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The three of them sat quietly. Jian Zhaowen lit a cigarette, Ou Jinghe gently plucked the withered grass from a potted plant, and Brother Ma played on his phone, swiping left and right. On nights like this, their presence was a tangible comfort in an uncertain city. Yet, for reasons unknown, the night felt far longer than it ever had before.
Jian Zhaowen went to Beijing once again, squeezing in a brief meeting with Li Yin during a break from the Internet Conference. Too busy to eat, Jian Zhaowen only managed to meet Li Yin downstairs at the Starbucks near his office. Compared to their previous eager encounter, this meeting was much more subdued; Jian carried himself with humility and politeness. Conversely, Li Yin seemed warmer, asking about Day & Night’s matching algorithms and encryption methods, as well as the direction of its upcoming features. Reflecting on the pressures of answering to investors above and managing employees below, Jian admitted how lonely it could feel steering the company through turbulent waters. He briefly mentioned plans to incorporate live streaming but expressed concerns that adding it to the same app would make the content overly cluttered.
“Adding live streaming functionality to the current version of Day & Night?”
“Mm,” Jian nodded. “I’ll try to integrate it naturally and differentiate it—otherwise, how can we compete against those big companies’ live streams? It’ll just be a feature, not the main focus. Think of it as satisfying investor curiosity.”
Li Yin revealed a hint of senior wisdom: “What does it feel like to run your own startup now?”
“The happiest times were when I worked alone or with one other person. Now there are too many voices influencing the company, which slows everything down.”
That made Li Yin chuckle. “Working alone usually means you’re running a small workshop.”
“Scaling up has its own headaches!” Jian genuinely regarded Li Yin as an insider and stretched lazily, letting out a heartfelt sigh.
“A lot of things aren’t solely dependent on personal willpower. Whether securing funding or incubating new projects within large companies, luck plays a huge role. Back when I led my team to create Xiyou, I believed short travel videos and guides were the future—a novel idea at the time. I personally reviewed every image and video that made it to the homepage. But back then, the tourism market was struggling, and everything was chaotic. I used stock options to secure investment but couldn’t get resources allocated, so we failed to gain traction. Three years later, WeChat launched mini-programs and short videos, allowing even mediocre content to spread widely. Platforms like Xiaohongshu rose to prominence where anything posted got views. By then, I’d already left Xiyou, missing the trend entirely. It remains a small company selling travel products. Investors pushing Day & Night toward live streaming isn’t because they think your matching system is inadequate—it’s because the market demands it. Transitioning is all about hitting KPIs. UGC content is precious but slow to grow, especially with your psychological support section dragging behind—it burns cash and generates negativity.”
“Boss Li, you’ve really studied Day & Night closely. Based on my understanding of you, last time you only spent five minutes looking at Lovedate.”
“Lei Zheng and Kou Xiao are both excellent product managers, well-known in the industry, each possessing qualities others lack. Setting aside Lei Zheng’s eccentric temperament, consider Kou Xiao—he started as a director and actor before transitioning to product management at a gay community platform. Think about the leap he took to get here.”
Jian Zhaowen suddenly laughed. Sitting here for half an hour, Li Yin had initially allotted only ten minutes, likely thinking Jian wasn’t up to par. Now, Jian finally stood on equal footing with Li Yin, yet he no longer harbored the burning desire for approval. He simply wanted to sip coffee and clear his mind. Nearby, peers chatted about housing prices, reality seeping into youthful ambition. Li Yin admired Jian Zhaowen more than during their last meeting, offering words only insiders would recognize: “You’re already far ahead. Social networking always has giants and newcomers alike—you’ve done exceptionally well.”
As they parted ways, Jian noticed an unspoken depth in Li Yin’s eyes. Had they met in the evening, they might have shared drinks and exchanged countless industry tales. But Jian didn’t have the time. In the taxi, he gazed out at the passing scenery. In less than a month, two shops along the street had changed hands—life was subtly shifting. This brief moment of relaxation allowed him to temporarily set aside back-to-back meetings, the hassle of cutting the psychological support section, and the headache of personnel changes… Jian was acutely aware of the rising stars over the past year. Algorithmic matching had become a mature, almost mundane universal model. Features based on nearby users, weekly couples, gaming companions, online movie theaters, concert pairings, and even apps catering to niche communities (with dialogues like “I want to be your submissive” appearing directly in app store screenshots) had emerged. One such app boasted 7,000 reviews. The market had fragmented enough… Jian gradually understood Li Yin’s frustrations and empathized with Lei Zheng’s decision to pivot after two years. An industry could rise from obscurity to peak popularity within a year. Once everyone flocked to the same field, individual competitiveness waned. As the pool expanded, quality deteriorated, tarnishing the industry’s reputation. Unless tied to an unwavering passion for a specific field, many entrepreneurs pursued “startup” culture purely for the sake of proving success and freedom—cashing out became the ultimate validation.
