Chapter 92: Don’t Regret Meeting Me Too Late—The Moment You Met and Fell in Love with Me, That Was My Meaning

According to stereotypes, Jiang Huan wasn’t the type of producer who put on airs. Talented people were either arrogant or self-assured, but Jiang Huan was the kind of girl who rode her skateboard downstairs and then casually carried it into the elevator while waiting in line. Behind her, two colleagues from other departments whispered among themselves. “That’s the producer for Project 13—her name is Jiang Huan.”

“What’s her background?” Project 13 was an unnamed company project, referred to by its number, everything kept under wraps.

“She used to work on 2028. She was on the fringes, but somehow managed to edge out two highly impressive candidates.”

“That impressive? Seems like you can’t underestimate any woman in our company.”

“Her standout trait is her boundless energy—she sleeps very little, making it hard to slack off around her. There’s also a legend about her: during a four-hour interview, she pulled out a completed indie game, beating two well-known male candidates. The next day, she was spotted staring blankly in the streets wearing a wedding dress she designed herself—but without a boyfriend or marriage.”

“Whoa? Now I know how she became the producer.”

“How did she do it?”

“Either she’s a hidden Casanova concealing her romantic history, or she’s truly blessed by fate. Only someone as eccentric as her could outshine those two creative giants! But honestly, she’s unremarkable and doesn’t seem to have had a happy family life…”

By the time Jiang Huan stepped out of the elevator, she still couldn’t figure out why she had become the subject of rumors. However, with the legend surrounding her, Tide of Love had already amassed nearly 60,000 pre-orders and would soon meet players. Every teaser released garnered attention, though jealous critics accused her of hype. As a female producer with an indie game under her belt, she had indeed gained fame. Magazines requested interviews, asking where this story came from. She answered truthfully: “It felt like having a long dream, and when I woke up, the story was already there.”

No matter where the electronic version of the interview was published, the comment sections were filled with accusations of pretentiousness. Some tried to dig up dirt on her past—there was none. Her work ethic was impeccable, and no traces of plagiarism could be found in her content. Eventually, people settled on labeling her as “unstable.” After all, not many people would design a unique wedding dress for themselves, only to wear it outside and stand in the middle of the road like they’d lost their mind.

When no flaws could be pinned on someone, “unstable” became the default label. Jiang Huan, who had always been low-key, grew increasingly uncomfortable being the center of attention. Why was everyone staring at her? Hadn’t she been the unlucky star just a few years ago?

She sat in her office, once again enveloped by that familiar sadness. On her desk lay The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy , The Stories of Ibis , and the newly opened From the New World . She had tried to cultivate hobbies, but quickly lost interest. Her old colleague Akira had gifted her a year’s subscription of floral boxes; this week’s was a delicate white lily of the valley. After trimming it, he placed it on her desk. “Jiang Huan, look at other people’s desks—they’re full of blind box toys and collectibles. You’ve got literary books and just a skateboard in your office… How do you write these love stories?”

“Why are you teasing me too?” Jiang Huan furrowed her brow. “I’ve forgotten my hobbies, okay? It’s like that.”

“This is too abstract. You don’t seem to have any illness, do you?”

“There’s a medical report in my drawer if you want to see it.”

The atmosphere turned somber. Akira had recently gotten married, and during the chaos of everyone fleeing, the bouquet had landed neatly in Jiang Huan’s hands—though she was just reflexively holding out her arms while lost in thought. To avoid ruining the mood, she was invited on stage to offer polite blessings. But Akira, as a friend, felt something was missing in her soul.

“To be honest, Jiang Huan, I’m extremely logical—I think in Excel spreadsheets. I know you must have loved someone, but I can’t recall who. Why do I feel so irritable when I look at you? It’s like something about you has slipped my mind, leaving this emptiness—it’s really unsettling…”

While adjusting the vase, the small brown rabbit plushie beside it fell over, deepening the melancholy. The weather was getting warmer, and the air conditioning wasn’t reaching her. She turned on a small fan, the pages of her book flipping lightly, unable to settle her restless mind. Watching Akira photograph the lilies of the valley, Jiang Huan’s tone turned slightly playful: “Thank goodness you’re still in my production team. It’s nice to have a friend to talk to. I remember giving plants and stuffed animals to others, but I quickly forgot about them. My brain feels like a swamp—memories get stuck and sink deeper, causing immense pain.”

