So that’s what all the gifting was for.
He Zheng looked at the bright red message and laughed softly, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. His gaze carried an unreadable meaning.
For the “big spenders,” it was nothing out of the ordinary for a streamer to privately add their top supporter on WeChat. But from an outsider’s point of view, the implication was… more complicated.
If adding each other on WeChat led to meeting in person—what would come after that?
Relationships built on money rarely stayed clean.
He Zheng didn’t respond right away. The “Top Supporter” seemed to waver, his newly built confidence shaken.
He typed again: [Not enough?]
Though phrased like a question, before He Zheng could say anything, another gift storm began. The man went through every single item in the gift shop—every animation, every effect—bombarding the entire stream.
He Zheng watched him quietly. After about ten minutes, the onslaught stopped. He thought the man had finally run out of funds, until a message popped up:
[I hit the spending limit.]
He Zheng blinked, then laughed outright. That was… over the top.
Shaking his head helplessly, he thought—someone this persistent made it hard to keep pretending to be aloof.
So he gave in. “Alright,” he said finally. “Send me your WeChat ID. I’ll add you.”
You’ve added this contact. You can now start chatting.
Once the friend request was accepted, He Zheng immediately initiated a voice call. The man, apparently not expecting such directness, hesitated. The call nearly timed out before he finally answered.
“Hello,” He Zheng said.
There was silence.
At first, He Zheng thought the guy had bad reception—but after a few seconds, he could clearly hear the sound of heavy, uneven breathing through the receiver, each breath more ragged than the last.
He Zheng lit a cigarette, his tone calm. “Why aren’t you talking? Nervous?”
A vibration buzzed in his hand. The man replied by text: [No]
“Can’t talk right now?” He Zheng asked, cigarette dangling from his lips. “Then I’ll hang up.”
“Don’t.”
The voice came suddenly—low, rushed, and young.
He Zheng’s lips curved upward slightly. He glanced at the man’s profile picture, then opened his Moments (feed)—only to find he was restricted from viewing it. But his attention was soon caught by the man’s background photo.
It was a close-up of a tattoo—bamboo inked down one arm, leaves sharp and shaded from deep to pale blue-green. The design looked like a traditional ink painting, elegant yet dangerous.
“Nice tattoo,” He Zheng murmured. “You look pretty street.”
The man replied almost immediately: [It’s alright.]
He Zheng continued, “Can you do the street dance too?”
The man answered instantly: [A bit. Laser rain.]
He Zheng couldn’t help but laugh. The cigarette trembled in his fingers, dropping ash onto his hand. The brief sting snapped him back to reality—reminding him why he’d called in the first place.
He stubbed out the cigarette and cleared his throat. “You didn’t need to spend that much just to add me. I’ll cash out the gifts later and send half back.”
The man paused, then typed: [No need.]
“What do you mean, no need?” He Zheng teased. “Save your money. Buy yourself a phone that can actually talk, huh?”
There was a faint, muffled sound through the receiver—a quiet, stubborn “Oh.”
He Zheng checked the time. It was almost 11 p.m.
“Alright, I’m hanging up,” he said.
Another “Oh.” Then, after a pause: “Good night”
Just two simple words—but now He Zheng could clearly hear his voice. It was clean, rich, and low—not husky, but smooth and full.
“Good night,” He Zheng replied.
……
The next morning, light rain fell. Mist hung over the gray sky. The living room window had been open all night; the rain had blown in, soaking the curtains and leaving the floor glistening.
After washing up, He Zheng mopped the floor, packed up the trash from last night’s cleaning, and carried four garbage bags out the door.
He’d just gone down two steps when a door opened behind him.
A woman’s surprised voice called out, “He Zheng?”
He turned around.
It was a middle-aged woman wearing a headscarf, also holding a garbage bag.
He blinked in mild disbelief. “Aunt Wang?”
“Hey, it’s me!” Aunt Wang’s face lit up with excitement. “When did you come back? Where’s Xiao Wei? Did he come back with you?”
Xiao Wei?
Hearing that long-forgotten name, He Zheng didn’t react at first. It wasn’t until the image of that messy refrigerator flashed through his mind—and he remembered He Linlin saying yesterday, ‘Someone sent you a letter’—that it clicked.
“It’s been ages since I’ve seen Xiao Wei, eight years already,” Aunt Wang went on, talking to herself. “You two aren’t living together anymore?”
He Zheng shook his head. “He left before I moved out.”
“Do you still keep in touch?”
“He sends me a letter every year.”
He thought to himself—though he had never once written back.
“That’s good then. As long as you still keep in touch.” Aunt Wang sighed. “I wonder if he still remembers me. Bring him back to visit when you have time.”
“Okay.” He Zheng reached out his hand. “Give me your trash, I’ll take it down on my way.”
The garbage bins downstairs had just been emptied. The stench of leftover waste mixed with the cold wind, creating an odd, sour smell.
He Zheng threw the trash in, clapped his hands clean, and turned to leave—but after a few steps, he suddenly stopped and looked back at the garbage bins.
Xiao Wei.
It had been a rainy day, just like this one, eight years ago—when he’d found Xiao Wei inside a garbage bin.
He could no longer remember Xiao Wei’s full name, age, voice, or even his face. Back then, He Zheng had just signed with a talent agency, constantly running from set to set. He didn’t spend much time with Xiao Wei. His impression of him was that of a quiet boy who rarely spoke—almost like a mute—who spent his days buying groceries, cooking, and doing housework.
As for when or why Xiao Wei left, He Zheng never paid much attention. After all, many of the stray cats he’d once taken in had also vanished quietly on some sunny afternoon.
When it came to partings, He Zheng didn’t linger on sadness. He preferred to respect and let go.
Still, strangely enough, every time he was about to completely forget about Xiao Wei, something in life—an object, a moment—would appear to remind him: Someone like that once existed in the first half of your twentieth year.