In A Letter on My Desk, Wu Qingchun played Yuan Jianzhong—Shen Yao’s collaborator. More experienced than Shen Yao, Yuan supported him behind the scenes after Shen Yao returned to China and began leading the pharmaceutical research team.

Midway through their work, a major conflict erupted between them.

The new drug they were developing built upon existing foreign research. Although pharmaceutical companies overseas had already released their version, Shen Yao believed they shouldn’t simply follow in others’ footsteps—they needed to forge a path no one had taken before.

Yuan Jianzhong, however, argued that they had already invested enormous manpower and resources. Scrapping it all would be financially impossible. Besides, Shen Yao’s new path wasn’t guaranteed to succeed.

Director Sun Youming didn’t interfere in this scene. He left it entirely to Gu Yi and Wu Qingchun to explore freely.

As soon as he called “Action,” the two men—who had just been calmly chatting—instantly shifted into character.

Sun Youming’s eyes widened slightly, intrigued by the chemistry unfolding between them.

The mood wasn’t confrontational—not at first glance.

The script merely offered the line “a sharp disagreement, intense conflict,” but how that played out depended entirely on the actors.

As Sun watched, he gradually understood the subtle brilliance behind their choices.

Rather than an explosive argument, Shen Yao and Yuan Jianzhong launched into a quiet, intellectual duel. Each refused to budge. Neither could convince the other.

Their disagreement unfolded in silence, through competing research. Each turned away to draft more rigorous theoretical arguments to outmatch the other. Even if they couldn’t change each other’s minds, they were determined to find flaws in the other’s logic.

There was no shouting, but their shared stubbornness and devotion to the work practically leapt off the screen.

Eventually, Yuan Jianzhong took a step back. He allowed Shen Yao to pursue his new method—but made it clear that if any problems arose, Shen Yao must cut his losses immediately.

Wu Qingchun’s portrayal of this moment was especially masterful.

Even as he spoke no words of approval, during Shen Yao’s experiment, he quietly stepped to his side—passing him tools, muttering with worry, “This stuff’s expensive. Try not to waste it.”

And when it was over, he silently cleaned up the lab.

Yuan Jianzhong was the kind of man you might not notice—until he disagreed with someone. Only then did his presence become clear.

But A Letter on My Desk wasn’t a story about just one Shen Yao. It was about countless Yuan Jianzhongs too. Without people like him, Shen Yao alone couldn’t have come this far.

Wu Qingchun’s performance was subtle but powerful. He outlined Yuan Jianzhong’s character with precision and empathy.

His concession wasn’t just a compromise—it was a gamble of belief. He was placing his faith in Shen Yao.

Wu Qingchun wasn’t the type to dominate a scene. He never tried to overshadow younger actors. But when Gu Yi acted opposite him, he felt the pressure.

After the scene wrapped, Gu Yi ran to review the footage.

Thanks to his striking appearance, Gu Yi had always been the visual focal point during the shoot. Especially in scenes where he performed well, he often felt that distinct aura of a leading man.

But this time—watching the playback—one phrase came to mind:

“Completely eclipsed.”

Not that his own acting wasn’t solid. But Wu Qingchun had brought Yuan Jianzhong to life in a way that shone brighter than any spotlight. A man who gave up his own credit, who stood by Shen Yao even when they clashed, simply because he believed in their shared mission.

Such people were rare—but they existed.

Wu Qingchun had made Yuan Jianzhong real.

“Old Wu’s impressive, isn’t he?” Sun Youming said with a smile. “Stick close to him. You’ll learn a lot.”

Gu Yi nodded earnestly.

He couldn’t yet portray emotion with the same subtlety.

Seeing Gu Yi frown in thought, Sun added, “You were great in this scene too. But protagonists and supporting roles each have their own moments to shine. That ebb and flow is what makes a movie.”

Gu Yi had picked up a bad habit on set: he’d absorbed Sun’s perfectionism. Even when the director didn’t call for a retake, Gu Yi would sense something was off and insist on trying again.

He didn’t mind redoing scenes—but lately, he was nailing most of them on the first take.

---

“Xiao Gu, help me with my WeChat.”

Since filming that scene together, Gu Yi and Wu Qingchun had grown much closer. They’d exchanged contacts, and even though Gu Yi rarely posted, Wu always gave his posts a thumbs-up—and never failed to send him an encouraging emoji.

