#107: The Disappearance of Feelings is a Malfunction—This is Only Human

He hadn’t thought about what that dream might have been predicting, nor had he had time to reflect on whether the words he spoke that night were wrong or if his trip to Beijing had angered Yu Zhimei. As for whether the phrase “feelings disappearing” was true, he had asked himself repeatedly but never found an answer. In the middle of a late-night work session, it suddenly occurred to him that Pang Cong once said that the so-called disappearance of feelings was simply the malfunctioning of the heartbeat mechanism. This was only human nature—it just happened more frequently in his case.

After introducing short videos into the Daytime Zone, operational costs increased, and two product managers and an engineer subsequently resigned. When they handed in their resignations, Jian Zhaowen wasn’t surprised. They had always been more aligned with Lei Zheng’s philosophy. After Lei Zheng left, Jian Zhaowen was left to lead the team alone. Some people didn’t like him, others didn’t like Kou Xiao, and still others no longer enjoyed the overtime culture at Day & Night, willing to give up their stock options. In these situations, Jian Zhaowen would calmly let them go while still requiring them to sign a three-month non-compete agreement. For Jian Zhaowen, three months was enough. Day & Night iterated quickly, and by the time competitors could catch up, they’d already moved on to newer versions. In truth, this was common in the internet industry—those who didn’t update their mindsets and philosophies in time would be caught off guard by new apps in no time.

He also feared that after his own “iteration,” seeing Yu Zhimei again might make him lose the feelings he once had for her. She had already been in Beijing for half a month for the second time, dedicating herself to some inscrutable ambition. He realized he needed to go see her himself. But before he could even buy a ticket, Jian Zhaowen suddenly faced the mass resignation of the content department—all because of a contract he had given to the department director.

The content director had been Lei Zheng’s confidant, poached from Hangzhou to Shanghai. After Lei Zheng’s departure, the director decided to return to Hangzhou. Jian Zhaowen made three attempts to retain him, ultimately agreeing to let him leave with a non-compete agreement. The director, with a background in computer science, understood Jian Zhaowen’s algorithmic framework and had personally built up Day & Night’s content infrastructure. Investors had pressured Jian Zhaowen multiple times over the phone to ensure the director signed a supplementary contract: receiving compensation for the non-compete period, promising not to use Day & Night’s product strategies at his new company, and agreeing to assist with any current business issues during the transition. However, the version the director spread within the department was that every departing employee would need to sign a commitment letter, taking responsibility for any problems that arose. Thus, early Monday morning, neatly stacked resignation letters from the entire department appeared on Jian Zhaowen’s desk, along with emails sent to his inbox—a clear act of defiance.

The terms “assist with follow-up” and “take responsibility for consequences” differed significantly in severity. Misusing these terms amounted to a perfect framing. Aside from the content director, many employees in the content team were young recruits Jian Zhaowen had personally interviewed and trained over the past year. They were righteous and talented, now standing in opposition simply because he was the “boss,” and they felt the need to defend their rights. Any employee’s departure could destabilize a team, let alone the collapse of an entire department. Jian Zhaowen called each employee into his office individually, offering raises or promotions, but nothing worked. The more he talked, the more panicked he became: At this rate, the company will collapse.

Late into the night, Jian Zhaowen sat in his office reviewing resumes—his phone inundated with resumes sent by investors, all eager to help him find suitable candidates as quickly as possible, even more anxious than he was. Jian Zhaowen chain-smoked, turning himself into a human incense burner. At the very least, he needed to urgently find replacements for the content director and two operations staff to ensure community activities could continue running smoothly. Additionally, he needed to automate certain content processes using computers instead of manual labor—machines were often easier to command. Most importantly, he needed to safeguard Day & Night’s reputation. While mass resignations from content teams weren’t uncommon in the industry, he didn’t want such a bad reputation for his company.

Kou Xiao, who rarely chatted on WeChat, sent over three resumes with concise messages: “Good friends from my previous company’s content team—they can come for interviews.”

Jian Zhaowen nearly rejoiced upon opening the resumes: “Thank you. I’ll arrange interviews for tomorrow.”

“Remember to give me a commission.”

“Sure, I’ll treat you to dinner separately.” Kou Xiao was truly a godsend. Jian Zhaowen typed this message while still excitedly flipping through the resumes. These candidates weren’t just excellent—they were leaps and bounds ahead of the current content director.

But Kou Xiao immediately reverted to his usual cold demeanor: “No dinner. I want cash.”