Out of habit, Jian wandered around Tiantongyuan again. Standing by the roadside felt awkward, and someone even approached him, mistaking him for someone trying to sell a secondhand car. He didn’t see Yu Zhimei. Turning back, he hailed a taxi to the airport. Just as he settled into his seat, an employee from the company’s content team suddenly called—the talent agency of a celebrity demanded that Day & Night delete a post.
Skipping three levels of hierarchy to call the boss directly, this intern had always been bold in front of Jian Zhaowen. Jian recalled receiving a private message on Weibo during the ride to the airport—it was from the actress the intern mentioned: “Please don’t delete that post. I’m not trying to stir up publicity, but it’s truly a memory for me. I also don’t want him to think I betrayed his sincerity… Please.”
Jian vaguely recognized the actress—a beautiful yet low-profile performer known for her stunning figure and frequent discussions online. That someone connected to his app intrigued him deeply. Connecting to the plane’s Wi-Fi, he carefully read through the details. She had quietly developed a romantic relationship with another user in the Night Zone, while the twenty-one-year-old boy documented their story in the Day Zone. Later, screenshots were reposted on other websites, sparking frenzied sharing. Due to vague timestamps and locations, netizens speculated endlessly about which star it could be. The thread grew hundreds of pages long, with some even following the boy’s account on Day & Night. The talent agency likely feared that continuing this “boyfriend” narrative would tarnish the actress’s reputation.
Jian Zhaowen couldn’t resist opening the “Tree Hole” section of Day & Night. Sure enough, there was a post with millions of views—a story of two people who went from strangers to deeply intimate and then painfully separated. They had first met in a small shop in Karuizawa. Afraid to chat on WeChat, the boy downloaded Day & Night and used the anonymous section to pour out their hearts and fall madly in love, all while keeping it secret. The boy desperately traveled to the cities where she filmed, but due to interference from her management team, he couldn’t see her. Yet, the actress seemed serious about their relationship, even slipping away from her handlers to meet him at a hotel. The boy’s posts began a year ago and remained pinned near the top of the Tree Hole section, continuously bumped up by users as if following serialized chapters of a romance novel. Their relationship wasn’t as tumultuous as Ou Jinghe and Zheng Zeyan’s; instead, they resembled two souls blessed by heaven, striving to protect each other in this world. The boy, only twenty-one years old and still in college, had met the celebrity during a trip to Japan. Falling for each other felt like a beautiful dream. To see his “sister,” he worked tirelessly to earn money for plane tickets, traveling abroad just to meet her briefly, sometimes only for a few minutes.
“I teased my sister, asking when she started liking me. She said it was probably when I tried telling a dirty joke but failed miserably.”
“Today, I’m going to meet my sister! Since we’re meeting at a hotel, I’m nervous. Is it okay to hold hands at a time like this? I’ll book a room next door—I just want to see her….”
“My sister wore an elegant dress today, but even so, you could recognize her as a big star from afar. Between us, there may be a hundred halos apart—her poise and confidence are like sunshine. How can I possibly protect you? Maybe if I embrace my inner immaturity, I can confidently believe that you need me. Your suitcase is always packed neatly, ready to leave at any moment—it saddens me. But your words are so gentle, even jokes seem carefully chosen. Someone as wonderful as you—how long can I have you for…?”
The boy’s last post was from two months ago. Many doubted the authenticity of his story, shaming him online as they tried to uncover the actress’s identity. His final message on Day & Night read: “I’m doing well, don’t worry. We broke up a long time ago—that’s the ending of my post. After this, perhaps I won’t fall in love so deeply again. Thank you for giving me such a beautiful and unforgettable memory.” Jian Zhaowen noticed the actress had repeatedly sent friend requests on WeChat, which explained the flood of help messages he’d received. The content team must have negotiated multiple times, only to be blocked each instance until the intern made this call.
Jian Zhaowen thought he wouldn’t be moved, but tears streamed down his face. At 5,000 meters above ground, gravity slowed their descent. Yu Zhimei’s breakup hit him like weightlessness. In that instant, he wondered: If Day & Night could offer others a chance to experience love, why didn’t its creator deserve the same?
He opened his old matching records, found Yu Zhimei’s chat box, and typed: “I miss you.”
The signal on the plane was too weak. Attempting to send the message failed repeatedly.
