After spending quite some time figuring out how to use the dishwasher, Zhou Mi rushed to the company in a panic shortly after ten.
Ye Yan was once again standing there with one hand on her hip, talking on the phone. It sounded like she was having a dispute with a media company because a KOL had made a mistake.
Her tone was like a powder keg, easily ignited and explosive, without even pausing for breath:
“Can’t even get the ingredients right—is this the professional standard of a million-follower beauty influencer? Do you even review the videos? Do you just watch the beginning and end, then sloppily call it done? When the brand comes to complain to us, I really can’t deal with it. Fix it and upload it again immediately—what? The view count is already over 200,000? I don’t care if it’s 200,000—replace it!”
Ye Yan hung up directly.
Two minutes later, she connected with the client, her tone immediately becoming as soft as pulled taffy, with a Minnan accent taking over: “Yes, hello, it’s like this, we’ve already contacted the PR for little CC’s issue. Yes, yes, I know. The Cherry Blossom Season product doesn’t contain retinol. Little CC probably confused it with your other toner because she’s so familiar with your products—every series is like an old friend to her, so she didn’t distinguish them clearly and wasn’t cautious enough, accidentally making a verbal error. Yes, we trusted the PR team too much and didn’t follow up with the review. I’m sorry, it was our oversight. But I’ve carefully gone through the comment section and all the bullet comments, and not a single netizen has noticed yet. They’re all eagerly participating in the giveaway and praising how ANNO’s spring gift box is stunningly beautiful, and they want to buy it immediately. Also, I’ve already asked them to urgently edit it, and they’ll cut out that small segment and reupload it before eleven…”
After appeasing the client, Ye Yan collapsed back into her swivel chair, nearly turning her beautiful hair into a messy haystack.
She closed her eyes briefly, replayed the paused video on her computer, rewound it, took a screenshot of the timeline below, sent it to WeChat, typed furiously like a string of firecrackers, and only then managed to calm down somewhat, picking up her cup to take a sip of water.
Zhou Mi stared at her without blinking.
Ye Yan exhaled and turned her eyes toward her.
Zhou Mi immediately said good morning, put down her bag, and opened the document on her computer.
Ye Yan laughed lightly: “Mimi, this will be your daily routine, and sooner or later you’ll develop a split personality and die from overwork.”
Zhou Mi’s gaze froze for a moment as she looked at her: “I definitely can’t handle it as well as you do.”
Ye Yan propped her head up, her face showing fatigue that even her exquisite makeup couldn’t hide: “I’ve only slept for a little over three hours since last night because of this issue. ANNO isn’t even supposed to be my responsibility; I’m just a temporary rescue team member.”
Zhou Mi didn’t know how to comfort her: “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“It’s fine,” Ye Yan curled her lips, as if trying to cheer herself up, but her eyes quickly turned red, and she choked out in a tiny voice: “My boyfriend had a fight with me and moved out in the middle of the night, saying I only care about work and not him.”
She took a tissue from Zhou Mi’s desk and carefully dabbed the moisture from the corners of her eyes: “What would a day-wasting second-generation demolition heir from a state-owned enterprise know?”
Zhou Mi was speechless, seemingly able to empathize with Ye Yan’s sadness and helplessness.
She suddenly remembered something, turned around to rummage through her drawer, and pulled out a piece of Fujiya double chocolate, offering it with both hands.
“You’re so sweet,” Ye Yan sniffled, accepting it. “Thank you.”
She put it back on the desk and leaned in, pointing at the corners of her eyes with her two index fingers: “Can you check if my eye makeup is smudged?”
Zhou Mi looked carefully: “The eyeliner is a little bit, but the rest is fine.”
“Good, thank you.” Ye Yan opened a mirror to fix her eye makeup and also applied a thick layer of lipstick. When she turned her head to discuss work matters, she had transformed back into a shining female warrior in full armor—the flawless, unstoppable kind.
Adult life is just like that. Vulnerability must be brief, breakdowns must be brief. Even the largest negative emotions can only be trampled through like small puddles after a sudden storm. Getting some mud stains is inevitable, but they must never become a swamp to wallow in.
—
Today was the first day of the official release of ANNO’s Spring Cherry Blossom Box on their official blog.