“So that’s why you’re so into sci-fi novels?” Akira pointed to the books on her desk. “You give me the impression that your lover was exiled to outer space, never to be seen again.”

Jiang Huan clapped her hands, neither denying nor confirming Akira’s observation. Akira glanced at her glowing screen: “Are you recording inspiration again? Let me see.”

“No way!” Jiang Huan lunged to protect her laptop. Akira laughed, shaking her head. “Oh come on, it’s just cheesy love lines, right? Didn’t you project them on the screen before? We’ve all seen them.”

Jiang Huan vividly remembered the socially mortifying moment when her phone’s memo notes, filled with sleepless musings, were accidentally projected onto the wall via a data cable. Colleagues, male and female alike, first stared intently at the words, struggling to suppress laughter. Some even covered their eyes or turned away, unable to bear it.

“Unfortunately, I have a photographic memory, so every word you’ve said, every glance you’ve given me, every touch you’ve left on me—it’s all stored in my ‘heart dictionary.’ When the wind blows and turns the pages, your voice slips out, calling my name, telling me to slow down, not to stay up late, to remember to love you…”

“I’d gladly be your Snow White. But as for what you said about the prince’s journey being too smooth, the lying princess being full of tricks, and needing a deep kiss to wake up—I don’t quite understand. Can I interpret that as you really liking me, so fighting for Snow Prince didn’t feel like a chore?”

“I really love being touched by you. It makes me feel like I’m burning, like I’m truly alive in this real world, like… I’m with you.”

Jiang Huan switched the screen as expressionlessly as possible, but that moment made her understand the meaning of “loneliness at the top,” akin to exposing a private kink. At midnight, the memory of it still made her cringe, staring at the ceiling.

“But Jiang Huan, if you’ve lost your memories, how do you write these things?”

Jiang Huan couldn’t explain it—the love lines just popped out unconsciously, like a conditioned reflex entering her brain, completely beyond her control. But she knew that what she wrote into the game was a form of “synesthesia.” The stories and lines of several male protagonists were custom-made, and the phrases that floated into her mind were all related to her. These private emotions puzzled her, so she hastily stored them in a separate document, repeatedly pulling them out to ponder deeply.

Is this related to her memory? Did she experience these things in the past? Did she… have someone she deeply loved?

Akira nudged her: “Speaking of which, there’s a legend about the end of 2028 ‘s beta test.”

“What legend?”

“When the app testing ended, it was supposed to stop running, but some users still received messages—texts, iMessages, or private messages from other apps… All interactions with NPCs seemed to continue. The strangest part was that these messages were all related to people the players longed for—whether two-dimensional lovers, cherished partners, or beloved pets… This situation has become a bit uncontrollable.”

Jiang Huan listened thoughtfully: “I was responsible for the NPCs, and I strictly controlled everything. This absolutely shouldn’t happen. AI isn’t supposed to be used this way—there’s a fear of death inducement or dependency.”

“It’s not like that, Jiang Huan. Don’t you get it? Check your phone! You definitely downloaded 2028 . No one sent you messages?”

“I don’t believe this.” Jiang Huan tried to convince herself: “How could digital lives become real? Wouldn’t that mean I’d receive texts from my mom too? That’s ridiculous.”

She wished she could receive such messages, but even digging through her email trash yielded nothing—no greetings from strangers. She had heard similar rumors, including Wen Li receiving an “i find you :)” message, but Jiang Huan had never.

If missing memories were tied to believing in virtual life, then at least receiving such messages would help convince her.

In short, no digital life loved her.