Jian Zhaowen hadn’t expected that after building Day & Night, his reputation would be so polarizing. On one hand, his algorithms and the company’s rapid rise were highly regarded. On the other hand, he was seen as authoritarian, cold-hearted, ruthless toward Lei Zheng’s former colleagues, and embroiled in rumors about his private life—lonely at the top. After the company grew larger, it was no longer convenient for him to sleep in a sleeping bag at the office. Instead, he pulled down the blinds, covered himself with a jacket, and stared at the ceiling. The 17°C air conditioning made his nose stuffy, and his worries kept him awake. He had to get through this week before heading to Beijing to see Yu Zhimei over the weekend. But by now, his mind was so troubled that he couldn’t even tell if he wanted to go anymore—to the airport, onto the plane, and then to Yu Zhimei’s place, answering endless calls from the company along the way. How he wished that when he returned home, he’d find Yu Zhimei waiting in apartment 302, or better yet, lying together on a soft bed, chatting and falling asleep in each other’s arms. He didn’t fail to understand Yu Zhimei’s ambitions, but at this critical juncture, her frequent absences in daily life had sparked a hint of resentment in him.

In the bar, Yu Zhimei had fallen asleep after merely relaxing for a bit. When she woke up, Xiao Wu was sitting beside her, chin resting on his hand as he watched her. Being five years older, she understood the meaning behind that gaze—he came from a privileged family, neither spoiled nor fickle, clearly aware of his boundaries, yet leaving behind subtle acts of care when no one was looking. People often felt a mutual admiration when working together, but not every emotion needed to ferment. Xiao Wu exuded the charm and kindness that came from growing up wealthy, and Yu Zhimei wouldn’t misunderstand him—especially since she still had a jar of old vinegar waiting for her back in Shanghai.

“Big Sister Mei has been very tired lately.”

“Yes, I didn’t expect to fall asleep after just one drink—it wasn’t as if it was some high-dose cocktail.”

“Didn’t you say your boyfriend is in Shanghai?”

“Yes, he runs a company there. He’s also originally from Beijing.”

“What a coincidence!”

“Didn’t Qiu Nuo tell you?” Yu Zhimei was candid. “He’s her ex-boyfriend.”

“Really? Qiu Nuo was also once… my ex-girlfriend.”

Now it was Yu Zhimei’s turn to feel awkward. Xiao Wu laughed cheerfully: “From kindergarten! I was in the younger class, and she was in the older one.”

Yu Zhimei realized he had tricked her and playfully reached out to hit him, but Xiao Wu caught her fist and held it gently. Xiao Wu was the kind of refreshing boy who cleverly defused awkward situations. Looking at his bright, sunny smile, she silently marveled at how wonderful youth was.

“So, earlier you mentioned wanting to modify a car—what kind of car was it?”

“It was just some ordinary models from a long time ago—not worth mentioning.”

“Are you worried I’ll think you’re poor? Big Sister Mei, as long as you enjoy yourself, any car is worth it. Don’t think I only understand luxury cars—I’m curious about everything, I love everything. Happiness isn’t being able to afford anything at Intime or SKP; it’s buying a Coke when you’re thirsty and drinking it all in one go—don’t you agree?”

Yu Zhimei was defeated by this impeccable logic: “I’ve always wanted to restore an old car, fulfilling a dream for both myself and my dad. I want to get an AE86—not expecting the pop-up headlights anymore, just any 86 will do. My dad wants to restore a Santana 2000. It’s not a performance sports car or anything, but he spent years at the driving school where all the Santanas were beat-up and reeked of gasoline. He dreams of having a clean one. Though honestly, a Santana isn’t strictly necessary—a new one might make him happy too. But the 86… that’s a personal fixation for me.”

“Of course. No car enthusiast can escape the allure of the 86—it’s a classic among classics.”

“These days, finding an original paint 86 comes with a hefty premium. Nostalgia is terrifying. Back when it was new, it cost 268,000 yuan; now, if you can find one, it’ll be even more expensive. It’s like a financial product—owners don’t part with them easily.”

“Nostalgia is terrifying.” Xiao Wu thought for a moment. “Actually, I might be able to help you find one. Let me step out and make a call to a friend.”

Xiao Wu hopped off his bar stool and left. Yu Zhimei reflected on her two months in Beijing and realized she hadn’t done much beyond filming cars. Her short video platform continued to gain followers steadily, but without additional series content, there was no breakthrough. Both she and Xing Zong were anxiously searching for ways to innovate. Meanwhile, Xiao Wu’s luxury car series was gaining popularity, though not because of her. Xiao Wu was handsome, eloquent, and the cars themselves were captivating. All she could offer him were the latest editing techniques, storylines, and character development. Coming to Beijing, aside from her salary, she hadn’t gained much else. Of course, Yu Zhimei wasn’t satisfied with that. If it were just about money, she could squeeze in time to take on work for a third blogger. But such repetitive labor without innovation would eventually wear her down. Physical stamina wasn’t something she could endlessly drain. She had only seen Jian Zhaowen three times, and she’d missed Lei Zheng’s split with him. Increasingly, she felt… unworthy.

