Over the next three days, Wen Yifan kept to her usual work routine.
Sang Yan seemed busy with something—he hadn’t come back since the night of the gathering. Yet, he still followed their one rule. Every evening at exactly 10 p.m., his message arrived without fail.
Only, the words kept shrinking.
On the first day:
Sang Yan: [Not coming back tonight. Lock the door.]
On the second:
Sang Yan: [Not back. Lock door.]
On the third:
Sang Yan: [Lock door.]
“…”
Wen Yifan’s responses stayed the same each time: a simple Okay.
—
The following afternoon, after returning from an interview with Fu Zhuang, she sat down in the editing room.
Fu Zhuang, who hadn’t had a single day off in over a week, was sprawled dramatically across the desk. “Ah, life is too hard.”
Wen Yifan didn’t even look up. “What’s hard?”
“Old Qian scolded me again yesterday.” Fu Zhuang straightened up and mimicked their boss’s tone. “‘Your edits are worse than dog shit! It’d be easier for me to do it myself than waste time giving you suggestions!’”
“Oh?” Wen Yifan turned her head. “Then let him edit it.”
“…”
“Wouldn’t that save him the trouble?”
Fu Zhuang stared at her for a moment before muttering, “I’d rather suffer through it myself.”
Wen Yifan left it at that. She checked over her script, confirmed there were no errors, then sent it off.
While waiting for feedback, Fu Zhuang started chatting again, this time about the Zhongnan Century City fire. “Oh, sis, remember that interview clip with your classmate? Guess what—I found a weird compilation yesterday, and they used that part. It blew up.”
“Hmm?”
“He even ranked in the top ten searches on a certain video platform.”
Wen Yifan blinked. “…”
“I told you—he’s both miserable and awesome. People online are calling him handsome, cool, and pitiful.” Fu Zhuang laughed so hard he nearly choked. “Even though half his face was blurred, you can still tell he’s ridiculously good-looking.”
Wen Yifan wasn’t interested. “Will it have any impact?”
“Not really, his face isn’t clear. Just funny.”
“That’s fine then.” The script came back approved, so she forwarded it to the host. Rising, she said, “You can download the voice-over later. Let me know if there are issues. I’m heading back to draft an outline.”
“Got it.” Fu Zhuang waved, then added theatrically, “Loneliness—the path every strong person must walk!”
“…”
—
That evening, Wen Yifan didn’t work overtime. After finishing her outline, she went home.
She opened the door and instinctively reached for the light switch—only to find the lights already on.
She paused, scanning the room.
The living room was empty, but shoe boxes had been stacked neatly at the entrance, a small tower of cardboard. The shoes themselves looked carelessly kicked off.
Her gaze shifted to the second bedroom.
Was Sang Yan inside? Or had he come back and gone again?
Without thinking too much, Wen Yifan poured herself a glass of water and sat on the sofa. As she sipped, she noticed subtle changes.
Snacks spilled from the TV cabinet. Several cans of milk powder and cocoa powder lined the coffee table. The dining table held black boxes wrapped in plastic—fruit deliveries.
She let her eyes drift away, silently sighing. This young master really did live on another level.
Out of boredom, Fu Zhuang’s words came back to her. She downloaded the video app he’d mentioned, and by the time the glass was rinsed clean, the app had finished installing.
She tapped open the top-ranked video. Its title included the words handsome, cool, and pitiful.
Suddenly, Sang Yan’s voice filled the kitchen.
“I’m very happy. I hope you can be as happy as I am.”
The phone’s volume was far too loud in the quiet space.
Startled, Wen Yifan quickly lowered it—just as footsteps sounded behind her.
She turned.
Sang Yan walked into the kitchen.
“…”
Wen Yifan slipped the phone back into her pocket, unsure whether he’d heard.
But Sang Yan gave no indication. Without so much as a glance her way, he opened the refrigerator.
She didn’t speak either. Instead, her eyes drifted to the faucet—fixed. The dripping sound that had always annoyed her was gone.
Her gaze moved again. The stove had been replaced. An induction cooker, juicer, and oven sat neatly nearby.
Her chest tightened.
How much was her share of all this going to cost?
“Did you buy all these?” she asked cautiously.
Fresh from a shower, Sang Yan looked relaxed in light trousers and a loose jacket. He ignored her question, pulled out a pack of instant noodles, and tore it open.
Wen Yifan couldn’t help staring. For someone she’d always assumed lived off takeout, this image of him in the kitchen felt oddly out of place.
“If so, can you give me a list? I’ll transfer my part,” she pressed gently.
He answered with a distracted “Mm,” and turned on the tap to fill a pot.
His indifference was obvious.
“Then… I’ll head back to my room,” Wen Yifan said at last. “Just send me the list on WeChat when you’ve got it.”
As expected, there was no response.
Back in her room, she opened her banking app, calculating what she could afford. A sigh slipped out.
Maybe she should bring it up properly with him. After all, if they were going to keep buying things for the apartment, it should be discussed.
But then she remembered his cool indifference just now.
Sigh. Talking to him won’t be easy either.
…
By the evening before New Year’s Eve, she’d grown used to their silence. They felt like two people living in separate worlds within the same apartment.
When her phone rang—it was Zhong Siqiao—Wen Yifan was hanging clothes on the balcony.
They chatted casually, until Wen Yifan stepped into the living room mid-call.
She froze.
Sang Yan was on the sofa, scrolling his phone. Changed and ready to go out, his expression gave nothing away.
She looked away and continued her conversation as if nothing had happened.
…
That night, Sang Yan messaged:
Sang Yan: [Won’t be back until the eighth day of the New Year. Lock the door.]
Sang Yan: [Help finish the food in the fridge.]
Sang Yan: [Thanks.]
As always, Wen Yifan replied: [Okay.]
—
On New Year’s Eve, she stayed home alone. The TV played the Spring Festival Gala, but it felt hollow, like background noise meant for other people’s joy.
Just before nine, the doorbell rang.
She checked the peephole.
Sang Yan stood there, hands in his pockets.
Relief washed over her as she opened the door. “Why did you come back?”
“Relatives came over. No place to sleep,” he said flatly.
“…Oh.” She nodded and returned to the sofa.
He sat opposite her, equally silent.
The room, once empty, felt heavier now.
After a while, Sang Yan rose and went to the kitchen.
Wen Yifan watched him pull out noodles, meatballs, vegetables, and dumplings. She bit her lip, uneasy. Could he even cook?
A few minutes later, the hiss of the gas stove confirmed her fears.
“…”
Before she could decide whether to intervene, his voice called out—surprisingly direct.
“Wen Yifan.”
She immediately walked in. “What’s wrong?”
He stood frozen by the stove, holding an empty noodle packet. The pot was overflowing with pasta.
“…I boiled too much,” Sang Yan admitted at last.
Tossing the wrapper into the trash, he looked up, expression unreadable.
“Want to help eat some?”
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