#111: Algorithm Matching Isn’t Perfect, But I Want to Love You Longer

“Algorithm matching isn’t a cure-all. Sister Ou broke up, and so did the actress. The users I’ve seen searching for true love on Day & Night all ended up with heartbreaking stories. Matching is just a gimmick—it can’t create perfect love endings or save souls. Big data and algorithms can’t do that either. But perhaps… those who’ve had a story in Day & Night won’t regret it. So, Yu Zhimei, if you truly think this matching still holds some value for us, give it another shot. You come back to Shanghai, or I’ll go to Beijing—whatever works. I just want to be with you a little longer.”

Yu Zhimei sat outside Lin Ge’s company in Shunyi, waiting for Xing Zong to arrive for filming. Since moving to Beijing, Xing Zong and Lin Ge had been swapping cars to shoot videos, solving their content deficit. Yu Zhimei filmed Hummer H2s, Ford Focus RSs, Porsche 911s, and Panameras… Lin Ge had quite the collection, and Xing Zong was delighted, often saying, “With Old Lin around, there’s always food on the table.”

The distance from Tiantongyuan to Shunyi was only half an hour. Yu Zhimei traveled this route as if navigating through an alien world shrouded in yellow dust. She truly despised Beijing’s weather—dry, sparse vegetation, barren views, and a perpetual haze of dull yellow skies. Compared to the lush green belts she was used to seeing in Shanghai, her eyes were drying out. Beyond that, Beijing was filled with slogans, rigid rules, and people near the Forbidden City who prided themselves on connections, believing nothing could be accomplished without them. Efficiency here paled in comparison to Shanghai. Yu Zhimei understood this was the cost of living in Beijing but gradually realized how much it wasn’t worth it.

Three months in, she had severed years of social security payments accumulated in Shanghai—the first price she paid for pursuing freedom. And the more painful part wasn’t just that; within twenty-four hours after breaking up with Jian Zhaowen, he deleted her WeChat account.

Yu Zhimei was no stranger to the sharp sting of heartbreak. When Jian Zhaowen moved out of apartment 301, every breath felt like agony, as if her soul had been ripped from her body. Especially being the one left behind, staring at the empty 301, she felt the whole world had abandoned her. Yet this time, even as the one who left first, darting through Beijing’s streets, she still didn’t feel much better. Time merely dulled the pain slowly.

Xing Zong arrived thirty minutes late to Shunyi. Today, they were filming two videos—one featuring Nio, a domestically successful new energy vehicle, using Lin Ge’s spacious courtyard for its expansive backdrop, and the other showcasing BYD Tang DM, which Xing Zong bought for his parents. Nio had invested heavily in design, making it a highly competitive model among the surge of 2019’s new energy vehicles. Meanwhile, BYD, an old player in the industry, had long been criticized for its car designs but remained a dominant force in second- and third-tier cities due to its strong battery expertise and loyal customer base.

Young people bought electric cars mostly for license plates—a critical step for outsiders to enjoy convenient urban life. Tesla Model 3 dominated the market, but domestic EVs sprouted like mushrooms after rain, chasing Tesla’s sales strategies and not struggling to sell. Xing Zong spoke eloquently into the camera while Yu Zhimei stood by, thinking to herself: Xing Zong’s quick wit made him seem script-free. Jian Zhaowen was right—she was just an employee, and viewers came for Xing Zong or Monkey Brother, not her. Her name appeared only briefly in the credits, relegated to the role of an extra.

After shooting the dashboard, interior, rear seats, and more, Yu Zhimei grew weary, longing to return home and rest. But Xing Zong and Lin Ge insisted on staying behind to drink and reminisce about their deep bonds forged through shared struggles. Now reunited in the same city, their conversation stretched endlessly into the night. Not daring to leave before her boss, Yu Zhimei stayed for dinner in Shunyi. Xing Zong, still adjusting to Beijing’s environment, sought Lin Ge’s advice on school districts and private schools since he lacked local residency. Tales of past endeavors accompanied by meat and alcohol exuded oily arrogance, reminiscent of northern bravado.