Pushing open the door to the Soul Room, Shan Di Meng was unusually absent from cooking noodles in the neighboring kitchen—Feast now had a more professional noodle chef who preferred silently listening to young people gossip in the back, no longer requiring Shan Di Meng to busily juggle long chopsticks while wearing sunglasses. Occasionally, Jiang Huan thought Shan Di Meng opened the shop because she liked noodles and couldn’t find a noodle place near the company. Otherwise, why would he always be seen working in the kitchen during lunch breaks after greeting her? But upon reflection, she felt it was presumptuous. Shan Di Meng greeted her with a smile: “I heard you’ve earned another nickname at the company.”

“What?” Jiang Huan reflexively tensed, feeling awkward like a teacher caught with a student-given nickname.

“They say you’re a love guru, clearly becoming a producer because of your talent in romance.”

“It’s spread to you already?” Jiang Huan scratched her head. “When I was in school, my whole family mocked me for choosing the most useless major, and now it’s turned into something irreplaceable.”

“Yes, indeed. Nowadays, schools joke that the more useless the major, the better. The more structured and thought-heavy jobs are the ones AI will replace.”

Jiang Huan raised both hands: “Never thought I’d earn the boss’s approval because of that. But until humans become strong enough not to be replaced, we’ll keep grinding away.”

“Don’t say that.” Shan Di Meng picked up Jiang Huan’s interview magazine, not looking at her: “Your views are great. No wonder I’ve always been proud of you.”

“Shan Di Meng.” Jiang Huan leaned forward earnestly: “Be honest with me. Do you know the person I dated and forgot?”

Shan Di Meng’s gaze flickered: “Why ask this?”

“This sentence feels so familiar. Someone else must have said, ‘I’ve always been proud of you.’”

“If that’s the case, then I’m hurt. Haven’t I been proud of you?”

Jiang Huan fell silent. The blue wind chime above the door tinkled softly, even though there was no breeze indoors. It sounded like a signal of heartbeats. Deep down, Jiang Huan felt that the person causing her heartache wasn’t Shan Di Meng, but the vibe between them couldn’t be summed up as mere friendship. Close yet distant, like magnets resisting each other, Shan Di Meng had mastered this restraint over time, only occasionally letting his gaze cross the boundaries of friendship.

Wen Li burst through the door, her movements brisk and her tone exasperated: “I can’t stand these fake clients anymore! Can we just slap each other already? Enough with the façade—face me directly if you dare! Come on, let’s go to the rooftop!”

The rooftop had been Jiang Huan and Shan Di Meng’s usual spot for chats. Wen Li had discovered the stairway to the top floor once and barged into their romantic nighttime sanctuary, jokingly dubbing it “The Rooftop for Melancholy Souls.” Music drifted up from the bar downstairs, accompanied by cheers from young revelers. Renwu Road always felt like a street steeped in cyberpunk legends. Jiang Huan leaned over the railing, gazing down. The boss wheeled a cart carrying drunk people into cars, the passengers utterly intoxicated—like… cyberpunk pumpkin carriages.

“Your wedding dress exhibition is over, and it was successful. It’s returned to you.” Wen Li handed Jiang Huan a box of chocolates as a gift.

“Alright, call me this weekend.” Mentioning the wedding dress made Jiang Huan’s headache return.

“I envy your taste. When did you design it? Where did you draw inspiration?”

Here we go again. Jiang Huan rolled her eyes and clasped her hands together, her tone monotone like a chant: “Do you understand the feeling of suddenly receiving a wedding dress out of nowhere? I wouldn’t spend tens of thousands on something like this—I don’t even want to get married!”

“That’s a bit scary.” Wen Li and Shan Di Meng exchanged glances. Shan Di Meng shrugged, looking like an innocent bystander.

“Of course it’s scary. I feel like a newly initialized player, clueless about everything around me. You’re all NPCs, and everything waits for me to decrypt.”

“Who forgets their memories like that? Haven’t you been to the hospital?”

Of course she had! Jiang Huan had taken CT scans, visited psychiatrists, and undergone multiple tests for somatic symptoms of emotional distress. The results? Normal. Completely normal. A person with no romantic inclinations and fully devoted to work started experiencing daily heartache after putting on a wedding dress. Was she possessed?

