#115: Will You Come to My Dreams Under the Stars and Moon?

Unattainable, unrequited, unreachable—many people eventually conclude that it’s their fault: they weren’t good enough, didn’t try hard enough, or weren’t persistent enough. But it wasn’t our fault. Now, success doesn’t matter to me anymore, nothing does. I won’t overdefine what fame and fortune bring into my life.

When Yu Zhimei saw Kou Xiao, she didn’t feel the overwhelming sense of nostalgia or sorrow she had expected. To be honest, Xu Xu’er’s death had never brought her a tidal wave of grief, and seeing Kou now felt no different. Though he was her lover, there was no trace of Xu Xu’er in him—his gestures, habits, none of them matched hers. All he had were strikingly beautiful eyes, sharp features, and an elegant nose that attracted not only Yu Zhimei but also the other girls in the café. As she held Kou’s hand, fleeting memories flashed through her mind. The way Kou gazed at her suddenly reminded her of playful conversations she used to have with Xu Xu’er during their school days:

“Yu Zhimei’s eyes reflect me! Blink, blink—I want to etch you into my memory!”

“Xu Xu’er’s eyes reflect me too! But I’ll squeeze, squeeze, and push you out…”

Looking into Kou’s expressive eyes, Yu Zhimei thought those two childish lines must have appeared in their lives as well.

Compared to working with Jian Zhaowen, Kou greeted Yu Zhimei with much more warmth, even a hint of enthusiasm. He knew he was attractive—his jet-black hair neatly parted and tucked behind his ears, his vivid features captivating. His gaze made Yu Zhimei slightly uncomfortable. They reminisced about Xu Xu’er, recalling youthful memories and distant entanglements from their school days. During a cultural performance, Xu Xu’er received two large bouquets of roses, which were divided among six dorm mates for a rose-petal bath. When her clothes went missing, she stood by the washing machine fuming before borrowing a small blackboard from the dorm supervisor. Onstage, she and Yu Zhimei lost their drumsticks and frantically ran downtown to buy replacements… Their names appeared in newspapers as rising stars of the school arts scene, leading Xu Xu’er to be selected for acting roles in Hengdian. That marked Yu Zhimei and Xu Xu’er’s last meeting and the beginning of Kou Xiao’s acquaintance with Xu Xu’er. Despite having no prior connection, Yu Zhimei and Kou found themselves sitting together because of Jian Zhaowen, passing along the baton of emotions tied to Xu Xu’er.

Kou sat on the leather sofa, watching the window. Once the neighboring table left, he slowly began recounting life on set, his tone detached and calm, as if narrating events that happened to someone else. During their two-year relationship, he worked as an assistant director, watching Xu Xu’er progress from having no lines to gaining minor roles, then advancing from supporting actress to second lead, gradually gaining some recognition. Before achieving fame, Xu Xu’er had promised to star in Kou’s indie film. A crew of ten traveled north to shoot the movie during their passionate three months together. After finishing that project, Xu Xu’er entered another production, promising Kou that once she finished, she’d stop acting altogether—it seemed far happier to live a blissful life with Kou than endure the hopelessness of obscurity.

But fate liked to play tricks. After leaving that production, Xu Xu’er skyrocketed to fame. Kou, though not on the same set, remained in the same film city, quietly dating her while watching her grow thinner day by day. Her busy schedule kept him from being by her side. The last time he saw Xu Xu’er was in a hotel room—he had finally arranged to work on the same set as his lover and went with her agent to meet her. Opening the door, he felt his blood rush to his head—the air vent had a belt tied around it, and Xu Xu’er hung there like a beautiful garment. He couldn’t remember how he rushed to pull her down; all he recalled was Xu Xu’er becoming like a tree cut down at its roots. Within three days, the production replaced her without any delays.

Amidst this calm narration, everything fell silent. The coffee stains in Kou’s cup had dried, yet he continued speaking softly: “I blamed myself for many years and read countless reports on depression. Diet and medication help, and having someone by your side can improve things. But back then, she had neither. Celebrities are restricted from eating so many foods, and her suite was always filled with agents scheduling her work. Only after all these years did I realize that I shouldn’t bear this guilt. Life has so many things we can’t achieve, can’t obtain, can’t reach. Many people end up blaming themselves for not being good enough, not trying hard enough, not being serious enough—but it’s not our fault. Now, success doesn’t matter to me anymore, nothing does. I won’t overdefine what fame and fortune bring into my life.”

“The reason you’re telling me this is...”

“Perhaps you also blame yourself for what happened to Xu Xu’er. I thought maybe, like me, you carry guilt and regret about her. Even after all these years, I wanted to see you, to hear some stories about her. After all...” Kou finally revealed a wistful smile: “I’ve missed her so much all these years.”