Zhou Mi also carefully checked whether there were any omissions in each platform and each KOL’s warm-up videos.
Although she stayed at her workstation all day, her brain was spinning rapidly like a top, and lunch was eaten extremely hastily. In a momentary lapse of concentration, she uncontrollably wondered if Zhang Lian had gone through the same process—like Ye Yan, like herself—through countless trials and errors, sacrifices and gains, before becoming as skillful and effortless as he was now.
As the sun was setting, Yuan Zhen visited Ye Yan’s workstation, saying that the brief from K’s had been sent to her email, and asked if she had seen it.
Ye Yan looked up: “I received it but haven’t looked at it in detail yet.”
“Hurry up and get organized,” Yuan Zhen urged. “The pitch for the Dragon Boat Festival food bucket is either early next month or mid-month. This time we’re dealing with a new director from their media sharing department, whom we’re not familiar with yet, so don’t slack off.”
“I’m going to puke,” Ye Yan was straightforward about her headache whenever she heard about this fast-food brand.
Yuan Zhen chuckled: “Are you pregnant?”
Ye Yan snorted coldly: “If I were pregnant, that would be great—I could reasonably resign. Unfortunately, my polycystic ovaries won’t allow it.”
“Who doesn’t want that?” Dropping these words, Yuan Zhen smiled and left.
Zhou Mi eavesdropped silently, her feelings difficult to express.
Ye Yan returned to checking her emails, yawned, and muttered: “Why did I choose to stay in the food and lifestyle group? In two years, I’ve hit this tough bone called K three times…”
Zhou Mi asked curiously: “Don’t you like eating at K? That’s K, you know.”
“That’s K, you know!” Ye Yan exaggeratedly mimicked her tone, then quickly slumped her face and spoke earnestly: “Child, I used to love and adore it too. Once you get involved, you’ll understand that hobbies shouldn’t become work. Now, when I pass by their stores in the mall, my stomach acid surges reflexively—like a cat that’s been licking itself diligently for years only to cough up a stomach full of hairballs.”
Zhou Mi: “…?”
She glanced at Zhou Mi, smiling mischievously: “Want to try? Want to challenge yourself?”
Zhou Mi frowned: “Huh?”
Ye Yan stared at her like the leader of a pyramid scheme, her eyes gleaming, almost reaching out a hand: “Come on, join the K team, feel the pounding and torment of love and hate.”
Zhou Mi, of course, couldn’t ask for more.
—
Around seven o’clock, perhaps wanting to reward the troops before the big battle or needing to distract herself from her love life setback, Ye Yan bombarded the team group chat, asking if anyone wanted to go out for karaoke and drinks tonight.
Zhou Mi had just submitted her daily report and opened the group to see many people agreeing and starting to discuss which venue to go to.
Having maintained the same sitting posture all day, Zhou Mi felt her waist about to fall apart. She was a bit torn between going home to rest and joining the fun.
Ye Yan had already enthusiastically moved closer, linking arms with her and tapping rapidly: “Mi, want to go have fun with us?”
The situation no longer allowed her to think too much or politely decline, and she didn’t want to spoil the mood.
The ten-person karaoke group went downstairs together. Jiang Shi was also there. After a brief eye contact, the young man smiled, making Zhou Mi feel so awkward that her scalp tingled. She could only move closer to Ye Yan and Tao Ziyi, using them as shields.
The chosen venue was a trendy retro nightclub near the company.
It wasn’t the popular Western vintage style but Chinese retro. The private room was decorated in the style of a 70s-80s dance hall—weathered white walls, aged phonographs, rough tables and chairs that looked like they might collapse at any moment, and artificially aged peeling sofas. Beer was poured into large red peony hot water thermoses. Classic old songs played in a medley, and even the crowd twisting on the dance floor outside was surprisingly uniform, like they were doing square dancing or group exercises.
Yet its popularity was unbelievably high.
Probably because just drinking was too boring and monotonous, Ye Yan ordered some fruit platters and snacks.
The spinning disco ball painted the entire room like a colorful galaxy, making one dizzy.