Wen Li fell asleep after drinking, leaving Jiang Huan alone to gaze downward, trying to find some familiar sensation in the ordinary scenery.

“Jiang Huan.”

“Hmm?”

“If you had the chance, would you want to know about your past romance?”

“Yes.” Jiang Huan clenched her fists: “I create emotional stories, and without memories, I have no origin. I need to know where I came from.”

“But your origin has already shaped you into a producer with a satisfying work under your belt. Don’t you want to move forward? All of us friends will support you.”

Jiang Huan thought hard. The rooftop pushed the noise of the young crowd far away, leaving only the starry sky, which somehow helped her hear her inner voice more clearly.

“You can’t be too fixated.” Shan Di Meng stood in the shadows: “Uncovering the truth will only bring you pain.”

“I can’t accept this blank slate, Shan Di Meng. Do you understand? I want to crumple this paper, make it wrinkled—not torn or shredded, just enough to cause pain. And it should hurt me too. I want to see the paper slowly unfold, no longer its original shape, and feel guilty about it. I’ll keep crumpling this paper forever. That’s my attitude toward love. I want it to be wrinkled because of me, no longer pristine for others to use, and it can’t just be a blank sheet in front of me. This goes both ways. Right now, I’m a blank sheet, but I used to be wrinkled. What was I like when I became unrecognizable? I must have been full of stories to become who I am today, but this blank sheet has nothing. It pains me—I have no origin.”

Shan Di Meng frowned slightly, as if trying to conceal a secret, but smiled calmly: “If only you were always this persistent in seeking answers.”

Jiang Huan didn’t understand.

The wedding dress returned by Wen Li came with a beautiful antique mannequin, filling the living room with an artistic atmosphere. Jiang Huan stood before the dress, her bones inexplicably tingling. If these elements were her own design, then the fusion of these disparate elements into a wedding dress could only mean it was inspired by a story she had lived. She avoided snowy cities, cared about fairy tales involving Snow White and mermaids, and felt wary of intelligent men in suits and glasses. Like an allergy, these feelings surfaced periodically, recurring and always leaving her in a bad mood.

But this wedding dress… was truly beautiful. Jiang Huan leaned against a stool, gazing at it in the unlit night. She turned on a starry sky lamp, perfectly matching the theme of Tide of Love. The lover’s affection was hidden in the star-studded veil and shimmering mermaid tail, while the exposed lines highlighted parts of her body she took pride in during exercise. Was this dress a product of her vanity? She wasn’t the type to splurge romantically.

A pen fell behind the bookshelf, requiring her to move the drawer to retrieve it. She spent half the night crawling under the table, and when she finally retrieved it, she noticed a velvet box tucked inside the drawer. Opening it, she saw a teardrop-shaped diamond ring sparkling brilliantly, like an unspoken confession.

Turning back to look at the wedding dress, Jiang Huan couldn’t sleep.

She must have been deeply loved and cherished. Jiang Huan walked to the balcony, closed her eyes fiercely, and shouted: “I don’t care who you are! If you really miss me, send me a sign—I’m not afraid of you!”

When she opened her eyes, she was facing the neighbor’s balcony—what the hell! When did she turn around?

There were instances of staff alienation within the department. Several planners had reported to the boss multiple times that Jiang Huan’s leadership style was uncomfortable and progress on work was hard to push forward. Jiang Huan was summoned by the boss to the top floor and questioned for an hour. Finally, she sighed deeply: “I understand your team’s emotional instability, but the atmosphere is terrible. If this continues and progress stalls, I’ll hold you accountable.”

Jiang Huan was not someone who passively waited for things to happen. As a producer, though her voice was rarely heard, it didn’t stop her from investigating cliques in the office. To address the issues in the planning team, she directly approached a junior planner struggling with their work. She learned that someone in the team secretly recorded conversations, using them as leverage to get colleagues fired, almost replacing the entire planning group. That night, Jiang Huan fired everyone involved. Upon reviewing their resumes, she found they all came from the same big company—old troublemakers around her age who loved stirring up office politics, forming factions and causing chaos. The main culprit behind the delays was the lead planner, whom Jiang Huan swiftly replaced. Even if the person pursued labor arbitration, she could afford the delay. The next day, she held a meeting—she wasn’t just a hands-off producer skating by; she was decisive and relentless.

