Xia Xinghe was completely unprepared for this message from the reader with the garbled username.
It was true that this reader had accompanied him for several years, but most of the time, they barely spoke. Apart from the early days when he often received their encouragement, in the past two years, they had hardly interacted.
Xia Xinghe always thought about them and would occasionally send messages, but every time, it would take a long time for the reader to give a half-hearted reply, usually just a few simple words, so cold that even the distance could be felt through the screen.
It was impossible not to feel a little disappointed, but Xia Xinghe comforted himself that the relationship between an author and a reader was always fragile. Being able to walk together for a while was already rare; it was natural for people to drift apart.
So when he suddenly saw this message, Xia Xinghe’s first reaction was disbelief. He even double-checked it several times before he confirmed it was real.
He took a deep breath to calm himself before replying.
[@Bamboo: Why did you suddenly ask that?]
Xia Xinghe knew this reader always replied slowly, so after sending his message, he was about to exit the chat. But it was as if the reader had been waiting for him—the other party was online, and the reply came almost instantly.
[@nsxhss0905: It seems like you’re not in a good mood.]
[@Bamboo: ?]
[@Bamboo: How do you know?]
[@nsxhss0905: Maybe it’s just a feeling.]
Intuition—something so mysterious that it’s impossible to tell if it’s real or not. Xia Xinghe assumed it was just a casual question but still felt the warmth of their concern.
That rare, almost-lost-and-now-returned feeling made his heart warm. He smiled genuinely, lowered his head, and typed a few words on the screen.
[@Bamboo: Thank you.]
[@Bamboo: Something did happen, but it’s okay now. I’ll adjust and get back on track~]
After all, it wasn’t something he was proud of, and Xia Xinghe couldn’t bring himself to tell this old reader the truth. He had a bit of an idol complex—he wanted his readers to see his positive, outstanding side.
Normally, the conversation would have ended here. The reader didn’t reply for a long time, so Xia Xinghe turned off his phone and hurried to find a seat on the subway, continuing to process his lingering disappointment.
He absent-mindedly watched the people coming and going when suddenly, he felt his phone vibrate again.
The reader had sent another message!
[@nsxhss0905: If you’re willing, you can tell me about it.]
[@nsxhss0905: Patting head Emoji.]
After a while, he sent another sticker.
A chubby little penguin crouched on the ground, curled into a ball. Beside it, a big penguin reached out and awkwardly patted its head.
It was a simple cartoon-style sticker and looked quite cute—something that didn’t really seem like this reader’s style. Xia Xinghe clicked on it for a closer look and noticed it had a thick watermark, probably something he’d searched up on the spot.
When Xia Xinghe first saw the message, he was a bit stunned. But the moment that little sticker popped up, he suddenly felt like he couldn’t hold it in anymore.
Maybe it was because he had endured too much and desperately needed someone to talk to, or maybe it was because he knew the person on the other end was a reader who had been with him all along. Xia Xinghe suddenly recalled the early days of their connection.
His writing journey hadn’t been smooth. When he first tried to sign with a publisher, he had been rejected by editors multiple times. Later, he was criticized for his immature writing, got attacked, and was rejected by publishing houses for all kinds of reasons.
In his darkest and most difficult times—when he felt creatively drained and even considered giving up—this reader had quietly appeared, asking, “What’s wrong?” and telling him, “I really like your writing.”
Humans are resilient yet fragile. A small thing can bring them to tears, and a simple sentence can give them the strength to keep going for miles.
When Xia Xinghe first started writing, no one was reading. He had no readers. His friends didn’t understand what he was clacking away at every day, and his parents only told him to focus on school. Only this reader said to him, “If you love it, then keep going.”
And because he loved it, he kept going—up until now.
Later, as his readership grew, this reader became more and more silent. They seemed to drift apart. But the feelings from back then were still crystal clear in his memory.
His nose stung, his eyes burned, and his fingers hovered trembling above the phone screen. It was as if a bird that had wandered for so long had finally found its home. His fingers landed, shaking, and typed faster and faster.
[@Bamboo: I’m really… so sad.]
[@Bamboo: Am I really just too stubborn and immature?]
Once the bottled-up emotions found a release, it was like a floodgate had burst—unstoppable and overwhelming.
Xia Xinghe poured out everything that had happened in the past few days—how he had impulsively gone to the headquarters of a film company, how his work was deemed worthless by professionals, how he refused to compromise, yet still wished to see his story properly adapted. By the end, even he didn’t know what he was rambling about. But with every tap of his fingers, the long-stifled emotions spilled out—and then, little by little, faded away.
At some point, his vision had gone blurry. His nose sniffled, and tears dripped onto the phone screen, blurring the text. A gray-haired grandma sitting nearby looked at him with concern, then patted his shoulder and handed him a tissue.
“Young man, what’s wrong? Feeling down?”
Hearing her voice jolted Xia Xinghe back to his senses. After that emotional outburst, he felt a bit embarrassed. He quickly accepted the tissue and forced a smile: “I’m fine, thank you, Grandma.”
Wiping away his tears, he lifted his head and noticed that a few people in the subway car were sneaking glances his way with curious expressions.
His face grew hot. Seeing his reflection in the glass across from him—his nose and eyes red—he felt even more embarrassed and awkward. He anxiously waited for the subway to announce the next stop, and when it did, he stood up abruptly, said a quick “Thank you” to the kind grandma, and rushed off the train like he was escaping.
After leaving the station, the crowd thinned, and the flush on Xia Xinghe’s face slowly faded. He pulled out his phone and saw that—without realizing it—he had sent dozens of messages.