“Lin Ge, your collection of modified cars makes me envious. My real purpose in returning to Beijing was to modify cars myself. Watching you upgrade one car after another makes my heart race.”

“This takes time. I started because of Land Rover—if it weren’t so prone to breaking down, I wouldn’t have thought of opening my own repair shop.”

“I once had a Lancer Evolution. I replaced its engine with a racing one, along with tires, rims, gearbox, and exhaust. Next, I want to find a GTI—I’m really into racing. If I modify it and race against my current sports car, filming a video should turn out great…”

Hearing this saddened Yu Zhimei. This idea had been hers before moving to Beijing, pitched to Xing Zong during casual conversations. Now, under the influence of alcohol, it became her boss’s concept. Monkey Brother launched his own video channel and worked diligently, motivated by Xing Zong’s willingness to split earnings and grant greater creative freedom. With only one person handling production, efficiency skyrocketed, and his fan count rose by thirty thousand. Focused solely on ads, many criticized him in the comments for “selling out,” but Monkey Brother learned to accept both praise and criticism, as he earned real income from video revenue. Editing and scripting duties gradually shifted away from Yu Zhimei to Xing Zong and a new colleague, Xiaolong—another zodiac dragon stepping into the role. The company settled into Beijing and began operating smoothly. However, Yu Zhimei noticed that clients she previously managed were steadily taken over by Xing Zong, leaving her tasked only with boosting short-video follower counts and views—everything progressed smoothly except for her, who seemed to regress.

The two men drank themselves into oblivion, discussing their families. Bored, Yu Zhimei felt she was wasting time and decided to take a taxi home alone. Suddenly, Xing Zong shouted, “Yu Zhimei, sit down!”

Before Yu Zhimei could settle, Xing Zong pressed firmly on her shoulder: “This kid is nearing thirty and came with me from Shanghai—something I never expected. Her boyfriend runs a startup in Shanghai called Day & Night—it’s incredibly impressive, and he’s devilishly handsome! I’ve met him twice; truly outstanding young talent. But she made a foolish choice, breaking up with him for the sake of work.”

Lin Ge glanced at Yu Zhimei: “You don’t secretly like Xing Zong, do you?”

Yu Zhimei waved dismissively, noting that Beijing dialect sounded better coming from Jian Zhaowen: “How could I? I don’t fancy married men.”

“So it really troubles me. Around thirty, people need to think about themselves. Yu Zhimei, when you weighed your options and chose work, did you consider how much pain your boyfriend must have endured?”

Waiting for her boss had unexpectedly made her hungry. Unwilling to engage further with Xing Zong, Yu Zhimei quietly ate skewers and drank. A small round table wobbled under a plastic sheet, surrounded by plastic chairs and portable lights, encapsulating life’s essence. Conversations ebbed and flowed between joy and sorrow. Yu Zhimei avoided joining in, sensing the two men tacitly believed she harbored feelings for her boss, wanting to protect him silently. Her stomach bloated from drinking, she excused herself to the restroom and vomited thoroughly, feeling a pendulum swing in her head. Returning, too weak to walk, she leaned against a plastic chair with armrests at another table, turning her back to the two men, letting the cool breeze soothe her flushed face. Immersed in silence, she heard Xing Zong and Lin Ge discuss her: “Yu Zhimei is cunning when securing clients, decisive and ruthless. Yet, to call her foolish, she left her boyfriend and followed me here, causing my wife to misunderstand.”

“Oh?”

“My wife doesn’t understand. She thinks Yu Zhimei likes me enough to move to Beijing, otherwise why abandon her boyfriend? I get Yu Zhimei’s ambition—placing career above emotions—but it makes me cautious. She might realize reality someday and leave.”

“What’s next?”

