Qi Xi quickly shook off the inexplicable guess that had surfaced in her mind.

How could Gu Yan possibly dislike heavy metal? That was written right there in the “Gu Yan Compendium”! The “Gu Yan Compendium” had been so accurate before, giving Qi Xi so many opportunities to get closer to Gu Yan by targeting his preferences!

But Qi Xi had no time to keep wondering whether Gu Yan actually liked heavy metal or not, because she herself was already like a clay bodhisattva crossing a river—unable to even protect herself.

She’d eaten a bit too much dessert earlier, and now, in this enclosed space, listening to music that sounded like it was hammering directly on her soul, swept up in the screaming and shouting of everyone around her, Qi Xi felt her chest tighten uncomfortably. Her head was spinning, and she felt a little nauseous.

She badly wanted to escape, but she’d agreed to listen to this with Gu Yan—she couldn’t very well ruin the mood and sneak off alone halfway through.

Holding onto that thought, Qi Xi could only endure having her eardrums assaulted, until she felt increasingly short of breath and dizzy.

Just as Qi Xi felt she was about to give out, someone covered her ears.

Startled, she looked up to see Gu Yan, his lips pressed into a flat line, covering her ears with his hands. His mouth was moving, as if he were saying something.

Before, the enormous volume of the rock music had drowned out everything. But now, Gu Yan’s hands blocked out the sound for her, and even the piercing screams seemed to grow distant.

Though Gu Yan was saying something, Qi Xi couldn’t hear his voice, and she didn’t know how to read lips. She just stared at him blankly, her head still spinning slightly, and this sudden quiet left her feeling oddly at a loss.

Gu Yan said something again, but Qi Xi still looked utterly lost. The man apparently couldn’t take it anymore—he bent down, moved the hand blocking one of her ears, and leaned in close to her ear instead—

“Cover your own ears. I’ll take you out.”

The surroundings were still deafening, and Gu Yan moved so fast that Qi Xi couldn’t even catch a trace of it—but the ear he’d suddenly leaned in close to began burning without warning.

Some kind of feeling rose up like the fizz bursting out of a freshly opened can of cola, crackling one bubble after another, until it became an entire dizzying swarm of bubbles, all scrambling to escape at once—too fast to catch, rushing to the surface and popping before vanishing without a trace, gone almost before they could be noticed.

In that moment, Qi Xi realized for the first time that Gu Yan actually had a very pleasant voice, carrying an icy, crisp quality that wasn’t cold at all. Even in the noisiest environment, she could make it out with perfect clarity.

His brows were faintly furrowed, but there wasn’t a trace of impatience directed at her—it was as if he simply wanted to get her out of there as quickly as possible.

In the end, Qi Xi covered her own ears and was pulled along by Gu Yan, weaving through the frenzied heavy metal fans, until they finally escaped the venue like survivors fleeing disaster.

Once they reached the open plaza outside, Qi Xi gradually began to recover.

It was only once they were outside that Qi Xi noticed Gu Yan’s expression looked rather sour.

He was probably still bothered about having to leave early because of her.

Thinking about it, that made sense—after all, what heavy metal fan would be happy about being forced to leave a show early because of their companion’s physical condition?

Feeling a bit upset and guilty, Qi Xi put on a show of nonchalance: “Why don’t you go back in and keep listening?”

Gu Yan frowned slightly. “I’m already out here.” He looked at her. “How are you feeling? Should I take you to a hospital?”

“I’m fine, really. Just let me rest out here for a bit. You can still catch most of it if you go back now.”

But no matter how Qi Xi tried to persuade him, Gu Yan showed no intention of going back in. The man looked at her, somewhat annoyed. “You obviously don’t like heavy metal. Why did you force yourself to keep enduring it in there?”

Qi Xi’s first instinct was to deny it in a panic. “No, I really like it. Today I probably just ate too much dessert beforehand.”

“No. You don’t like it.” Gu Yan, however, was calm and certain. He glanced at her. “Your expression isn’t like that when you actually like something.”

Before Qi Xi could respond, Gu Yan added quickly, “I mean—when a person genuinely likes something, their expression isn’t like the one you had.”

Even though she’d stayed up late trying to fake being a fellow enthusiast, it seemed she’d been found out after all.

A little dejected, Qi Xi’s voice came out somewhat mumbled. “What expression was I making? How could you even tell I didn’t like it? I thought I managed my expression pretty well…”

“In any case, there’s no need to do that next time. Don’t force yourself to stay somewhere pretending to like something you don’t.” There was a hint of reproach in Gu Yan’s tone. “There’s no need to be unconventional just for the sake of being unconventional. Niche interests and popular interests aren’t ranked by status—whatever suits you is what’s good for you.”