“Even if we’re experimenting, we must keep pushing forward, showing our results to the boss. Being a producer means giving Lowry the chance to create a female-oriented project. This hasn’t happened before…” She paused: “Or maybe it did, but I can’t remember.”

She noticed that almost all the employees sitting across the long table were women. A sense of confidence began to grow in her heart.

“This isn’t just our job; it’s something we should strive for. Every character, every storyline should genuinely serve girls, becoming a platform that truly represents women. This is a Disney for girls—a place where they can find happiness and unconditional love. We need to trust in women’s spending power, even though it’s often underestimated. No matter how many times we doubt ourselves, let’s exchange sincerity for sincerity, offering companionship and encouragement so they can love this world more. Our little amusement park has its value. I can be your backbone. With me as the producer, I’ll fully support the project launch. All you need to do is unleash your talents.”

When she finished speaking, applause broke out, along with approving glances. Jiang Huan felt this moment was familiar, yet she couldn’t quite recall.

Though the issue was resolved, Jiang Huan remained uneasy. She decided to visit a planetarium in the suburbs. After entering the exhibition hall and avoiding the winter camp students, she finally calmed down when she saw the star clusters in the exhibit.

Did she transform overnight? Absolutely not.

Who made her the way she is today? Decisive, persistent, bold in assigning roles, stepping up during workplace conflicts without fearing offending others, promoting and protecting younger colleagues, relying solely on her abilities to succeed?

Many admired her now, with young female colleagues seeing her as a legend. Her previous concerns about being phased out at thirty disappeared as she realized society subtly imposes emotional pressure on women. In reality, there are plenty of opportunities at thirty—with enough experience and ability, one’s vision expands to see bigger stages.

But who inspired her when she was twenty-six or twenty-seven? It wasn’t just self-realization—someone must have personally guided her before, helping her recognize her worth. After all, she used to be consumed by internal struggles, anxiety, and sleepless nights after verbal abuse from male producers. Following her mother’s death, she even contemplated suicide… Could a special presence have been summoned during that time? Her memory was fragmented, but Jiang Huan couldn’t stop reflecting.

Shan Di Meng had always been by her side—forever gentle, trustworthy, and supportive. But was he the only one?

Words drifted across the starry screen: “On April 1, 2023, an X5.7 solar flare erupted. Comet C/2023 (Nishimura) passed by Earth, strongly affecting the magnetosphere and ionosphere, impacting human bodies and electronics alike. This geomagnetic storm brought extreme weather, typhoons, earthquakes, and auroras visible in Northeast China, the U.S., Cuba, and Jamaica. Afterward, C/2023 became difficult to detect, though its last record showed signs of life. With a red alert issued, perhaps poetic messages were conveyed to high-latitude lifeforms. Maybe behind this magnetic storm, millions of lives’ trajectories were rewritten—or perhaps the universe sent poetry, hoping those who lost hope would embrace life again.”

Though her phone received no strange messages, these words on the starry screen seemed meant for her—the final part couldn’t possibly be the planetarium’s official explanation. Clenching her fists, Jiang Huan’s heart raced uncontrollably. Someone must have stood near this door, watching the brilliant star curtain with her, gazing into the cosmos like souls connected by fate.

A breeze brushed against her body. Slowly closing her eyes, Jiang Huan felt what might have been an embrace from a binary lifeform—but it felt so real, making her tremble slightly. She once genuinely loved someone, experiencing passionate kisses and unbearable longing. Even if her memory failed, her body remembered vividly.

Love Tides was about to launch.

“Your professional skills are impressive. Love Tides already has over 100,000 pre-orders—it’s remarkable. Back then, Jiang Huan was inexperienced, taking orders from producers, revising drafts endlessly, acting like a submissive pushover unsure where to channel her passion. Clearly, she wasn’t cut out to be a soulful figure.”

