BOSF 032: In the Name of Love

Ji Yan eventually compromised with Lin Yueqin, switching to the science track with a goal of studying information engineering, a popular major.

Ji Qiuyuan, overhearing, chimed in about how great the job was—office work, no manual labor, just typing at a computer with air conditioning and higher pay than he ever earned. Still bitter about his midlife unemployment, he rambled about the past. Lacking education or skills, he’d tried selling noodles at the village entrance but found it unprofitable and undignified. Then he took temporary day jobs but complained they were too taxing for his age. Picky and indecisive, he still had no stable work, now fantasizing about renting a shop to start a business.

Lin Yueqin, frustrated by his lack of commitment, doused his ideas with cold water, leading to frequent arguments. Because of this, they selfishly pinned their hopes on Ji Yan, expecting him to become someone successful with a respectable, high-paying job.

Ji Yan didn’t want their expectations but lacked his own direction. He asked classmates, some of whom had clear goals and worked steadfastly, while most, like him, were clueless and followed their parents’ plans without objection.

In these moments, Ji Yan felt rebellious. But he knew it wasn’t rebellion—it was disagreement with his parents, rooted in growing up in their limited world. He understood their social circle and the kind of people they were, so he resisted their advice, striving to break free and prove himself right.

His compromise wasn’t surrender. He could switch tracks again in his third year if he regretted it.

Putting the issue aside, Ji Yan focused on studying. Good grades meant more choices.

People adapt to their environment. With Ji Qiuyuan’s unemployment fading into the past and life stabilizing, his parents’ fights lessened, no longer as fierce. Ji Yan studied at home during the week, visiting Xiang Yang on weekends.

He photographed Xiang Yang’s origami weekly, posting to the new account. At first, he thought Xiang Yang’s skill would attract admiration, even dreaming of viral fame. But reality taught him to be practical. The account gained followers, mostly handicraft enthusiasts or mothers, as kids loved toys and origami. In contrast, online fame came from looks or talents, often overly glamorized. Xiang Yang’s origami, a niche hobby, drew little attention.

Ji Yan secretly thought posting Xiang Yang’s photo might make him popular but wouldn’t do it. He didn’t stop photographing the origami, though—the photos became memories of their time together. He hoped these would ease the loneliness when he went to university.

After posting, Ji Yan realized they’d never taken a photo together.

He pulled Xiang Yang over, arm around his shoulder, holding the phone up. “Xiang Yang, look here,” he said, pointing at the camera.

Xiang Yang looked puzzled, staring at Ji Yan’s finger. Click—his dazed expression was captured.

Ji Yan laughed for ages, calling him adorable.

Trying again, he taught Xiang Yang to look at the lens. This time, both stared at the camera, but too seriously. Xiang Yang’s usual blank expression showed no emotion, as if looking at anything but Ji Yan was empty.

Ji Yan didn’t mind, reviewing the photo fondly. Addicted, he wanted more.

This time, as Xiang Yang looked at the lens, Ji Yan kissed his cheek. But he mispressed, triggering burst mode.

Ji Yan exclaimed, fumbling to stop it.

In those few seconds, the photos captured Xiang Yang turning to Ji Yan, his expression tender and focused, eyes glowing with warmth under the window’s light.

After choosing his track, Ji Yan dove back into studying. Science, especially math, was tough—it required understanding, not memorization.

He tackled problems relentlessly, identifying formulas, solving, and reviewing mistakes, redoing them later. His method was slow but solid—repetition worked. In the midterms, his efforts paid off, pulling his grades above average.

The math test was deliberately tough, including past senior-year questions. The class struggled; even the top student barely passed. Ji Yan scored half the passing mark, but he’d written formulas beside his answers. Checking against the answer key, most of his formulas were correct—he just didn’t know the untaught parts.

Exams revealed students’ levels and mindsets. Some crumbled under low scores, while others, seeing everyone score poorly, shrugged it off. Ji Yan, having hit rock bottom before, wasn’t afraid. He calmly analyzed his mistakes.

During this time, he noticed Xiang Yang stopped folding his usual animals or plants.

Xiang Yang doodled incomprehensible patterns or lines and brought back his long-lost Lego bricks, assembling and disassembling them.

Ji Yan once thought Xiang Yang had outgrown them, but learned he’d packed them carefully when moving rooms, storing them in a corner.

He used to not understand Xiang Yang’s actions, but now he was starting to. Xiang Yang’s obsession with origami meant he was always thinking about it. Were the doodles and Legos tools to aid his creations?

Afraid to disturb, Ji Yan asked softly, “Xiang Yang, are you planning new origami?”

Xiang Yang, unbothered, replied, “Mm.”

“What do you want to make?”

Xiang Yang glanced at him, pulling out the monster guide Ji Yan had bought him.

Surprised, Ji Yan thought he was joking, but Xiang Yang’s serious expression said otherwise. “You want to fold a dinosaur?”

Xiang Yang didn’t answer, as if unsure how to explain.

The guide featured dinosaurs, sea creatures, and mythical beings. Ji Yan wasn’t sure what else Xiang Yang could fold or if it was possible—paper dinosaurs were rare. Having faced too many practical dismissals, he gave Xiang Yang all his patience and warmth. “Show me when you’re done, okay?”

“Okay.”

A small promise, but both took it to heart. From then on, Ji Yan studied, and Xiang Yang folded—their life’s rhythm.

Time flew, and Ji Yan reached his third year.

He stuck with the science track. Over the year, he realized he had no standout talents or passions, likely influenced by his pragmatic parents. Information engineering seemed fine, promising job prospects. After graduating, he could use work as an excuse to rent a place, and once stable, bring Xiang Yang to live with him. His future plans were hopeful, fueled by his drive to study, as if no obstacle was too big.

A year later, Xiang Yang completed his creation: a pterodactyl.

The paper pterodactyl’s slender legs crouched, body leaning forward, with massive wings spread as if ready to soar. Its lifelike curves and intricate wing folds, supported by precise creases, seemed meticulously calculated.

Ji Yan was stunned, not just by its beauty but by Xiang Yang’s effort. For a year, excluding eating, sleeping, and time with Ji Yan, Xiang Yang focused solely on this, undeterred by boredom. His patience surpassed most—failed attempts piled like a mountain, yet he never gave up.

Not giving up meant eventual success.

Some start slow, struggling, but with relentless focus on one thing, their difference shines over time, leaving others in awe.

Ji Yan’s patience and perseverance came from Xiang Yang’s calm demeanor. Spending time with him, he adopted his habits.

No one was happier than Ji Yan about this work. He took photos from every angle, posting them online proudly.

He noticed Xiang Yang named it “Yan Dragon,” like a child naming a favorite toy—meant for Ji Yan.

A year’s effort, just to make this for him. Another silent confession, in the name of love.

Ji Yan’s eyes welled, but he was too shy to cry in front of Xiang Yang. Blinking, he saw a smaller pterodactyl under the larger one’s wings, as if protecting its young.

Pointing at them, Ji Yan asked, “The big one’s me, and the small one’s you?”

Xiang Yang shook his head, gesturing oppositely. The big one was him, the small one Ji Yan.

He wanted to spread his wings for Ji Yan, shielding him from the storm.