They say turning thirty is a hurdle for women, but what truly trips people up is the lack of life breakthroughs. Marriage is a societal milestone, age brings social pressure, but the real weight for ambitious women is this: the inability to find a path that allows continuous upward mobility. Repeating the same tasks without competitiveness leads to exhaustion, and once physical strength declines, the sense of value begins to slip away.

Xiao Wu returned and said to Yu Zhimei, “It’s settled, Big Sister Mei. Next month, I’ll show you an unmodified, original-paint 86.”

Hearing “original paint” sent Yu Zhimei into a frenzy. She jumped up and hugged Xiao Wu, and the two spun around joyfully in the corner. The next moment, spotting Jian Zhaowen in the bar, Yu Zhimei thought she was hallucinating from sleep deprivation. And—Jian Zhaowen’s expression looked like he’d swallowed firecrackers. Xiao Wu noticed Yu Zhimei’s gaze and stepped forward to shake hands: “Hello, Brother Zhaowen. I’m Wu Guangyu. She could have gone home this weekend, but she stayed to help me with the videos.”

“I know exactly who you are,” Jian Zhaowen replied politely with a faint smile. “Could you temporarily let me have my girlfriend back?”

Yu Zhimei, having learned from her previous mistake, didn’t drive this time. The taxi stopped at the entrance of the residential complex, and the two walked hand in hand under the dim streetlights. A broken lamppost caused Yu Zhimei to stumble, but Jian Zhaowen quickly pulled her up. His voice was soft as he said, “Meeting you in Shanghai used to feel so ordinary. Now, it takes subways, planes, and high-speed trains, and a single meeting costs at least eight hours.”

“I’m sorry,” Yu Zhimei said guiltily. “This past week has been all work. Let me see if I can arrange to go back next week.”

“It won’t change much. Juggling two jobs and commuting back and forth is exhausting—don’t push yourself too hard. It’s just… at least don’t let me think about you or want to see you only to discover you’re with different men.”

Jian Zhaowen wasn’t just jealous—his feelings were mixed with distrust. Yu Zhimei avoided the topic and instead asked, “How are the two cats doing?”

“I haven’t had time to check. I hired a housekeeper who cleans every day—she’s meticulous and loves cats. Without us around, the cats have actually gained weight. As for you… you’ve lost weight since I last saw you a month ago.”

“No way.”

“Are you enjoying working with Xiao Wu?”

“It’s fine. He helped me secure an 86—I’m so excited. I’ll finally have a legendary car of my own.” After saying this, Yu Zhimei fell silent. This emotional connection to cars wasn’t something Jian Zhaowen could relate to. As expected, he responded indifferently, “Of course I know. When you celebrate with him, you seem happier than when you’re with me.”

Just talking about it made Yu Zhimei’s heart ache uncontrollably. “Jian Zhaowen, interacting with people through work is unavoidable. Investors’ daughters come over to do homework, and when you’re free, you have to pick them up and drop them off. That’s how society works. I’m trying to earn more by squeezing in extra work. In Shanghai, small car media outlets are family businesses. If I stick to being a car media director, I can’t break 10,000 yuan a month. Even as a client executive in advertising, earning 15,000 yuan means staying up late and working overtime with clients—and still not being able to afford rent. This is my reality. How can I stand on equal footing with you? The gap between our statuses has widened.”

Jian Zhaowen stood with his hands on his hips, exhaling visible breaths in Beijing’s lingering spring chill. “Let’s go upstairs first.”

The elevator walls were covered in handwritten ads. Two poster slots advertised credit loans and online tutoring, while a classical music-backed video promoted cosmetic surgery—urbanites’ money never escaped the city. Pushing open the empty apartment door, Jian Zhaowen sighed. The unlit white walls made the space feel vast and eerie. There wasn’t even a sofa in the living room, just a stool by the window that came with the rental unit. The table and bed were items Jian Zhaowen had ordered the night he booked the place, arranging for delivery early the next morning. Yu Zhimei had said she didn’t need a sofa, so he hadn’t prepared everything. To her, Beijing was merely a temporary base to help out and gather resources along the way. Jian Zhaowen grew irritated: “Why do you work so hard for a company that doesn’t deserve you?”

“Because I consider this job important.”

Jian Zhaowen chuckled. “There’s something I shouldn’t say, but your problem right now is that your boss treats you like a brick—replaceable. Yet you still think of yourself as the pillar holding everything up.”