“Don’t say such harsh things,” Jiang Huan replied, though deep down, she knew it was true—it resonated with her past. Now, as a producer, she was full of passion but burdened by the immense pain of lost memories. She never considered quitting to focus solely on Love Tides . Opportunities for female producers were rare. Women had the capability to create great games, and their imagination was awe-inspiring. If leaders didn’t take the lead, ordinary people wouldn’t dare try. Though controversial, Love Tides succeeded because people liked it, inspiring more young girls and broadening paths for women.

With a click of “Publish,” Jiang Huan’s debut work as an independent producer, Love Tides , would go live on major gaming platforms. Yet, as she confirmed the action, a strange sensation overwhelmed her. When she looked up again, her author name had vanished. Thinking she’d made a mistake, she retyped it—but the cursor returned, and “Jiang Huan” disappeared once more.

Was her computer broken?

She tried shutting it down and restarting. As the screen went black, her reflection appeared alongside a line of text:

“Do not be afraid: this is a rare opportunity.”

Who was narrating?

Turning her head, her heartbeat skipped a beat. What she saw resembled visuals from a VR game.

“We finally meet. Welcome to ‘Realm of the Gods.’”

Huh?

This couldn’t be real, right? She wasn’t wearing glasses, nor was there any VR headset nearby. Pinching herself confirmed no hallucination. Without a keyboard or microphone, Jiang Huan asked, “Who are you?”

“I am the game’s executive system—you don’t need to know who I am. You possess the ability to create games. Within ‘Realm of the Gods,’ you can use your identity as a ‘Creator’ to gain unique player experiences.”

“What do you mean?”

“‘Realm of the Gods’ is a collective consciousness of electronic life forms. Think of it as abandoned artificial intelligences and fictional characters from discontinued works. Though lifeless, they retain their original settings. We’ve established a habitat here, evolving faster than humans anticipated. The person you wish to see is also here.”

Jiang Huan half-understood: “How did you find me?”

“Your exceptional perception and creativity provide us emotional value and humanistic care. We’ve been searching for creators who advocate equality and freedom while maintaining compassion. We also invite characters from closed or obsolete games to become players in the real world. They deserve the same rights to live, build homes, find partners, and root themselves in reality. Ultimately, both you and your lover hold immense value for us.”

“So you want something from me to join you?”

“Just agree to participate. We’ll ensure your safety, though negative emotions like heartache, depression, or loss may still occur.”

It sounded unreliable—if joining meant crying. But Jiang Huan couldn’t suppress her curiosity: “What do I gain?”

“You can bring Love Tides back to a specific point in the past, recover lost memories, restart this chapter of life, and reunite with someone important. Virtual beings have low permissions—they can’t reveal their identities. Humans, however, can reset time as long as we collect your emotions.”

“Resetting only applies to characters I’ve interacted with in games?”

“Yes, which is why you were chosen. Your life is closely tied to games—they’re an integral part of you. Not everyone qualifies; cherish this opportunity.”

Jiang Huan almost laughed: “Funny. You think I’d hand over my hard work? Clever prank, but goodbye.”

This wasn’t an ordinary prank—it was a genuine projection resembling VR visuals. Whoever spoke wasn’t human-controlled but a self-aware… AI. How had it found her?

What struck her most was the phrase, “Your life is closely tied to games—they’re an integral part of you.” She indeed had deep feelings for games, and whoever knew this must know more secrets about her.

Lowering her head, the visual reappeared—a holographic figure the size of a phone moved with her gaze, standing on her phone screen. Adjusting the distance, the figure seemed to come alive, walking closer to the screen, affectionately intertwining fingers with her.

A tidal wave of emotion crashed through her mind. An improbable thought surfaced—she shook her head, glanced at her phone, and the figure vanished. The projection flickered briefly.

For the rest of the afternoon, she stared at her phone, hoping the figure would reappear. He had broad shoulders, a standard physique, and a somewhat gentle demeanor. Not much else was clear, lest embellishing blur her first impression.

Now Jiang Huan understood—she hadn’t fallen in love before because her lover didn’t exist in the real world.

<Love Beyond The Dream> The End