After sending “I miss you,” Jian Zhaowen received no response and returned to work as usual. True to form, the celebrity’s management team contacted him. Despite numerous negotiations, the content department continued to block them. Eventually, the management threatened legal action, escalating the matter directly to Jian Zhaowen. Their tone startled him: “You’re just a small company—we have a thousand ways to destroy you, got it?”
“Yes.”
“This anonymous section facilitates criminals—it’s dangerous!”
“No, our moderation is strict.”
“Unreasonable!”
Jian chuckled as he responded over the phone: “Don’t blame us. Even if we deleted the data, screenshots remain on Weibo. Plus, the user intentionally omitted names and schedules to protect their lover’s identity. I can’t confirm if this involves your artist, or even their gender. Deleting it would be a shame—it radiates human warmth. If not for profit, preserving this beautiful memory might benefit both parties.”
He wasn’t afraid of lawyers’ letters since the content lacked explicit violence or pornography, and every itinerary mentioned was altered. Management teams were overly controlling, prioritizing their artists’ reputations. He messaged Kou Xiao next door: “Do you know about the celebrity issue?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you handle it?”
“I’m not the boss—it’s none of my business.”
Just as Jian grew frustrated, Ou Jinghe knocked lightly on the door. “Boss Jian, did you need me?”
“There’s something I’d like you to do. Next week, let’s meet with Kou Xiao. Investors want to cut the support section, so we need to gradually move users seeking help to our official account.”
“Cut it? Why?”
“It doesn’t make money, and there’s too much negative information.”
“How pragmatic… isn’t it all about money?” Ou Jinghe suddenly lost her voice mid-sentence. “Sorry, I forgot I’m broke too.”
Perceptive Jian immediately noticed Ou Jinghe’s transformation. Wearing basic jeans and a T-shirt, she’d grown significantly thinner, her makeup subdued, exuding a colder aura. He guessed what happened but calmly suggested discussing further on Monday before heading home.
“You’re leaving work too?” Ou Jinghe was surprised. “Normally, you stay until midnight.”
With no new features to develop, sitting alone held little meaning. Jian didn’t elaborate, simply saying, “I’ve been traveling non-stop and am exhausted—I need rest.”
“Can I hitch a ride with you?”
“What? Zheng Zeyan isn’t picking you up?”
“He and I… broke up.”
Jian mentally confirmed his suspicions.
The car sped through the night along the elevated road toward Nanpu Bridge, taking a straight route home. Walking back together, though seemingly side by side, they were each solitary figures. Brother Ma waved an electric fly swatter in the corridor, its crackling sound punctuating the silence. Seeing them approach, he sighed, “One after another, all breaking up—you’re ruining my apartment’s feng shui. Hey, don’t rush upstairs yet—let’s have a drink. You two disappear into your rooms without a trace, leaving me to entertain myself killing bugs. I’m lonely!”
The three sat on the terrace, a bottle of vodka resting on the tiled floor. Brother Ma swung the fly swatter between them, occasionally emitting a sharp “pop.” Initially, neither Jian nor Ou spoke. Soon, Jian’s brows furrowed deeper, prompting Ou Jinghe to snap, “Ma Minmin, focus on drinking! Swinging that racket around is annoying—can you bring some snacks?”
“I’m protecting you from bites. Besides, I’m trying to cheer you up. You climb upstairs looking miserable—it affects my luck too.”
Jian stood up. “Let’s go to 302.”
But Brother Ma stayed seated. “No way—I won’t go to 302 without Yu Zhimei. No cats, no projector—it’s meaningless. If you turn this into a reception room, I’d rather stay here and kill bugs. I still water these plants and trim the branches. Yu Zhimei was heartless. If I see her again, I’ll confront her personally. The dessert shop is gone too—how did everything fall apart like this? Living here has become boring. If you’re both working, I’ll move back to Pudong. There’s an extra room upstairs to rent.”
Ou Jinghe grew impatient. “Ma Minmin, sit down already! We’re the ones who broke up—you complain so much because you’re bored. Stop whining.”
Stubborn-faced Brother Ma raised his fly swatter, swiftly zapping a bug. As night fell, the sounds of daily life filled the air—the clatter of pots and pans, babies crying, neighbors chatting downstairs, distant sports cars honking… As Yu Zhimei once described it, this was “humanity.”
The three sat quietly. Jian lit a cigarette, Ou Jinghe plucked dead grass from a potted plant, and Brother Ma swiped aimlessly on his phone. On nights like this, having each other provided comfort in an uncertain city. Yet, somehow, tonight felt unbearably long.
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