Chapter 8 — I Won't Wait for You to Return

We stitched the two photographs together, composed a single, shared caption, and hit the publish button at the exact same moment. No hashtags, no unnecessary flair—just a short, deliberate sentence:

"Since some claim we are strangers, let us begin our story from the moment we first met."

Less than ten minutes after the post hit the social media platform, the torrent of vitriol from trolls accusing us of clout-chasing ground to a sudden, jarring halt. Seconds later, the view count began to skyrocket at a dizzying pace. The reversal of a false narrative often requires nothing more than the most elementary of physical evidence. Netizens are not fools. That grey scarf in the photo was identical to the one worn by Gu Zheyu in the still images from his first days on set as an unknown actor; even the minute, jagged flaw in the knitting pattern was clearly visible. That blue thermal flask, too, had appeared in the background of Chu Yan’s laboratory photos countless times years ago. Those leading men had assumed we lacked proof, that we were cowed by their intimidation. But these two images acted like the spark hitting a deep-sea mine. The night breeze swept across the rooftop. My phone screen lit up—it was Gu Zheyu calling from a private number I did not recognize. I pressed accept.

"Qin Zhengzheng, what exactly are you trying to do?"

I looked at the reflection of the moon on the surface of the Erhai Lake, my voice as calm as if I were discussing the weather.

"Didn't you say that we were strangers?"

I let out a soft, cold smile.

"I am simply helping you remember."

6

"Post successful."

I watched the loading icon on my screen finally vanish and let out a long, heavy breath. It was a comprehensive, year-by-year summary. The first year: Gu Zheyu was still an extra, and there was a photo of us together in that windowless basement apartment, with a cheap, peeling poster as our backdrop. The third year: he was injured while filming, and I had captured an image of the hospital bill receipt I paid at three in the morning; the signature line clearly read, "Next of Kin: Qin Zhengzheng."

The fourth year: he failed his audition and sent me a voice message; I uploaded the screenshot of the text-transcription: "Zhengzheng, am I never going to make it? Please, don't leave me."

The sixth year: the night before he received his first award for Best Supporting Actor. In our chat logs, he wrote: "If I win tomorrow, I will thank you right there on stage. Just wait for me to go public."

The final photo was from the seventh year—the very day before the Lunar Festival broadcast aired. He had messaged me, telling me to hide in the dressing room behind the stage: "It’s too crowded and complicated out there. Stay here and be a good girl; don't run around and get caught by anyone."

Each image, each chronological milestone, laid out the undeniable trajectory of a seven-year secret romance. Simultaneously, Ha Nhan hit publish on her end. Her string of evidence was just as lethal. A lease agreement from our fourth year of university, signed by Ha Nhan, with Chu Yan as the joint guarantor. Medical records from when Chu Yan was hospitalized for a stomach ailment during his second year of graduate school, with Ha Nhan listed as the emergency contact. The most biting piece was a screenshot of a text message from Chu Yan’s mother to Ha Nhan: "Nhan Nhan, I received the bird’s nest you sent. Yan is stubborn, so please be patient with him at school. Once he graduates, I will throw you both a grand wedding."

The two posts struck the center of the public storm like heavy sledgehammers. The fans who had been screaming for blood fell into stunned silence. The academic peers who had spent the day mocking us in their social circles went uncharacteristically quiet. The opportunistic marketing accounts pivoted faster than weather vanes in a gale, sensing the tide had turned.