Although she had started school early, she had gotten used to acting mature. Ji Ranyou felt that she should do something to express her inner turmoil. Her face heated up as she replied with a simple smile. Watching the typing indicator quickly disappear, she decisively chose to go invisible.

The “4G” symbol beneath her nickname vanished instantly. Gu Chen looked at the enlarged “A” on his screen and could almost picture the flustered expression on the other side. Instead of being annoyed, he softened his gaze and casually typed out the time and place.

[Gu Chen]: Tomorrow is Monday. 8:30 p.m., at the Meow Café right downstairs from your dorm?

Since she had no club activities, Ji Ranyou barely hesitated before typing out a quick response: “Okay.”

Gu Chen chuckled and pressed the voice message button: “Didn’t you just go offline?”

Startled for a moment, Ji Ranyou pondered for a few seconds. As she brought her earphones closer and traced the heart-shaped cutout on her phone case, she replied, “Maybe the system knows my heart… it automatically set it so that I’m invisible to everyone except you.”

There was no voice changer, no auto tuning.

The voice that came through the speaker was soft and warm, carrying a slight huskiness—like a breeze slipping through curtains. It made Gu Chen’s heart itch faintly, his Adam’s apple bobbing involuntarily once, then again.

Ji Ranyou wasn’t denying that she had done it on purpose. Watching the timestamp update and the words “End of the chat history” appear, she hesitated about whether to explain it was just a joke. But just as she was about to, his reply came through—

And this time, she truly went offline.

She took a shower, drank a stomach-soothing porridge of yam, barley, and gorgon fruit, brushed her teeth, replied to emails and private messages on Weibo, then finally climbed into bed.

Outside, the sky was sparsely dotted with stars, and the dim moonlight filtered through wispy clouds, casting a glow on the well-structured yet elegant buildings of West University. It also illuminated Ji Ranyou’s dreams; dreams filled with a deep, lingering voice that echoed like a poet’s soft singing in the stillness of a lakeside night.

The words it sang were: “Me too.”

---

Because of her previous book Huan Sha and its publishing deal, Ji Ranyou’s first instalment of Shi Sha had its sample copies ready in less than two weeks.

At noon, after picking up the express package sent by her editor Yingcao, Ji Ranyou, knowing she had an 8:30 p.m. appointment, didn’t bother going back upstairs. Instead, she booked a private room at Meow Café and ordered afternoon tea, planning to eat a little and work on her writing.

The café’s glass partitions didn’t offer perfect soundproofing, but overall, the atmosphere was peaceful. Soft background music blended with the scent of sweet pastries, luring Ji Ranyou into a relaxed state. She finished organizing her detailed outline, but afterward, found herself completely unmotivated to write.

Every time she tried typing her male lead’s name—Luo Wengong—she ended up typing the same two words instead.

Gu Chen. Gu Chen. Gu Chen. Gu Chen…

Like an unstoppable spell.

As she murmured his name, it lingered on her lips like an intoxicating flavor. Ji Ranyou abruptly shut her laptop with a “snap,” then, giving in to her curiosity, she tapped open his social media profile.

She was curious. She wanted to peek. And there was an uncontrollable feeling bubbling up inside her…

His first post was from two years ago. Most of his updates consisted of daily financial news and six-digit stock numbers, revealing little about his personal life. Ji Ranyou meticulously followed every financial page he had shared.

After counting them, she realized—this guy has bought and sold over fifty different stocks?!

From A-shares to B-shares, from H-shares to U.S. stocks, from small-cap to major indices…

Even though she also studied finance, Ji Ranyou had zero interest in this stuff.

Her long eyelashes fluttered. After a moment’s hesitation, she made a decision—she bought a premium membership just to enable anonymous profile visits. That was what she wanted the most right now.

Even though she normally prided herself on being straightforward and unafraid, ever since that evening at the start of the semester when she had truly met Gu Chen, she had somehow learned to be… cautiously clumsy.

Unlike many classmates who duplicated their content across different platforms, Gu Chen’s social media page felt livelier than his curated professional updates. It was less distant, more like an ordinary college student’s casual musing.

September 17, 2016 – PM280
“I think I’m really eating dirt now… The smog index here is dozens of points higher than in Beijing. Why hasn’t our great nation considered moving the capital to C City?”

June 14, 2016
“Professor Zhang from our Monetary Finance class asked if playing the futures market is a matter of ‘boldness born from skill.’
Personally, I think… it depends on your taste. If you love potatoes, you invest in potato futures. If you like corn, you buy tons of corn stockpile.
This is what they call… ‘People live for food, and food rules all.’”

…

Amusing personal anecdotes, witty takes on current events, even his reflections on classic literature like Zizhi Tongjian—his posts weren’t frequent, nor did they get many comments, but nearly every one was entertaining.

One post in particular caught Ji Ranyou off guard.

“Gave up my seat to a little boy on the bus today. He was about five or six. After his dad settled him in, the boy looked up at me and called me ‘Uncle’ in a clear, innocent voice.
I asked how he figured that out.
He said: ‘Based on height.’”

Ji Ranyou burst into laughter.

That was also the only post that had a photo attached.

The reflection from the bus stop’s advertising board was faint, but she could still make out his height—probably around 180 cm. That was back in his senior year of high school in 2014. So, in the past three years, he hadn’t grown much taller?

A strange sense of superiority surfaced in her mind. Ji Ranyou smirked and continued scrolling, savoring every detail. With each new post, she felt like she was getting closer to him—closer to that whispered “Me too.”

Unknowingly, she had reached the last page of his posts.

As she took a sip of her milk tea through a straw, her gaze landed on the second-to-last post, and in that instant, her entire body froze.

Completely unprepared.

Completely caught off guard.

She had absolutely no reaction at all…

Most people’s last post was a default welcome message from the system. The second-to-last one, however, was often something that had once made them extremely happy or excited.

This one was from 2010.

Six years ago.

Three simple letters. A single heart emoji.

“LWL ❤️”

The voice of Eason Chan drifted from the café’s speakers:

“I want a steady happiness, to resist the cruel end of the world.
In restless nights, I long for a home.
I want a steady happiness, something I can hold with my own hands…
Every time I reach out, I want to feel your warmth.”

His voice was melancholic as always, full of deep emotions.

Ji Ranyou stared at the bright red heart emoji, feeling as if a sharp thorn had stabbed directly into her eyes.

Back in freshman year, she had seen Qin Dai post “LRF ❤️” on her profile, and her roommate had teasingly explained it stood for “Love R&F” (Ren & Fei).

As a writer with a vivid imagination, Ji Ranyou could easily come up with names that matched the letters—Liu Wenlan, Lin Ruofei, Li Weiling… And that first “L” in his post?

It probably stood for “Love.”

And the heart confirmed it.

In 2010, he would have been in eighth grade.

A restless age. A time when young love could bloom. A time when someone could awaken a boy’s hormones and make his heart race.

Suddenly, the café felt suffocating.

Ji Ranyou exhaled slowly, gripping her cup tighter.

Her hands trembled slightly as she took another sip of her milk tea.

Just then, the café door swung open—and she walked straight into a warm, firm chest.