A SAD colleague with an outgoing personality was also there. He chose Miriam Yeung’s “Kisses Everywhere,” raising the microphone high, animated, throwing flirtatious glances at everyone after finishing each line, bringing the room’s atmosphere to a climax with his great stage presence.
As always, Zhou Mi shrank into a corner, quietly sipping her drink, trying to minimize her presence as much as possible.
After a while, Ye Yan sneakily brought forward some used tissues as “flowers,” only to have them thrown back.
The whole room erupted in laughter.
Zhou Mi also laughed, leaning back against the sofa.
As she leaned forward to put down her enamel cup, she vaguely sensed someone glancing in her direction. Looking sideways, she saw it was Jiang Shi from the diagonal sofa.
The young man smiled at her.
Jiang Shi looked quite good, with clean and handsome features. When he smiled, it was like seeing the first light of dawn.
But to Zhou Mi, it was no different from accidentally touching a still-warm piece of white gum on a park bench.
She quickly lowered her eyes, her lips pressed into a straight line, and picked up her cup with both hands to sip her drink, not daring to glance around randomly.
When the song ended, Jiang Shi left his seat and went to the song selection panel to choose Teresa Teng’s “Sweet As Honey.”
Several male colleagues howled, and the atmosphere exploded.
“God, I can’t stand it,” Tao Ziyi, beside Zhou Mi, clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Everyone knows our little sister Mi has the sweetest smile.”
Ye Yan was already drunk, her behavior and thinking somewhat out of control. With flushed cheeks and a face full of smiles, she ran over and forcefully stuffed another microphone into Zhou Mi’s hand: “Mi, don’t just sit there stupidly! Sing with Jiang Shi!”
Zhou Mi was at a loss and unable to resist, so she could only hold it reluctantly.
Like gripping a short, hard black punishment rod, she sat rigidly, not moving.
And all the female colleagues around her began to sway and clap.
“You need to cooperate, be part of the group, life is about not having control,” Zhou Mi silently chanted to herself, repeating it N times. Finally, she slightly parted her lips and squeezed out dry, bitter singing from her throat: “It’s you~ It’s you~ The one I dreamed of is you…”
“Stand up!” Ye Yan’s shout was like thunder from a clear sky.
Zhou Mi jumped up from the sofa as if her bottom were on fire.
Jiang Shi walked over proactively, kindly extending a hand, raising his eyebrows, seemingly wanting to invite her to the front of the big screen, making them the center and protagonists of the scene.
Zhou Mi curved her lips and followed, slowly crossing a bright yellow warning line that only she could see. But from then on, her arms and legs no longer seemed to belong to her, nor did her expressions.
For a second, amid the room’s enthusiastic and joyful love song chorus, Zhou Mi’s throat choked up, almost tearful, but she quickly controlled herself. Two voices in her brain were screaming and wrestling with each other. One was contemptuous: How pretentious are you? If everyone else can do it, why can’t you? The other might have been in tears or red-faced with anger: Haven’t I already stood up? Haven’t I already started singing? Why do you still criticize me like this?
A terrible experience.
But also a necessary one.
——
After ten o’clock, Zhang Lian finished sending off a client from the hotel and wandered through the streets of Hong Kong.
A beautiful, classical general store at the corner caught his eye.
The owner was about to close up, but seeing a tall, handsome man come in, he hung the keys back on the wall and skillfully greeted him.
The shop was narrow, the lights warm yellow, like a magical encounter scene from a Miyazaki film. Many vintage trinkets were displayed on shelves and walls—mid-century jewelry, vinyl records, small delicate cups and plates, exquisite music boxes and candy jars, even Showa-era dolls.
The owner asked in the local dialect what he wanted to buy.
Zhang Lian replied in Cantonese that he was just looking.
The owner nodded and asked him to take his time.
In the end, he unhurriedly picked out a bunch of items.
They were things a girl would like, and he had good taste. While packaging, the owner smiled and asked, “For your girlfriend?”
Zhang Lian paused, then shook his head.
The owner, understandingly, switched to a more elegant gift box and handed over a small card printed with rose gold water patterns, pointing to a pure black fountain pen on the counter: “Would you like to write something?”
Zhang Lian said, “No need.”
While paying, Zhang Lian glanced at the time on his phone. After leaving with the bag, he opened WeChat again and saw a red dot on his Moments status bar, apparently from Ye Yan’s profile.