Qi Xi thought to herself: But wasn’t that pretense entirely for the sake of bonding with you, the one with the niche interest…

She felt rather wronged. She’d spent quite a bit of money specifically buying tickets to this concert, hoping to grow closer to Gu Yan. Instead, because she hadn’t been able to hold up her end, she’d ended up offending him instead. Looking at him now, he seemed genuinely upset—more upset, even, than he’d looked back at her graduation ceremony, when she’d said all those inappropriate things based on her misunderstanding of him.

The more Qi Xi thought about it, the worse she felt. “It’s because you like it. So I wanted to be there with you while you listened.”

Gu Yan looked as though he were about to lecture her further, but once she finished speaking, the man froze, as if he’d completely forgotten what he’d been about to say. Gu Yan, who was normally sharp and quick with his reasoning, seemed to suddenly lose track of his next sentence entirely.

The man fell silent for a long moment, looking somewhat dazed, before he finally seemed to find his voice again. He looked at her. “Just because I like it?”

Since she’d already said it, Qi Xi nodded, somewhat despondently. “Mm-hm.”

“I don’t like it.” This time Gu Yan genuinely seemed at a loss for words. He glanced at her, then quickly looked away, staring off into the empty space nearby. His voice was slightly softer now, though the irritation was gone. He gave her a look that carried little real intimidation. “Who told you I liked this kind of thing? Did you just imagine it yourself?”

Qi Xi felt genuinely wronged—wasn’t that exactly what the “Gu Yan Compendium” had said? And besides—

She protested, “Didn’t you say yourself it was ‘not bad’ and ‘I kind of like it’?”

Gu Yan paused for a moment, then almost immediately replied with total confidence: “Can’t a person change? I used to think it was okay, now I don’t like it anymore. Is that against the law?”

“…” No, of course it wasn’t against the law.

His fondness for heavy metal could apparently change awfully fast. So why was his fondness for that unrequited moonlight of his so stubbornly unmoving?

Still…

“Since your love for heavy metal can just dissolve like that, it means you never actually liked it that much to begin with. So why is it that whenever the topic of heavy metal comes up, you can go on about it like you’re writing an academic paper? You’re eloquent on every single subtopic, and somehow it all perfectly matches Baidu Baike word for word?”

Qi Xi’s suspicion grew sharper. “Weren’t you actually just as clueless about heavy metal as I was, and you also stayed up all night memorizing it beforehand?”

“No.” Gu Yan denied it almost instantly.

“Then…”

Gu Yan said calmly, “I don’t need to memorize anything beforehand. The reason I can speak so fluently about it is simply because I’m well-read.”

“…”

He glanced at her and emphasized once more, “Staying up all night memorizing things—that never happened.”

Having said that, Gu Yan added, as if it were an offhand remark, “You, on the other hand, clearly couldn’t tolerate it at all, yet you forced yourself to stick it out in there and keep up appearances. Do niche hobbies really seem more sophisticated to you?”

The man himself didn’t seem to understand what was happening to him—the more he talked, the more displeased he sounded. “If you’re feeling unwell, say so early and leave early.”

Qi Xi explained, “I was thinking the tickets were pretty expensive…”

Gu Yan cut her off, his tone serious. “People need to know when to cut their losses. No matter how expensive the ticket was, if your body was already clearly suffering in that environment, should you have kept staying anyway? If I hadn’t noticed something was wrong with you just now, were you going to wait until you actually fainted in the venue before it ended? No matter how large the sunk cost, Qi Xi, it’s never worth more than your own health and mood.”

Gu Yan paused here, then looked off into the distance. “Besides, you and I are on the same team now. If you get sick and have to take leave, my workload doubles too. Taking care of your own health is also a form of respect toward me. Not to mention, if something happened to you while we were working together, I’d be the one primarily responsible.”

That much was undeniably true, and Qi Xi didn’t dare argue. She just nodded repeatedly like she was pounding garlic. “Yes, yes, you’re right. Point taken.”

But driven by some inexplicable impulse, Qi Xi knew it wasn’t appropriate, yet she couldn’t stop herself from recklessly courting disaster: “You sure talk a good game.” She drew the words out unconsciously. “So when are you going to cut your own losses?”

Gu Yan’s brow furrowed, looking somewhat puzzled. “Me?”

“Yeah. Liking someone who doesn’t return your feelings—isn’t that also a kind of self-depletion? Normally, shouldn’t you also cut your losses in time and move on…?”