Gu Yi: “……”

He was slowly becoming the favourite of everyone’s parents. His WeChat friends list now had far more uncles and aunties than people his own age.

He also became proficient at Pinduoduo group buying games, and every morning he woke to a flood of energy-collecting requests from his auntie-friend circle.

But being WeChat friends had perks—he could ask Wu Qingchun acting questions anytime. And Wu wasn’t satisfied with just casual advice; he kept pushing Gu Yi to join the theatre and train more seriously.

To Wu, Gu Yi had plenty of talent. What he lacked was foundational technique. He could get by now on potential, but if he wanted to reach the top, he needed to sharpen his craft.

“Xiao Gu, I have a favour to ask,” Wu said seriously.

Gu Yi immediately sat upright. “What is it?”

Given how solemn Wu looked, it had to be important.

“Ahem…” Wu glanced sideways. “My kid wants…”

Gu Yi had a feeling and quickly offered, “An autograph? No problem.”

“…Your teammate Ji Chi’s autograph.”

Gu Yi: “……”

“The first public defeat of Teacher Gu’s career! I’m laughing so hard I’m hitting the wall!”

“I can see it now—Gu Yi’s face in that moment, hahaha!”

Ji Chi: “This is kinda awkward…”

“Let’s each give Teacher Gu one signed photo so next time he’s asked, he can just whip one out of his bag. Save him the pain.”

Gu Yi was mercilessly teased by his groupmates.

In truth, before this film, Wu Qingchun hadn’t even known who Gu Yi was. He only knew that he’d come from the idol world, won first place in some show, and apparently had a big fanbase.

It wasn’t until his kid brought it up that Wu realized Gu Yi might actually be… famous.

He didn’t really get it. If you knew Gu Yi, why not just ask him for a signature? But his kid insisted—Ji Chi was their one and only pick, and asking Gu Yi would feel like betrayal.

Wu: “If only you studied as hard as you fanboy. Did you even pass chemistry this time?”

Kid: “I hate chemistry. That’s why Gu Yi isn’t my pick.”

Wu: “……”

So fluent in English slang, but your English exam score was 86 out of 120, and you forged my signature on it.

Still, because his kid was a fan, and because he genuinely liked Gu Yi, Wu had sat down with them to watch Battle of the Stars reruns.

He still couldn’t appreciate the appeal of idol culture. But he did admire Gu Yi’s commitment on stage.

---

By November, A Letter on My Desk was nearly finished. Shooting had gone faster than planned.

And Sun Youming knew—it was mostly thanks to Gu Yi.

Barring any surprises, the film would wrap before Lunar New Year, and with some luck, it could hit theatres by next year.

The overseas scenes were simple—just fly out, shoot a few exteriors, and call it done. But what remained were the hardest scenes of all.

The most important of them: Shen Yao’s death.

This was the climax, with many characters present. A large portion of the screen time would be shared between Gu Yi and Qi Miao, and Shen Yao’s passing required careful, deliberate portrayal.

It was, without question, the most pivotal scene in the entire script.

Why had A Letter on My Desk become a classic of online fiction?

Why did Shen Yao remain the eternal white moonlight in the hearts of readers?

Because it was a tragedy—and Shen Yao, that impossibly brilliant, tender soul, was the kind of character who could have had a perfect life, like so many other romantic male leads… but didn’t. He chose his tragedy. Willingly.

Death scenes are notoriously difficult to act, especially if the actor hasn’t grasped the emotional depth of the character.

But Shen Yao carried the hopes of a whole generation of readers. For many of them, the idea of seeing Shen Yao—of watching his face, his expression as he met death—was unimaginable.

When A Letter on My Desk was first announced for adaptation, the backlash was fierce. It was only when Sun Youming signed on as director that the resistance began to soften.

Even so, many fans remained unsatisfied with the casting.

Very few novel-to-screen adaptations manage to preserve the magic of the original—especially when it comes to the moments that matter most, the ones readers have reimagined a thousand times in their heads. They simply didn’t believe a real person could live up to it.

The production crew took this scene seriously. There were multiple cast meetings to exchange interpretations and ideas.

Gu Yi, meanwhile, could only bring out his handwritten notes and rely on his instincts when the moment came.

He was under pressure.

He hadn’t been on Weibo much lately, but his DMs were overflowing with messages begging him to do Shen Yao justice.