Yu Zhimei glanced at Jian Zhaowen, who deliberately pretended to be engrossed in his phone, avoiding involvement in their conversation. Calmly, she said: “Seven years have passed, and I’ve almost forgotten everything. My ex-boyfriend left me without saying goodbye because of Xu Xu’er. Because I was indifferent, didn’t mourn a friend’s death, and didn’t blame myself enough, perhaps... I really didn’t like talking about it as much as I thought.”

She was genuinely surprised that Kou hadn’t married all these years and had transitioned to become a product manager, eventually winding up at Jian Zhaowen’s company. After sitting in silence for a long time, Kou glanced at his phone: “I should go. Jian Zhaowen, if you ever have ideas for another startup, feel free to contact me.”

“Do you think I’ll trust you?”

“You’re really annoying.” This was the first emotionally charged sentence Jian Zhaowen had heard from Kou Xiao. He finally understood where Kou’s aura of detachment came from—by not binding himself to desires, he avoided being coerced into serving others. Someone had long ago taught him how to confront life’s ups and downs with calmness. Before turning to leave, Kou paused as Yu Zhimei suddenly remembered something: “Kou Xiao, could you send me that three-and-a-half-hour art film... I miss her too.”

Kou turned back, his hair tousled by the wind, and smiled brilliantly.

Yu Zhimei and Jian Zhaowen lay in bed watching Kou’s art film. The story unfolded in an urban village. The opening scene showed four young people standing roadside, waiting for a minibus that might never come. When the door opened, no one could squeeze in, and since they didn’t know when the next bus would arrive, they kept pushing their way inside. The gray-blue tones depicted a desolate winter, with Xu Xu’er wearing an elephant-white padded coat, her clean jawline and aloof expression contrasting sharply with the other actors’ portrayal of hopelessness. They could both imagine—Kou and Xu Xu’er truly looked like characters who didn’t belong in reality. Perhaps it was the cinematic texture, or perhaps it was the ethereal atmosphere far removed from worldly concerns. Regardless, in this three-and-a-half-hour silent film, Xu Xu’er exuded a youthful yet resilient charm. Her smile didn’t belong to the mundane world but rather to “humanity.” Those fortunate enough to see this short film would understand how much she wanted to live passionately and purely. As Jian Zhaowen watched Xu Xu’er’s shadow slowly flicker across the screen, he murmured, “Perhaps it’s time we stopped avoiding terms like ‘competition’ and ‘race.’ Always emphasizing ambition and effort might just be another form of compromise with a restless society. Looking overly ambitious isn’t appealing. Becoming part of life’s gentle flow, like spring rain nourishing the earth, isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Yu Zhimei said thoughtfully. “But if I hadn’t met Kou today, I’d still think he was gay based on your description. Turns out he wasn’t even swayed while at his previous company—he truly remained sober amidst everyone else’s drunken chaos.”

“Who knows?” Jian shrugged.

“Jian Zhaowen, your gaydar is really terrible.”

After the film ended, they weren’t ready to sleep yet. They pulled up a street dance variety show featuring Xiaoxi, the flashy studio seamlessly transporting them back to the night they went with Lei Zheng to find Xiaoxi. Yu Zhimei remarked, “Look, doesn’t Xiaoxi have such charisma? No wonder Lei Zheng was so smitten?”

Jian hummed softly in agreement: “Yeah.”

“Tired?”

“Not really.” Jian stretched lazily. “It took quite some effort to buy out Lei Zheng’s shares.”

“How did you manage it?”

“A secret.” Jian certainly wouldn’t mention borrowing money from a senior at a gaming company.

Not taking Jian’s boasting seriously, Yu Zhimei rested her head on his shoulder, only to feel discomfort and retreat back to the pillow. “Do you know why Lei Zheng always wears hats?”

“No idea.”

“When we lived in partitioned rooms, he and Xiaoxi got into a sudden argument late at night. Lei was pushed, and his head hit the ground, landing directly onto the metal prongs of a lamp plug. Though it didn’t go deep, it left two bloody holes in his skull. I lived next door and accompanied them to the hospital—the entire corridor was covered in blood drops; it looked like a crime scene.”

“These two surviving until now is truly miraculous.” Jian recalled the various hats lining Lei Zheng’s office cabinet and couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Now can you tell me what really happened during your farewell dinner with Lei Zheng? It’s been ages since I last saw Xiaoxi. He made it to the finals of that variety show, and his Weibo followers skyrocketed—I can’t reach him anymore.”

“Nothing much happened. We drank two hundred glasses of alcohol, threw up everywhere, and blacked out.”

“Boring.” Yu Zhimei puffed her cheeks and rolled one eye in mock frustration. Jian felt a fleeting sense of relief—technology had severed connections between strangers, isolating different circles. Discovering secrets in adulthood wasn’t easy when living in separate dimensions.