Gu Yan didn’t seem bothered by the question at all; his mood stayed even. “Those are two different things.”

“Why are they two different things?”

“Because the reason you wouldn’t leave the concert venue was purely because you didn’t want to waste the money you’d already spent on the ticket. It was just about money.” Gu Yan pressed his lips together, his eyes fixed on hers. “But I’m not the same.”

How was it not the same?

At this point, Gu Yan’s gaze had already shifted away from her. He stared at the ground, his voice quiet but steady. “Qi Xi, a person’s heart can’t be controlled.”

His expression was calm—he seemed to have already accepted the fact that the girl in question had no romantic feelings for him. He’d also made an effort to rein in his emotions, showing no particular fluctuation, no visible hurt, no perceptible melancholy.

He was simply stating a fact, calmly and without much show of feeling.

And yet, for no reason at all, Qi Xi felt a surge of irritation.

She didn’t like seeing Gu Yan like this.

She actually didn’t like discussing this moonlight of his at all, not one bit.

But Qi Xi didn’t know what was wrong with her—the more resistant she felt, the more she wanted to bring it up; the more it bothered her, the more she wanted to ask about it, the more she wanted to learn everything about this person from Gu Yan’s own mouth. She didn’t even stop to think about it—this had absolutely nothing to do with her, so why was she so curious? She had no right to be curious at all.

Fortunately for Qi Xi’s peace of mind, Gu Yan didn’t seem to mind talking to her about this topic.

But that very fact was also exactly what left her unhappy.

For him to discuss this so freely with her, without any reservation, probably meant he genuinely thought of her as at least half a friend. That had originally been exactly what Qi Xi had been working toward, her whole goal—yet now that she’d actually been treated as a friend by Gu Yan, she found she couldn’t feel happy about it at all.

Perhaps people really were always greedy, never satisfied, though Qi Xi herself had no idea what exactly she was so greedy for.

The sharpness she brought to her studies never seemed to quite carry over into her own life. She could always reason through a case with total clarity, could take unconventional, incisive angles when guessing at what a client was really thinking—but whenever it came to herself, she was utterly lost.

Her emotions were often like a tangled, matted mess of hair, and yet she couldn’t even smooth out the split ends and frizz of her own hair, let alone anything deeper.

Maybe this was simply the emotional aftermath of eating too many sweets and listening to terrifying heavy metal today.

Qi Xi shook her head, deciding not to dwell on any of this nonsense.

She thought that even though she hadn’t finished watching the heavy metal show with Gu Yan, at least one good thing had come of it—she’d discovered that the “Gu Yan Compendium” wasn’t quite as comprehensive as advertised, and the information recorded in it wasn’t necessarily all that accurate either.

That night, after saying goodbye to Gu Yan and returning home, Qi Xi shared this discovery in the “Cherish Gu Yan Society” group chat—

“Sisters, thank you all for so generously sharing the ‘Gu Yan Compendium’ with me before. As a member of this group, I’d now like to give back some useful information. While it’s true Gu Yan does like pink, does like sweets, and does like durian—about eighty percent of the Compendium is very accurate—he’s actually not nearly as passionate about heavy metal as the Compendium claims. In fact, his liking for it seems pretty take-it-or-leave-it, changeable at any moment, and honestly there are signs he might be trending toward disliking it now. I suggest we revise that section of the ‘Compendium’!”

“I think we should all remember: trusting a book completely is worse than having no book at all. We need to approach the ‘Gu Yan Compendium’ critically, not follow it blindly—we should keep carefully observing Gu Yan’s actual preferences for ourselves!”

Qi Xi wrote an enthusiastic wall of text. She felt that thanks to the trees planted by those who came before, later generations got to enjoy the shade—the senior members of the group had compiled and organized the “Gu Yan Compendium,” which had helped Qi Xi successfully transition from being Gu Yan’s enemy to now peacefully coexisting with him. Qi Xi felt she shouldn’t forget the person who dug the well just because she now had water to drink—she wanted to give back to the group too, contributing the latest information about Gu Yan.

But after all that enthusiastic writing, she didn’t get the grateful response she’d been expecting.

No one in the group praised her, and no one thanked her—because, in fact, not a single person replied at all.

In truth, ever since Qi Xi had joined the group, it had never been particularly active. Occasionally there’d be someone forwarding a group-discount link for some shopping app, but by now, it had been nearly a week without anyone saying a single word.

It seemed that even those once so devotedly loyal to Gu Yan had, over time, abandoned him.

These days, it looked like she was the only one left still keeping the “Gu Yan Compendium” updated and revised.

Love, it turned out, really could fade away after all…