The electric fan at Ye Yuncheng’s place had a fairly strong motor, and now there was wifi too, so Fang Zhuo stayed and planned to head back once the evening cooled down.

It happened that Ye Yuncheng wanted her to help give him a young person’s perspective on which direction the short-video content should develop.

Fang Zhuo had a clear sense of her own limitations.

She was happy to give advice. Whether her perspective was actually that of a young person, though — that was another question entirely.

She settled onto a low stool in the living room and slowly scrolled through the account’s published content over the sluggish mobile connection.

Ye Yuncheng’s videos fell into two categories. The most frequently updated were his vegetable-washing and food-prep recordings — filmed, sped up, and posted without much editing needed.

The other category had been processed by Liu Qiaohong: footage of Ye Yuncheng’s daily life at the stall. Things like how Xiao Mu made rice balls, how he was defeated by the simplest arithmetic problems, and how passersby would kindly offer their help.

A few videos had voice-over commentary by Ye Yuncheng himself, and those tended to get more views. Commenters noted how gentle his voice was.

The trouble was, he never quite knew what to say. He always managed only a few sparse sentences, and after answering whatever needed answering, he’d lapse into silence.

Among all the content, one particular short clip had an especially high view count — over three thousand likes — suggesting it had been picked up by the algorithm somehow.

Fang Zhuo tapped on it and saw a pair of bony, slender-fingered hands chopping vegetables on screen, while a low, unhurried voice flowed in the background.

“When I was small, I was curious about so many things — but back in those days, I had no way to expand my knowledge. My parents generally wouldn’t bother with my strange questions. They’d just brush them off and say: none of this is useful. One time, I overheard some boys in my class talking about Dragon Ball — something about Saiyans. I didn’t understand, so I went home and asked my older sister where Planet Vegeta was. That night, she casually pointed somewhere up at the sky and told me: that’s Planet Vegeta right there.”

Fang Zhuo didn’t understand a single one of those references. She searched them on her own phone and found out it was a Japanese animated series.

“I had no way of knowing, of course — there are so many stars in the sky, and I couldn’t remember exactly which one she’d pointed to. But I was enormously proud of myself. The next day I went to school and bragged to my classmates, telling them Planet Vegeta was in that direction. Naturally, I was thoroughly mocked.”

Ye Yuncheng’s voice was steady and unhurried, with a kind of long, flowing ease in the way he told a story.

“I went home furious and demanded to know why my sister had deceived me. She had an endless supply of unconventional logic. At the time, she said to me quite boldly: ‘Our parents gave us our names when they created us. So who gave those stars up there their names? The ones who made them? Of course not. Either way, they’re things nobody can touch and nobody owns — does that mean they can’t take a name you love?'”

“I was stumped. I couldn’t think of a single counter-argument.”

Fang Zhuo found herself completely tangled up in the logic too.

“But children tend to think more directly. I said, you still shouldn’t have deceived me — I was very hurt by what happened today. She said: ‘You’re not hurt because you couldn’t find a star called Planet Vegeta. You’re hurt because you couldn’t make friends. But why would you want to be friends with people who mock you? If a girl ever came up to me and said she knew there was a star in the sky called Sailor Moon, I’d think she was incredibly sweet. Because I’d know she just wanted to be my friend.'”

“Looking back on it now, I think she was actually a very romantic person — not in the conventional sense, but in a headlong, unrestrained kind of way.” Ye Yuncheng said, “So — you can’t make everyone like you or accept you, but you can go find the people who can appreciate you.”

Fang Zhuo scrolled through the comments and found that Ye Yuncheng had been responding to a question from a viewer about relationships and romance.

A young woman had a boyfriend in an engineering field who, on holidays, would give her homemade gifts — carefully made but not refined. She was genuinely touched, but her roommates thought her boyfriend was cheap and self-centered, and didn’t really care about her, which left her confused.

Fang Zhuo read through the young woman’s description carefully and immediately felt a shared sense of indignation with that engineering boyfriend. Borrowing Ye Yuncheng’s elegant phrasing: they weren’t self-centered, nor did they have poor taste — they were simply romantic in a headlong, unrestrained kind of way. Just as she had never once found fault with Yan Lie’s childishness or willfulness.

Fang Zhuo took her phone over to Ye Yuncheng curiously and asked: “Did my mother really say that?”

“She did.” Ye Yuncheng said. “You’ve inherited even her personality.”

Fang Zhuo took it as a compliment and nodded in wholehearted agreement.

“I think you’re very compelling when you tell stories,” Fang Zhuo offered as advice. “You’ve read so many books, haven’t you? Why not just talk freely about whatever — or share a bit of commentary — treat it like background narration.”

The two of them were in the middle of discussing the feasibility of this approach when Fang Zhuo’s phone buzzed. A text message had come in.

The number was unfamiliar and unsaved, but when she scrolled up through the message history, she saw that the contact was Yan Chengli.

Yan Chengli had seen Yan Lie’s social media post and had been mentally adrift for the entire day.

His son never told him anything. The last time they’d been in contact, it was because Yan Lie was concerned about a succulent plant. On his birthday, the only response Yan Lie gave to his well-wishes was a plain “thank you” — as distant as a stranger.

To be fair, even when dealing with business partners, Yan Lie would at least address them as “Mr. So-and-so.”