“First, smoothly transfer the clients she handles—some regular contacts in Shanghai rely on her. If she quits now, they’ll switch to other third parties.”

“And what about her?”

The conversation between Yu Zhimei and Jian Zhaowen unfolded like a fragile thread, weaving together regret, longing, and the lingering hope of reconciliation. For Yu Zhimei, who had spent months convincing herself that their breakup was necessary for her career, every word from Jian felt like reopening a wound she had painstakingly scabbed over. And yet, beneath the prickliness of their exchange lay a deep undercurrent of unresolved emotions—feelings neither could articulate but both understood all too well.

Jian’s message—”I miss you”—was simple yet devastating in its brevity. It carried the weight of two months’ silence, during which he had stubbornly kept his phone connected to Day & Night, waiting for her response. His admission of deleting her contact information only to realize he hadn’t memorized her number revealed a vulnerability that made Yu Zhimei’s chest tighten. She wanted to respond immediately, to tell him everything she’d been bottling up, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, chaos intervened: the broken faucet flooding her apartment, the cats watching curiously as waterlogged takeout boxes floated across the room—it was almost comical how life seemed determined to interrupt even the most pivotal moments.

But through it all, Jian’s persistence broke through her defenses. When she finally sent him a photo of her flooded apartment with the caption, “My faucet burst,” there was a strange intimacy in the absurdity of the situation. Their banter, though tinged with frustration, felt familiar, grounding them back into the rhythm they once shared. Yet, when Jian accused her of abandoning their home, his words struck a nerve.

Yu Zhimei sat on her soaked bed, towel draped over her shoulders, staring at the screen. Her apology came not because she owed him one, but because she realized how much pain she had caused—not just to him, but to herself. The argument about work versus relationships no longer seemed relevant; what mattered now was whether they still loved each other enough to try again.

When Jian asked bluntly, “Do you still love me?” her answer was immediate: “Of course.” But her attempt to deflect with sarcasm—”I found someone new and want to kick you out”—only highlighted the fragility of her resolve. She didn’t want to lose him, not again. Not when his voice, his presence, still resonated so deeply within her.

Their conversation eventually circled back to Day & Night—the app that had brought them together. Jian spoke candidly about its limitations, acknowledging that algorithmic matching wasn’t a cure-all for love’s complexities. He admitted to seeing countless users end up heartbroken despite finding temporary solace in the platform. Yet, he also believed that those who experienced love through Day & Night would never regret it—a sentiment echoed by the boy in the viral post Yu Zhimei had read earlier. That story, filled with raw emotion and gratitude toward the app, had reminded her of her own journey with Jian. Perhaps, in some ways, Day & Night had given them both something rare and precious—a space where their connection transcended logic and societal expectations.

Yu Zhimei hesitated before typing her final reply: “If you can wait… just a little longer, two more weeks.” She needed time to wrap up loose ends, to finish what she had started in Beijing. But she also knew this might be her last chance to make things right—to choose love over ambition, or at least find a way to balance the two.

Jian’s response came after a pause, deliberate and measured: “Alright, I have an important decision to make too. July 1st—we made an agreement once, do you remember? If you don’t come back by then, I won’t see you again.”

The date hung heavy between them, a deadline imbued with significance. It marked not just the culmination of their individual pursuits but also the moment they would either reunite or let go forever. For Yu Zhimei, it was a test of courage—to step away from the path she had chosen and return to the person who had always believed in her. For Jian, it was a leap of faith—to trust that she would keep her promise and meet him halfway.

As Yu Zhimei set down her phone, she glanced around her flooded apartment. The antique cuckoo clock ticked steadily, its pendulum swinging back and forth, marking the passage of time. Outside, Beijing’s dry winds whipped against her window, carrying traces of the city she had grown to dislike. Yet, for the first time in months, she felt a glimmer of clarity. Whatever happened next, she knew one thing for certain: she didn’t want to live in a world without Jian Zhaowen.

And perhaps, just perhaps, he felt the same.