Chapter 8: 008
After a steaming bowl of noodles, Qi SiJia’s fatigue vanished.
She placed the dishes in the dishwasher and headed to her study.
The study walls were also peeling. As she opened the door, two flakes of paint fluttered down.
Stepping over the debris, she sat at her computer.
She planned to take a long break.
Qi SiJia was a full-time author, relatively well-known on the Yuri reading platform. Her current novel, “Submerged,” explored themes of growth.
It was a small-town, realistic story with a melancholic tone and a tragic ending.
Statistically, tragic novels had a smaller audience and lower earnings. Happy endings were the norm on the platform.
This was Qi SiJia’s passion project.
She hadn’t expected much readership, but the vivid imagery and heart-wrenching plot had readers hooked, crying and clamoring for updates. Ninety-nine out of a hundred comments urged her to update faster.
Popularity sometimes depended on luck. Qi SiJia’s novel, combining web novel style with tight, screenplay-like pacing, was not only tragic but also realistic and deeply resonant, gaining increasing attention and enthusiastic recommendations on various platforms.
Before “Submerged” was even finished, Huanmei Publishing had inquired about the publishing rights, and then came the film rights.
Due to the niche genre, no other author on the platform had ever been approached for film adaptation.
With multiple rights offers, Qi SiJia had planned to focus on finishing the novel before addressing her health, but now she had to put it on hold. Her emotional state might lead to an even more tragic ending, potentially harming the adaptation.
The publishers wanted an open ending to appeal to a wider audience.
Writing depended heavily on the author’s emotional state. Forcing herself to write while feeling down would produce something incongruent with the story’s core. Even if readers were satisfied, Qi SiJia would regret it later.
So she preferred to take a break and sort out her feelings.
Opening the familiar website, she logged into her author account, greeted by dozens of messages urging her to update.
She’d fallen asleep last night with a cold, forgetting to post a notice. Qi SiJia touched her cheek, opened her author dashboard, and sent apology red packets to every reader in the comments section.
Then she posted a notice:
[Broken up and dumped, feeling down, taking a month off.]
The comments exploded.
Qi SiJia scrolled through them, starting from the bottom.
“Whoa, dumped again…”
“Help, it’s so good, why is it serialized?”
…
New comments flooded in, and Qi SiJia read each one, finding almost no negative feedback.
Most of her readers were like companions, offering words of comfort despite being strangers connected only by the internet.
Even though Qi SiJia frequently took breaks due to breakups, her reader base remained supportive.
“Crying.”
“Waiting for your return.”
“Patiently waiting.”
“Checking in every day to see if you feel bad about not updating.”
…
Qi SiJia scrolled to the top, her hand aching. Just as she was about to relax, a new comment popped up.
“What? A month off? Please, Author, can you just stop dating? Learn from my goddess Meng Jiang and embrace being single. Sobbing uncontrollably.”
This comment, posted just three minutes ago, had already garnered a surprising number of replies.
The third reply linked to a post from Meng Jiang’s fan forum, where fans had compiled evidence suggesting the existence of the “Miss Q” Meng Jiang had mentioned.
“The original poster clearly doesn’t follow trending topics.”
“Well said, but please don’t use Meng Jiang to encourage the author to give up on love. The singlehood circle had a meltdown yesterday. My goddess admitted to having loved and lost.”
“Click here for #MengJiangAdmitsRelationship and #MengJiang’sFirstLoveMissQ.”
…
Qi SiJia’s hands trembled. She had social anxiety, but she wasn’t completely out of touch.
Celebrity fan culture was unfamiliar to her.
Meng Jiang was incredibly popular. Her casual mention of her first love could lead obsessive fans to uncover Qi SiJia’s identity.
Qi SiJia avoided the spotlight. She disliked social interaction and being the center of attention.
If her identity as Meng Jiang’s first love was revealed, the harassment from anti-fans would be a disaster.
She hadn’t contacted or followed Meng Jiang for years. They were unaware of each other’s lives.
If Meng Jiang hadn’t appeared yesterday, Qi SiJia would have almost completely buried those memories.
Forgotten her existence.
Presumably, Meng Jiang felt the same. They had a tacit agreement: no contact, no meetings after the breakup. This was the most respectful way to handle things.
The only anomaly was yesterday. Qi SiJia hadn’t initiated contact, but she did tell Meng Jiang to be careful.
After years of peace, Meng Jiang’s sudden mention of Miss Q was unsettling.
Qi SiJia scrolled through search results, hoping the matter wouldn’t be further investigated.
She clicked on the link in the comments.
Fortunately, there were many posts speculating about Miss Q, creating online buzz, but nothing concrete, no information about her. Meng Jiang’s team must have done damage control.
The comments were full of speculation.
Some accused Miss Q of cheating and playing with Meng Jiang’s feelings.