He clicked in and was surprised to find his Moments feed flooded with Ye Yan’s short videos. They were all dark and appeared to be from a bar. One was captioned: “Our company’s golden couple singing a sweet duet.”
Zhang Lian stopped under a European-style streetlight and played with it. Sure enough, he saw Zhou Mi in it.
Dappled lights slid by as the girl stood woodenly in front of the screen, clutching the microphone with both hands, like a doll with malfunctioning ball joints. During the chorus, she stiffly turned her head once to cooperate with the gaze, while Jiang Shi beside her was as immersed as if he were competing in a campus singer competition, with rich body language.
Zhang Lian watched it once more, then exited.
His brow slightly furrowed as he opened his contacts.
—
The phone in her pocket suddenly vibrated strongly, like a lifeline. Zhou Mi hurriedly handed the microphone to someone else and returned to the sofa.
Tao Ziyi, beside her, was already bleary-eyed and drunk. As soon as she saw Zhou Mi return, she flopped onto her shoulder, hiccupping while continuing to sing incoherently. Zhou Mi took out her phone, startled by the name “Zhang Lian” on the screen, and hastily flipped the phone back onto her leg.
She took a deep breath, used her hand to gently move Tao Ziyi’s head away, and clutched her phone as she quickly walked out of the private room.
She went to a quieter area near the bathroom and answered the call.
Zhang Lian got straight to the point: “Still outside?”
Zhou Mi replied: “Yes,” then asked curiously, “How did you know?”
Zhang Lian said, “I saw Ye Yan’s short video.”
Zhou Mi’s gaze wavered slightly, but she didn’t speak.
Zhang Lian said, “Take a taxi home.”
Zhou Mi turned to look toward the private room: “The others haven’t left yet.”
Zhang Lian said, “If you can’t bear it anymore, just leave.”
Zhou Mi said, “Isn’t it good to leave early?”
Zhang Lian said, “There’s nothing wrong with it. Just say your parents called. The gathering will continue without you.”
Zhou Mi was silent for two seconds: “Oh, I understand.”
Zhang Lian added, “Social activities aren’t meant for you to give up your boundaries. In the future, if you don’t want to sing, don’t sing.”
Zhou Mi was startled: “How did you know I didn’t want to sing?”
Zhang Lian replied: “It was written all over your face. Do you think others can’t see it?”
Zhou Mi was stunned again, feeling inexplicably sour in her heart.
She sniffled: “Then how should I refuse? In that situation, should I say ‘Sorry, I don’t want to sing’?”
Zhang Lian said, “Whoever hands you the microphone, just hand it back. Tell them, ‘Sorry, I’m not good at this type of song,’ or ‘You sing so well solo, if I join you I’ll affect your performance and make you off-key, which wouldn’t be good,’ or ‘I really want to sing this song, but unfortunately I caught a cold yesterday and my throat is uncomfortable, next time we’ll sing together’—there are techniques to refusing.”
Zhou Mi digested this: “But over time, won’t people think I’m not fun to be around and difficult to get along with?”
Zhang Lian didn’t agree with this: “Zhou Mi, constantly pleasing and compromising will only make you continuously self-consume and be less respected. Let everyone understand your thoughts and know your boundaries, so next time they won’t approach you for such things. Your leader isn’t someone who likes to force people, and your company values individuality.”
Zhou Mi lowered her eyelids halfway, feeling a bit aggrieved: “Actually, I’ve already told Jiang Shi that this is troublesome for me.”
Zhang Lian said, “Then refuse simply and effectively.”
Zhou Mi pondered for a moment: “Next time, can I say—” She suddenly stopped.
Zhang Lian: “What?”
Zhou Mi softened her tone, the second half almost muttered, like milk with fine sugar simmering over low heat, quietly bubbling: “I don’t want my… boyfriend to be unhappy.”
The phone was quiet for two seconds, feigning confusion: “Your boyfriend? Who?”
Zhou Mi’s heart beat slightly faster as she spoke ambiguously: “Just… a Schrödinger’s… boyfriend.”
The other end laughed: “Whatever you want. Call me back when you get home. Bye.”