Chapter 15

After that day, Tu Qin hardly left the house except to take out the trash. Since the fourth day of the lunar new year, Xie Zhailing had been going out frequently, sending her messages at appropriate times.

For example: "I’m heading out at 4 p.m. If you have any trash, leave it by the door and I’ll take it down when I leave."

Or: "I’ll be back by 9 p.m. I’m going to the convenience store. Do you need me to bring anything?"

Tu Qin never refused. Whether she needed anything or not, she always replied. Over those days, they occasionally crossed paths. Xie Zhailing had brought her milk and some unappetizing red bean buns twice.

The buns were still steaming hot when delivered.

Tu Qin would transfer money to Xie Zhailing, who, in turn, would hang some fruit on her door the next day when leaving—sometimes an apple, sometimes a banana, just ordinary fruit, one or two pieces.

Xie Zhailing always accepted them.

After a few days of contact, Tu Qin realized Xie Zhailing was someone with a peculiar sense of personal space. Their exchanges were more frequent than typical neighbors in the city, yet they were absolutely not friends.

It felt more like a way for him to express the unspoken gratitude he couldn’t voice.

For Tu Qin, this distance was very comforting.

She had caught him in many awkward moments, and the last time was a bit too close—whether it was when she rushed downstairs to check if he was okay or when he accompanied her along that late-night path. It was too close.

So after returning home, she adjusted the sensitivity of the building’s security camera from high to low and stopped monitoring whether Xie Zhailing was home or when he left or returned.

Her curiosity faded as the distance settled.

The distance Xie Zhailing maintained now made her feel very comfortable.

It even made her think that perhaps he was a kindred spirit.

Someone who was extremely sensitive to interpersonal distance and who would want to leap away once proximity became too much.

Besides Xie Zhailing, Tu Qin’s life remained much as before—revising web drama scripts, serializing drafts, and dealing with Yao Lingling.

Yao Lingling had investigated her new boyfriend’s family background and even surveyed his friends. After confirming there were no major issues, she dove headfirst into the relationship. Recently, she was in a love-struck phase, calling Tu Qin daily on a fixed schedule.

For Tu Qin, this was nothing unusual. Yao Lingling’s bouts of infatuation always gave Tu Qin a breather from the pressures that close relationships brought. During these periods, Tu Qin would prepare outlines and materials for new projects, working on tasks requiring long stretches of uninterrupted time. Life was busy.

The fifth day of the lunar new year was the day to welcome the God of Wealth. The drama crew she was with now had a lead character playing the God of Wealth. The production team asked everyone to share the official promotional post—a routine part of the job. Tu Qin glanced over the promotional copy, found nothing wrong, and shared it on her writer’s account.

That night, her writer’s account began to receive abusive private messages one after another. Checking them, they were all from newly created Weibo accounts that hadn’t posted any tweets.

Tu Qin didn’t pay much attention. To her, being a screenwriter or a web novelist was similar—both were behind-the-scenes work, separated from the noisy outside world by a dimensional wall. She didn’t have a contract with any company; every time she signed a script, it was a personal contract. Sometimes it had to be business-to-business, and the production usually asked the lead writer’s company to provide backing.

So she was unfamiliar with online trends and never imagined this situation would escalate to trending on Weibo within two days.

The underlying cause was still a struggle for prominence.

Before the holiday, when Yao Lingling had injured her leg, the crew had made a major revision to the script. One of the lead actors had scheduling conflicts and couldn’t manage the later filming. So the lines and scenes involving that character were cut accordingly.

Tu Qin was responsible for cutting one of the subplots. Her memory of that time was filled with endless apologies to actors whose parts were trimmed and staring at the whiteboard to connect plot threads.

A subplot intertwined with countless storylines, she had to delete it with minimal changes. In the end, most of the early content remained untouched; only a dramatic rain-soaked punishment scene was cut.

Both Zhang Qin and the director were pleased with this. The chance to take on such a large project was partly due to her work on this revision.

But nobody expected a fan to leak that rain scene. At first, it circulated only in a small circle within the lead actor’s fan community, praising the actor’s improved performance, without spreading widely.

During the holiday, with everyone free, someone noticed that rain scene was missing from the official trailer, and the lead’s screen time was very limited. A fan claiming to be an industry insider speculated that the scene had been cut, and much of that lead’s role had been either deleted or reassigned to another actor, suggesting the production was deliberately lowering that actor’s prominence.

At the end of the year, two lead actors had clashed over the center stage position at an awards ceremony. They had been feuding for over a month, attacking each other online multiple times, tensions running high.

This incident poured fuel on the fire.

Idle fans began to bicker fiercely.

Tu Qin had shared the official post just at the wrong time and was singled out as the screenwriter who cut that key scene.

No one knew if the accuser had a personal grudge against her, but they claimed Tu Qin was just a junior screenwriter who didn’t have the authority to cut such important scenes. Yet somehow, the final script still deleted that scene.

During the holiday, bored fans showed extraordinary persistence. They dug through every trace of Tu Qin’s account—likes on promotional photos, old comments she barely remembered, even defending the screenwriting profession and herself with a few clumsy replies.

Her writer’s account was completely transparent, with fewer than ten followers. She never imagined anyone would excavate so thoroughly.

Some even identified her home address from casual photos she had posted.