Cuddled against Jian, Yu Zhimei drifted off to sleep, her thoughts hazy. She realized she should’ve known earlier that Xu Xu’er’s suicide wasn’t as sordid as the rumors suggested. But she never imagined her best friend from college would resist the world in such a way. Half-asleep, half-awake, she envisioned herself walking to the playground with a sketchpad, dressed and looking exactly as she had at eighteen. With great seriousness, she taped drawing paper to the easel and began sketching outlines, but after a few strokes, the composition went awry. Stubbornly refusing to give up, Yu Zhimei pressed on, finishing the pencil draft without recognizing whether the result depicted a lake or an axe. Undeterred, she reached for paints, determined to create something random. Around her, classmates vanished, replaced by an unfamiliar park. Wearing her current clothes, she painted indifferently—after all, no one here knew her. Passersby might mistake her for an amateur artist and snap photos to mock her later.

As she applied colors stroke by stroke, a familiar figure appeared on the opposite shore of the lake—a woman sitting dejectedly on a bench near the riverbank, her long hair cascading loosely over her shoulders and chest. It was Xu Xu’er—no longer sporting her usual ponytail but letting her hair fall freely, exuding a fragile beauty. From across the lake, Yu Zhimei watched her occasionally wipe her face, seemingly crying, as pedestrians passed by and children ran around. Xu blended seamlessly into the melancholic willow trees, sitting quietly before deftly hanging herself—none intervened. Once the paint dried completely, Yu Zhimei sat motionless, watching Xu shake off imaginary dust, transform into a relaxed phantom, and drift away from the park until her silhouette disappeared. Slowly, Yu packed up her sketchpad. Golden sunlight bathed everything, softening the harshness of reality. Walking through twilight, she observed elderly couples strolling with grandchildren, indifferent spouses exercising, lovers whispering sweet nothings hidden among bushes, and young women in red dresses exposing hints of lingerie posing for photos. Time flowed gently, preserving smiles and memories like golden sunlight shimmering through the park. The girl who once hung from the tree dissipated unnoticed. With each step, Yu Zhimei felt like stirring fragmented memories within a parallel timeline—microscopic particles, fleeting images, frame-by-frame fragments. Moving quickly, everything seemed fluid, akin to water. Yet dipping her hand into the stream revealed how clarity and murkiness depended solely on action. She understood then: pure happiness emerged only after pain and complexity settled. Carrying this muddied joy and sorrow, she exited the park, her emotions as patchwork as her artwork.

The next morning, sitting briefly at the bedside, Yu Zhimei copied the film and headed downstairs to visit Ou Jinghe. Dressed in silk and still wearing makeup, Ou appeared poised to go on a date—or perhaps returning from one. Lazily reclining on the sofa like a misshapen porcelain figurine, she listened intently to Yu Zhimei recount her meeting with Kou Xiao. Turning around, she smoothly lit a cigarette: “Why are there so many hopeless romantics in this world?”

“You… don’t blame yourself for your first love’s sister, do you?”

“Please. We’re adults. Nobody punishes themselves with someone else’s death except for idiots like Zheng Ze in that drama. I don’t carry that kind of guilt. If everyone clung to outdated notions of chastity, I’d lose my mind staring at countless suicidal messages on my computer every day.”

Stunned momentarily, Yu Zhimei laughed: “True, you are He Jie. Well, I’ll take my leave—I’m heading to the suburbs to shoot cars.”

“Hold on.” Ou raised her head. “That artsy film—you leave it with me. I’ll watch it when I have time. Also, I plan to sell my BMW motorcycle. If you find any buyers, I’ll give you a commission.”

As soon as the door closed, Ou opened her laptop to watch the art film. She wasn’t interested in melodramatic tales of depression and suicide—it was merely a distraction. After all, the man who had just left had argued with her. Initially drawn together through work, she found him agreeable in many ways. Yet, moments before leaving, he impulsively declared wanting to spend the rest of his life with her. Seeing her shock, he added fervently, “I just think having a child with a woman as righteous as you would be wonderful.” Suppressing her urge to lash out, she politely escorted him out, then retreated to her room, unsure of what to do. Thankfully, Yu Zhimei arrived just in time to knock on her door.

What righteousness? What spending life together? None of those words described her. The man must have flipped open the wrong dictionary. Was she prepared to welcome new love? Absolutely not—despite jokingly saying on Day & Night that she’d rest for a while before venturing out to meet new men. Men were most enchanting in two moments: when flirtation intensified to the brink of consummation, and after experiencing profound loss, yet still gazing at you with crazed devotion—but only when they weren’t your boyfriend. This man possessed traces of both charm and hesitation. Why he hadn’t taken the next step toward embracing new love puzzled Ou Jinghe. All she noticed was the girl in the movie—her natural beauty was undeniable. Untouched girls always felt more comfortable than those altered by plastic surgery.

As for that actress’s story of depression, hearing it sent shivers down her spine. Her first love’s sister still frequently appeared in her dreams. Saying she wasn’t afraid was obviously a lie to comfort Yu Zhimei.