“You don’t need to be nervous,” said Sun Youming, handing him a bottle of cola. Then he turned to Qi Miao. “Want one?”

Qi Miao waved it off. “No, thanks. I can’t afford to gain more weight.”

The atmosphere on set was light-hearted. The cast was united, focused on filming—free from gossip or tension. So relaxed, in fact, that Qi Miao had put on weight without realizing it.

She glanced over at Gu Yi with envy. Despite spending months in the same environment, he hadn’t gained an ounce.

Life is so unfair.

“Just act the way you’ve always acted,” Sun said, patting Gu Yi’s shoulder. “You’ve got unlimited NGs. Take your time.”

Gu Yi groaned. “Director, that actually makes me more anxious.”

“Like you said before—go with your gut. Feel it out. Just hold onto Shen Yao’s emotions. Layer them deeply, that’s enough.”

Gu Yi wasn’t confident, but Sun Youming had enough faith for both of them.

Acting was the kind of thing that built quietly, until a breakthrough came all at once. Gu Yi might not feel it himself, but as someone watching from the outside, Sun had seen the transformation since day one.

He’d already laid all the groundwork. The moment of breakthrough could arrive at any time.

“Don’t stress,” Qi Miao smiled. “When I filmed my first adult role, it was with the same director I’d worked with as a kid. He used to praise me all the time. That day? He yelled at me until I cried.”

“I was so mad I skipped dinner. But you still have to play the part. You can’t walk away from the role.”

“I got yelled at, NG after NG, over and over. You’re already doing way better than I was.”

“Trust yourself. Trust the script. Trust the character.” Qi Miao clenched her fist and gave Gu Yi a firm cheer.

Once everyone was ready, Sun Youming’s expression turned solemn.

“Roll camera!”

---

The story of A Letter on My Desk began with an experiment—and now, it ended with one too.

Shen Yao was wasting away.

Since taking over the pharmaceutical work, he’d poured everything into it—his mind, his body, his time. The lab was a harsh place to work. Even with the best supplies the country could offer, it was gruelling. And outside the lab, children starved.

It ate at him.

The research had reached a critical point. He couldn’t afford even a second of carelessness.

Sun Youming watched the monitor with razor-sharp focus.

Gu Yi had been anxious before filming—but the second the camera rolled, something shifted. He dropped into character almost instinctively.

He was wholly absorbed.

Shen Yao was so close to success. The tiniest sliver of distance remained. And yet, the door wouldn’t open.

He didn’t voice his anxiety. It showed in the details—his blinking, the unconscious tapping of his fingers, the faint shifts in expression. Gu Yi’s performance had become precise, layered.

No one else in the lab noticed.

All they saw was a man growing increasingly gaunt.

“Gu Yi is… unbelievable,” the assistant director whispered.

To portray emotional turbulence within a character as restrained as Shen Yao—it was immensely difficult. And yet, he did it.

During the final experiment, Shen Yao realized he was on the verge of a breakthrough.

His focus was razor-sharp. He monitored every chemical reaction with a reverence that bordered on prayer.

Then—something went wrong.

In that split-second, the glass vessels reflected Shen Yao’s expression: stunned. It was the only moment in the entire story where he lost control.

But his hesitation lasted less than a breath.

In the same instant, he shoved his lover Yu Ying and the other researchers out of harm’s way.

Then he stayed behind—face pale, mind clear—racing to decipher the rapidly shifting outcome.

But the toxic chemicals engulfed him before he could escape.

The camera lingered in a long, poignant close-up.

Shen Yao stared at his own reaction formula, not blinking once. At last, a faint smile tugged at his lips.

His face was utterly drained. Red veins streaked his eyes. But when he looked out the window, his gaze was impossibly tender—just like when he first met Yu Ying. He had looked at her with that same quiet love.

Only a window separated them now. He knew she was there.

Shen Yao turned with effort, clutching a small folded note in his hand.

And then, he waited.

Until he moved no more.

The set was silent.

A long moment passed before Sun Youming finally called, “Cut.”

“Very good.” He had said those words to Gu Yi many times.

Every scene, Sun thought, This must be his peak. But this time—there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Excitement. Awe.

He loved film because it opened doors to endless possibility.

It could capture life and death, joy and separation, sorrow and love.

He loved it most for moments like this.