“How can you say that?” Yu Zhimei was struck speechless, anger gnawing at her teeth. “Anyone else could say it, but Jian Zhaowen—you’re supposed to be my boyfriend.”

“No one else will tell you the truth like I will. Yu Zhimei, I give you tenfold respect and twelvefold support. Put yourself in my shoes—give me a chance to speak honestly. Do you know why you can’t find a job paying over 10,000 yuan in Shanghai? Because your current abilities rely too heavily on company resources. You mistakenly believe these ‘resources’ are part of your skill set. Your current boss, including Xiao Wu—they attract fans and handle business based on their own capabilities. But you? You’re just communicating, and the clients aren’t interested in you—they care about them. If you want to be respected, you need to build your own skills. Knowing how to drive, play with cars, and plan campaigns—these are the foundations of succeeding in the self-media industry. Take Dou Yu’s case—you weren’t valued for your expertise; Volvo cared about Xing Ge’s fanbase. It had nothing to do with you.”

“As a female blogger in the car media industry, no one cares unless you’re pretty and have a hot body. They don’t care how much you know about cars.” Mentioning Dou Yu only made Yu Zhimei more upset. “You’re just belittling my work because you don’t want a long-distance relationship, right?”

“It has nothing to do with long-distance. You’ve never prioritized me. Your career, friends, and money always come first—I’ve never been your top priority.” Jian Zhaowen smiled bitterly. “And funny enough, neither am I. I came here to see you, to reassure myself. I wanted to surprise you after seeing your social media posts, only to find you with a younger boy. Put yourself in my shoes—wouldn’t you lose your mind?”

“If I say it’s all a misunderstanding now, would you think I’m just making excuses?” Seeing Jian Zhaowen’s stubborn gaze, Yu Zhimei suddenly deflated. “You’ve probably wanted to break up with me for a while now, right? Our feelings disappeared a long time ago. Ever since that farewell dinner, I knew you were hiding something from me. It’s okay—I won’t ask. You’re in such a high position; even if I knew, I couldn’t reach you. Eventually, you’d look down on me. No, wait—you already do.”

“That’s not what I meant! Yu Zhimei, don’t be stubborn…”

Yu Zhimei closed her eyes. Moonlight filtered through her lashes like combing through fine teeth. “You’re right—I admit it. So, until I’m capable enough to sustain myself without relying on ‘resources,’ I won’t return to Shanghai. Don’t pity me. Though I love you, I want to face you as an equal. I read every piece of news about Day & Night. I know about your successes and struggles. I see the gossip too. In the eyes of onlookers, Jian Zhaowen’s girlfriend is just a ‘car girl.’ See? The public instinctively views women in the car circle as inflatable dolls, even if I can drift and fix cars. You’re right—I’ve been wrong to stay behind the scenes. But you have to give me a chance to try…”

“So…”

“So I’ll move to Beijing and give it my all without regrets. If I fail completely, I’ll return to Shanghai and find some meaningless job. You can laugh at me all you want. If you really want to break up or if your feelings for me have faded, I’ll accept it…”

That night, Jian Zhaowen held Yu Zhimei tightly, as if trying to prove something by clinging to her. But Yu Zhimei, nestled in his arms, felt increasingly thin, her bones as hard as stones. Before sleeping, she joked with a smile: “Renting apartments in both Beijing and Shanghai is bleeding me dry.”

“It’s because you refuse to let me share even the responsibility of paying rent.” Jian Zhaowen sighed. “You…”

They did nothing that night, but Jian Zhaowen lay awake in the dark for hours, reflecting on their two years together. Images floated before his eyes: two windows and a terrace separated by an air conditioning unit. They kept appearing alternately on the terrace, meeting at a distance of one and a half steps, and then he’d leap across recklessly… Along with the scene, he sank into sleep and woke again with sunlight spilling through the curtains. The memories in that half-dream state seemed embellished with fictional details, clearing out his mental inventory entirely. Strangely, he vividly remembered wanting to take out his camera several times in his dream to capture the terrace—how fleeting dreams were.

He hadn’t thought about what that dream might have been predicting, nor had he reflected on whether his words that night were wrong or if his trip to Beijing angered Yu Zhimei. As for whether “feelings disappearing” was true, he had asked himself repeatedly but found no answer. Late at night, during another overtime session, he suddenly recalled Pang Cong once saying that the so-called disappearance of feelings was simply the malfunctioning of the心动 mechanism. This was only human nature—it just happened more frequently in his case. Remembering this, he shook his head abruptly at his desk. Building separate careers didn’t equate to breaking up—absolutely not.

After a busy week at the company, they finally recruited a suitable content team. Jian Zhaowen breathed a sigh of relief and returned home, only to discover that Yu Zhimei’s apartment, 302, had been completely vacated.