At first, the reader had replied with short messages like “Mm” or “And then?” to show they were listening. But later, it had become a solo performance by Xia Xinghe.
After typing such a long string of messages, he finally calmed down and felt a little embarrassed. Thinking for a bit, he sent two more:
[@Bamboo: Sorry, I kind of said too much.]
[@Bamboo: Thanks for listening to my venting. I’m feeling a lot better now. I’ll be fine, don’t worry~]
He assumed the reader was no longer around. After all, who likes to listen to endless complaints? But shortly after his message was sent, the reader responded again.
[@nsxhss0905: Got it.]
[@nsxhss0905: Your work is really good. A film company will come looking for you.]
What did he mean by “got it”?
Xia Xinghe blinked, then read the next message. He assumed the reader was just trying to comfort him, so he smiled and replied, “Thanks,” not taking it too seriously. The reader didn’t send anything else after that, and the conversation came to a close.
After scrolling through Weibo a bit more and confirming there’d be no more replies, Xia Xinghe pocketed his phone and briskly walked home.
……
Reality’s cruelty lies in the fact that the world won’t stop moving just because you’re sad or hurting. Once you’ve cried it out, wiped your tears, life has to go on.
The overall reception of “A Dog’s Life Among Humans” was good. In the following days, more film companies expressed interest in its rights—but the responses were all similar.
They liked the story, but if they were to adapt it, a female lead and a romantic plotline had to be added.
The companies weren’t willing to take risks, and Xia Xinghe wasn’t willing to compromise or settle. Maybe it was stubbornness, but he rejected every offer that wanted to change the story’s original structure. In the end, he no longer had any expectations for a film adaptation.
The excitement, the hope, the frustration, the regret—all those mixed emotions slowly faded under the weight of reality and the passage of time. What remained was only quiet acceptance.
Time ticked by, and before anyone realized it, the end of the year arrived.
Although some unpleasant things had happened, overall, Xia Xinghe’s year had been fairly smooth. He wrote two stories, both of which had good reviews and returns, and the goals he set at the beginning of the year were all successfully completed. With less than a month until the New Year, Xia Xinghe simply gave himself a holiday to rest. He spent his days eating, sleeping, scrolling through Weibo, and occasionally visiting Bamboo. Life was wonderfully relaxing.
In contrast to Xia Xinghe’s leisurely routine, Bai Qingzhou’s daily life was much more hectic.
At the end of the year, there were many summaries and reports to complete. With his department colleagues taking turns on leave, his workload had practically doubled.
Late at night, while Xia Xinghe was sound asleep curled up in a soft blanket, on the other side of the city, in an air-conditioned operating room, Bai Qingzhou was still fully focused, holding a scalpel in his hand.
Half an hour later, the surgery ended smoothly.
After removing the heavy surgical gown—his clothes underneath completely soaked—he and the others who had just come out of the OR slumped down in the break room, exhausted.
After a short rest, they began changing clothes, preparing to go home.
The day’s work was finally over. Most of them were eager to leave and headed straight for the elevator. Only Bai Qingzhou put on his white coat again and walked in the opposite direction toward his office.
As he turned the corner, a colleague who was about to leave paused and asked, “Dr. Bai, you’re not heading out yet?”
Bai Qingzhou replied calmly, “In a bit.”
“Got a shift?”
“Just writing something.”
“…You’re unbelievable.”
The colleague shook their head in disbelief. “Working on surgeries all day and still this energized—you’re really something else.”
“…You’re exaggerating,”
Bai Qingzhou replied politely, then strode back to his office. He lifted his coat and sat in front of the computer, quickly getting back to work.
The night was deep and foggy, the sky like a dark curtain with barely a star in sight. The street vendors downstairs had long packed up and gone home, and the hospital wards were quiet—even the wind felt rare.
No one knew how much time had passed before Bai Qingzhou finally stopped typing. He raised a hand to rub his tired brow.
On the glowing screen in front of him was a document. The cursor hovered over the first page, and the title bar clearly displayed a few words:
“Commercial Value Analysis of the Film Adaptation of A Dog’s Life Among Humans”
His wrist had gone a bit stiff. Bai Qingzhou pulled his hand away from the mouse and gently rotated it. He stared at the screen with dark, unreadable eyes and muttered to himself, as if dissatisfied, “…What exactly am I doing?”
A notification sound from his phone rang out, and the breathing light blinked. The screen lit up with a Weibo push notification.
…Just an ad.
Bai Qingzhou raised a finger to swipe it away but accidentally opened the Weibo app instead.
He didn’t follow anyone, so his homepage was full of celebrity trending topics, nothing interesting. As he scrolled to exit the app, his finger slipped into the message tab—and as if guided by fate, he tapped into a private message thread.
At the top of the thread was the name: “Bamboo.”
The moment he opened it, a dense stream of messages filled the screen. Bai Qingzhou silently scrolled through everything again, then sighed in resignation.
Forget it.
As long as it makes him happy.
He put away his phone and turned his gaze back to the computer screen.
He wasn’t from a relevant professional background, and his day job was already demanding. Researching, compiling data, and writing that analysis report had taken him nearly two weeks.
Several days later, in the middle of the night under a sparsely starred sky, Bai Qingzhou sat at his desk and finally typed the last word.
He tiredly removed his glasses, opened WeChat, found a certain contact, and sent over the file.
[Bai: [File]]
[Bai: Are you still working in film investment these days?]
[Bai: You might be interested in this piece.]