Yan Chengli, under the guise of casual concern, had left a comment on the post: Who sent this cake? It looks delicious.

Yan Lie ignored him for the rest of the afternoon.

Yan Chengli hesitated at length, then sent a message to Fang Zhuo.

Yan Chengli: Hello. Is Yan Lie in a relationship?

Fang Zhuo replied almost instantly.

Fang Zhuo: More or less.

Yan Chengli was at a loss for words. He sat alone turning those three syllables over in his mind for a long while. Then, just before going to sleep, he sent another message.

Yan Chengli: Do you know who she is?

This time Fang Zhuo had also gone quiet.

He lay sleepless until the following morning, repeatedly checking the messages on his phone, debating whether to add a clarification that he meant no harm.

Around six in the morning, he dozed off briefly, then jolted awake. He reached for his phone on the pillow and found Fang Zhuo’s reply waiting on the screen.

Fang Zhuo: Not well.

Every word Yan Chengli had wanted to say was neatly deflected by those two words.

It was clearly a lie — but he couldn’t call her out on it.

But why? He hadn’t even revealed his attitude yet.

Two days later, Yan Lie came back from City C.

Yan Chengli heard the sound of the front door from a distance and, in an undignified moment of eagerness, picked up his coffee cup and came out of the study to watch his son wheel in his luggage — and simply stood there, staring.

Yan Lie took out the souvenirs he had bought, set them on the table, then gently pushed his father aside to give himself room to sort through his things.

Yan Chengli asked dryly: “Was the birthday fun?”

Yan Lie crouched on the floor, not looking up. “It was fun.”

Yan Chengli gave a short laugh. “And you even managed to start a relationship while you were at it?”

He felt the cutting edge of his own words even as they left his mouth and quickly pulled his lips back down, covering up the sharp smile.

Yan Lie seemed not to notice, and instead said something that didn’t quite follow: “I made plans with my cousin. I’m going to his place for a month as a live-in tutor. I’ll be back at the end of August.”

If he had looked up just then, he would have seen Yan Chengli’s face convulse and his pupils tremble with alarm — but Yan Lie finished sorting through his bag, stood up, and walked past him without a sideways glance, pulling the now-empty suitcase back to his room.

Yan Chengli sat down heavily on the sofa, his expression grave. He set down the cup in his hand. By the time Yan Lie came back out of the bedroom with his things sorted, Yan Chengli’s face was a mask of agitation.

The air conditioning suddenly surged louder. Even that faint shift in sound made Yan Chengli flinch. He stood up and said, his voice coming out rough: “Is there not a single day you want to spend in this house?”

Yan Lie had been about to take the seafood into the kitchen and was confused by the question. “I’m going to work and earn money.”

Yan Chengli turned to face him and asked seriously: “So you’re not planning to use my money anymore?”

“I started a relationship.” Yan Lie said. “I can’t exactly use your money to take care of my girlfriend.”

“You can,” Yan Chengli said, genuinely baffled. “Why not? Everything I have is going to you eventually.”

He made a gesture as though laying bare his heart, and asked in agitation: “What are you doing? Quietly building financial independence so you can cut ties with this family? You could at least ask whether I agree first. If we can’t reach a consensus, we can talk it through slowly. Of course, I hope you’ll find a girl who’s a good match for you — but you don’t have to threaten me with this before you’ve even said a word.”

Yan Lie put everything away in the freezer, went to the kitchen to wash his hands, took a cup from the nearby shelf, and made himself a mug of honey water with practiced ease, then carried it back to the living room.

“Dad.”

Yan Chengli waited for him to continue.

Yan Lie said calmly: “Drink less alcohol.”

Yan Chengli said, exasperated: “I haven’t been drinking!”

In the days before university started, Fang Zhuo had wrapped up her tutoring classes and was searching online for all sorts of enrollment procedures. Meanwhile, Yan Lie was constantly sending her shopping links.

Lielie With a Fierce Name: [Photo] Does this outfit look nice?

Little Sun: It’s alright.

Lielie With a Fierce Name: Then I’ll ship it to you.

Little Sun: Why are you suddenly buying me clothes?

Lielie With a Fierce Name: Mine looks like this. [Photo]

Both items were white short-sleeved shirts — one printed with a sunflower design, the other with a little sun. The styles were very similar.

Lielie With a Fierce Name: Regular couple’s matching sets usually don’t look great, so I looked specifically for these. What do you think — do they match?

Fang Zhuo found that very difficult to answer, and Yan Lie kept pressing.

Lielie With a Fierce Name: Do they match?

Little Sun: They’re a perfect match! [sarcastic]

Lielie With a Fierce Name: [Beyond excited]

Lielie With a Fierce Name: And then I also bought two custom-made hats. [Photo]

The black-and-white hats had two arrows embroidered on them — one pointing left, one pointing right — with the tails of the arrows shaped like an electrocardiogram waveform. One hat read “Boyfriend,” the other “Girlfriend.”

Fang Zhuo suddenly thought of that young woman’s comment under Ye Yuncheng’s video. She wasn’t particularly fond of these hats.

Useless in winter. And who would wear a hat in summer?

Lielie With a Fierce Name: You know, there are a lot of single people in university. [Ferocious face]

Lielie With a Fierce Name: You’re mine.

Fang Zhuo: “…”

Little Sun: [Oh]