but she thought that if anything unexpected happened, he could quickly figure out a solution.
Soon, the live stream began.
Since this was her 50 million follower milestone event, even though there were many CP fans, most remained rational, and the majority of topics revolved around her. Yan Man answered questions from the live chat one by one, occasionally throwing in a few jokes.
As they chatted, the topic turned to her cat.
“Glutinous Rice was kneading earlier today,” she asked. “Do you guys want to see it?”
A flood of “Yes!” appeared in the chat. Yan Man thought filming directly from the camera wouldn’t be clear enough, so she decided to play a clip from her computer.
First, she adjusted the phone stand, flipping the camera to face the computer screen. Then she clicked the mouse to activate the screen and began searching for the video.
Opening “My Videos,” she struggled to find it because the thumbnails were unclear, and the filenames were all alphanumeric strings. She scrolled with her mouse but couldn’t locate it after a while.
“Sorry, there are too many videos on the camera. I imported them all at once.”
As she spoke, she glanced at the live chat to see if anyone had spotted which video it was.
The barrage of comments flew faster and faster, eventually unifying into one message: [Top left corner?!?!]
“Top left corner? Which top left corner?”
Yan Man scrolled back, her mind still processing, when her mouse accidentally double-clicked.
Suddenly, a massive bad-ending (BE) video popped up.
The preview read eight large characters: “Yan Man x Ye Lin, Truth Is Fake.”
Before she could react, the barrage seemed to etch something into her DNA.
[This BE video’s earliest upload date was 3:14 AM on the 29th. But Yan Man’s… why does it show as created on the evening of the 28th?]
“...”
Footsteps sounded from the doorway. Ye Lin stood at her bedroom door, pointing at the slowly playing BE scene on the screen. With a furrowed brow, he silently formed a question mark.
Her grip on the mouse slipped, and an exclamation point flashed in her mind.
—It was over.
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