Others theorized that Meng Jiang’s avoidance of Ning Cheng stemmed from something Miss Q had done, causing her to resent the entire city.
Most fans believed that Meng Jiang’s candidness about her first love meant she had moved on.
These various theories trended online, but Meng Jiang herself remained silent.
As the woman who had dumped Meng Jiang, Qi SiJia found only one compelling theory, originating from Meng Jiang’s fan forum.
A dedicated fan had compiled all possible clues related to Miss Q from Meng Jiang’s public appearances over the years.
For example, in 2019, after accepting an award for “First Love at 20” at the Berlin Film Festival, Meng Jiang had paused before leaving the stage, her lips seemingly mouthing the words, “Thank you to her as well.”
In 2020, during a Spring Festival Gala skit, Meng Jiang wore a hat with the letter “Q.” Later, during an interview, she touched the brim of the hat, her eyes crinkling with a smile as she said, “Happy New Year.”
Her fingers seemed to be tracing the shape of the “Q.”
In 2021, during a fan meeting for the disaster film “Gridlock,” a reporter asked, “Why did you choose to star in this niche film, which might face censorship risks?”
Meng Jiang had better offers at the time, including a film by a renowned Hollywood director, yet she chose “Gridlock.”
During the interview, her legs crossed, she looked at the camera, a smile playing on her lips: “Because someone likes this kind of story, and after watching it, they’ll fall in love with me.”
…
The post listed over a hundred clues. In the early years of her career, Meng Jiang never mentioned Miss Q directly, yet her words seemed to hint at a lingering affection.
There had been no clues in the past two years, and the post’s author concluded: Every hint Meng Jiang dropped was a silent plea for reconciliation, all ending in vain. Perhaps she had finally given up, her grief turning into silent acceptance.
Qi SiJia closed the post, her heart heavy.
Returning to the comments section, she saw a reader ask: “Could Meng Jiang still be hung up on Miss Q?”
Qi SiJia replied: “No.”
As soon as she posted the comment, her top fan, “Rich Flower,” tagged her: “Why not?”
Qi SiJia glanced at the question, said nothing, and exited the comments section.
Because they had broken up long ago. If Meng Jiang still had feelings, she wouldn’t have chosen her career over their relationship so decisively.
A clean break was necessary to avoid future turmoil.
This was a lesson Qi SiJia had learned from her parents’ twenty-year struggle between career and family. So why would someone as career-driven as Meng Jiang look back at a discarded first love?
And even if Meng Jiang did, Qi SiJia wouldn’t be waiting.
They were from different worlds now. It had taken Qi SiJia a long time to move on.
Bringing this up now, she had already let go.
Qi SiJia had assumed their mutual silence and lack of contact was a tacit understanding.
Meng Jiang’s mention of her yesterday had caused her distress. She hoped the matter would be resolved quickly.
As she was considering calling Qi Jun to have her university records sealed, her phone rang.
An unknown number. Qi SiJia didn’t expect it to be Meng Jiang.
“Qi SiJia?”
Meng Jiang’s voice was distinctive, a mature, husky tone.
Qi SiJia recognized it immediately: “Speaking.”
“This is Meng Jiang.”
“I know.”
A brief pause, then a soft chuckle: “This is a bit presumptuous, but could you add me on WeChat?”
Qi SiJia: “Hmm.”
“Hmm?”
Perhaps influenced by the online theories about Meng Jiang’s lingering feelings, Qi SiJia’s mind went blank, and she instinctively pursed her lips.
She hadn’t expected Meng Jiang to actually still harbor feelings.
Qi SiJia’s tone hardened: “That might not be appropriate.”
“Do you want your fans to find out about me?”
On the other end, Meng Jiang paused, then burst into laughter.
“Qi SiJia,” she said, as if amused, “What are you thinking?”
“I was drunk during the interview yesterday. I apologize for mentioning you. I’ve already instructed my team to remove all related information. If you have any further concerns, feel free to contact me.”
“Oh,” Qi SiJia said, “Then why do you want my WeChat…?”
“You don’t think I want to get back together, do you—” Meng Jiang’s voice was slow, the drawn-out ending carrying a playful lilt.
Qi SiJia, sitting at her desk, her long hair falling around her face, suddenly felt warm, pushing her hair back.
“No?” she asked softly.
“Don’t even think about it,” Meng Jiang said disdainfully.
Qi SiJia breathed a sigh of relief: “That’s good to hear.”
Silence on the other end for three seconds. Perhaps offended by the implication, Meng Jiang went straight to the point, explaining the waiter’s request after Qi SiJia had left Huaqing Garden yesterday.
“My phone number is the same as my WeChat ID. Add me, and I’ll transfer the money to you.”
Couldn’t she transfer it via Alipay or bank card?
Qi SiJia opened her mouth to ask, but the call ended abruptly.
…
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