Tu Qin was completely unaware of all this.

She had been working frantically on the script revisions and only realized it was already the eighth day of the lunar new year—the day she had a meeting with Zhang Qin.

She valued this opportunity highly. Before leaving, she spent a long time getting ready: a black down coat over a gray wool dress with a half-turtleneck, light makeup, curled hair, and a pair of sheepskin ankle boots.

On her way out, she bumped into Xie Zhailing returning home. He was surprised at her unexpectedly formal appearance, hesitating for half a second before greeting her.

Xie Zhailing: "Going out?"

Tu Qin: "Yeah, going to work."

Xie Zhailing: "The ice near the south gate hasn’t melted yet. Be careful driving."

Tu Qin: "Ah, thanks."

That was the extent of their exchange.

But as she walked to her car, she kept pondering.

She had a strong feeling she had found a kindred spirit because she saw the same deliberate distance in Xie Zhailing’s eyes.

She wasn’t mistaken—most of her past relationships began with such a look: maintaining distance out of curiosity, which ended once the curiosity couldn’t be held back and was spoken aloud.

It was remarkable.

She had never before thought she might have found a kindred spirit—another person who experienced one-sided love and was hypersensitive to intimacy.

And they were both curious about each other.

Perhaps because they were too alike.

Lost in thought, she fished out her keys. As the car beeped to unlock, she noticed a deep scratch on her mint-green car, circling around it.

The scratch was so deep the white metal underneath was exposed. Just touching up the paint wouldn’t be enough.

Her hands trembled instantly.

After the snow stopped on New Year’s Day, she had spent half a day cleaning the car, removing the cover. Back then, the car was perfect.

She had passed by the car each time she went down to take out the trash. At least until the day before yesterday, it was still undamaged.

Shaking, she got in, checked the dashcam footage, and uploaded the recent recordings to the cloud. Glancing at the time, she realized she had no chance to ask the building management for surveillance footage before her meeting.

Silently, she repeated a calming mantra five times, took photos for evidence, called the insurance company to confirm they would assess the damage at the dealership, and finally drove off.

Her mood was severely affected. Her sense of territory was almost pathological, and having her car vandalized felt like a wild animal’s den invaded by a foreign predator.

More than the question of who did it, the feeling of insecurity from her territory being violated was what hurt her most.

Unable to control herself, she drove the car to the dealership first, then took a taxi to the meeting, apologizing repeatedly to Zhang Qin for being about ten minutes late.

Her hands kept trembling.

Her anxiety was so intense the taxi driver thought she was in an emergency and sped through traffic, getting her there on time.

Zhang Qin was truly considerate. As a junior screenwriter, Tu Qin wasn’t even qualified to attend such a main creative meeting. Zhang Qin had introduced her to the chief director and even spoke to the investors on her behalf.

Zhang Qin said, “This young lady is steady. Even with the whole internet turning against her over the holidays, she kept quiet and didn’t cause trouble. She’s carrying the blame.”

Tu Qin was startled but wisely remained silent.

The meeting’s conversation circled around her for about five minutes—criticizing the crew for being unfair, the lead actors for being unfair, but also praising her for putting the bigger picture first.

At the end, Zhang Qin patted her hand and whispered, “The director wants you to keep quiet for now. Once the heat dies down, it’ll be fine. That actor’s schedule is transparent—filming three dramas, plus two variety shows. With that kind of grueling schedule, and everyone waiting on him, his fans are blind but others aren’t.”

“A small-budget web drama, and he really thinks he’s an Oscar winner,” Zhang Qin chuckled softly. “This seems like a loss for you, but you’ll gain more than him. Just wait.”

Tu Qin still didn’t know exactly what had happened. The abusive messages she saw only insulted her and her ancestors, offering no useful information. Afterwards, she locked herself away to work. The group chat no longer asked her to help with promotions, so she didn’t log into her writer account again.

It must have been a big deal.

Most of those in the meeting were industry names, and since they discussed it for several minutes, it was clearly known throughout the circle.

Tu Qin felt torn—her mind split between her territorial anxiety, curiosity about the online uproar, and recording notes for her first large-scale creative meeting.

The work was numerous and varied. She didn’t know what tasks she’d be assigned but was certain this was her stepping stone into the screenwriting world.

She needed to find time to have dinner with Zhang Qin.

What exactly had happened to make Zhang Qin, who rarely commented on actors, mock someone so openly in such a setting—calling him a delusional Oscar contender?

After mocking, Zhang Qin even smiled knowingly.

It must be quite the scandal.

What if her car couldn’t be fixed?

Would the police take the report? The damage must be substantial. Could it qualify as a criminal case?

Tu Qin’s mind was a jumble until the meeting ended. The big shots planned to dine together, and she cautiously asked Zhang Qin if she should skip joining them.

Zhang Qin laughed and waved her off, telling her to go home first.

“Remember, in times like this, losing is a blessing,” Zhang Qin reminded her.

Only once she was in the taxi did Tu Qin exhale deeply and pull out her phone.

Before opening Weibo, she checked her unread WeChat messages. Yao Lingling had sent two, both photos not yet processed—an exquisite starry sky and one from S.

Tu Qin paused and opened the conversation.

S: “When you come back, enter from the north side. Message me when you’re close.”

Tu Qin: “?”

S: “.”