Chapter 17 – My Life Is Over

As soon as this episode of Supernova aired, Zhuang Lin’s popularity skyrocketed.

Meanwhile, Guan Lan’s reputation remained a mix of fans and haters.

Some people believed that the whole “friendship special” and “friends” narrative was just a cover. They thought Guan Lan was using his new artist to gain attention, going so far as to sell homosexual undertones to boost the rookie’s fame, even having Zhuang Lin carry him across a river. As an industry heavyweight, shouldn’t he have some dignity?

Then came the familiar trio of criticisms: “He’s run out of talent,” “He’s cashing in on the hype,” and “The music industry is doomed.”

Oh, and let’s add one more: “Expanding his harem.”

Guan Lan had grown accustomed to being bashed. At first, he didn’t understand why people thought he had no dignity just because Zhuang Lin carried him across a river. But after watching the episode, he realized the production team’s editing was the issue. What was a normal scene had been made to look overly gay with weird effects and background music. No wonder people accused them of selling queerbait.

To be fair, when he and Chen Jin were teammates, they often had to do physical tasks that involved shoulder touches, waist grabs, rolling around together, and even sleeping close in tight spaces. If the editors had focused on those moments, they could’ve made things look even gayer than carrying someone across a river. It was awkward that they zeroed in on those few minutes.

What Guan Lan didn’t know was that he and Chen Jin didn’t need any editing to look like a couple. Their chemistry was off the charts. If the editors had pushed the queerbait angle any further, the show might not have passed censorship.

Chen Jin’s fans were in an uproar, sparking a heated discussion about “What’s going on between Guan Lan and Chen Jin?” Fanfiction and wild theories were already flooding the internet.

But it wasn’t just Chen Jin’s fans who were upset—his ex was also fuming.

Yang Peiqing nearly smashed his TV after watching the episode.

“So this is what breaking up looks like? Are you kidding me? You two seem to be having a great time after the breakup! Not only are you playing around, but you’re also doing it on TV. Was this all just a show for me? You broke up just to make me look like a fool, and now you’re flaunting your relationship while probably laughing at me somewhere!”

Thinking about this, he remembered Zhuang Lin.

After calming down, he still felt there was something fishy between Zhuang Lin and Guan Lan.

He had a rough idea of what was going on, but he needed to plan his next move carefully.

—

“The first round of Autumn in the Han Palace has finished airing. The hype from that one song has peaked. It’s time to prepare your EP.”

Guan Lan handed Zhuang Lin five songs.

“This time, I’ll let you decide—pick three.”

Zhuang Lin: “Can’t I sing the songs I wrote?”

Guan Lan: “They’re not ready yet. We’ll save them for your album.”

Although Zhuang Lin had expected this answer, the bluntness still stung a little.

Zhuang Lin started flipping through the five songs.

Zhuang Lin: “None of these are written by you.”

Guan Lan: “I picked them for you. They’re the ones that suit you best.”

Zhuang Lin: “Why aren’t there any songs you wrote?”

Guan Lan: “Not just anyone can sing my songs.”

Zhuang Lin thought, Keep pretending. I know you’ve already written one for me.

Zhuang Lin: “I heard that you wrote a song for me before you even signed me, just waiting for me to come and sing it.”

Guan Lan frowned: “Who told you that?”

You did.

Guan Lan had mentioned it when he was drunk and forgotten about it the next day. Zhuang Lin didn’t feel like bringing that up.

Zhuang Lin: “It’s just a rumor.”

Guan Lan thought about it but couldn’t recall telling anyone about this—rumors these days were truly pervasive.

Guan Lan: “There is one song, but I wrote it years ago.”

Guan Lan: “Back then, Chinese-style music was trending. It had a resurgence after a few years, and I caught that second wave. I’m not really skilled in that style—I don’t have the depth for it, so I was afraid of embarrassing myself. But I played around with it for fun. Do you know what ‘collected verses’ are? It’s like taking existing lines of poetry and piecing them together to form a new poem. That’s what I did—I took a few Song dynasty lyrics and combined them into a song.”

Zhuang Lin: “What about the melody?”

Guan Lan: “I used a violin and an acoustic guitar for the accompaniment.”

Zhuang Lin: “…American country music?”

Guan Lan laughed: “A bit like that, but not entirely. After all, it was just something I wrote for fun. Besides, Song dynasty lyrics weren’t high art back then—they were more like folk songs, talking about love, heartbreak, beautiful scenery, and homesickness. Country music is similar, so there’s some overlap.”

Zhuang Lin: “…That makes sense.”

Guan Lan: “After I wrote it, I never found the right person to sing it, so it just sat there. Then I met you, and I immediately thought this song was perfect for you—it was like it was written for you.”

Before Zhuang Lin could feel proud, Guan Lan added:

Guan Lan: “This kind of neither-Chinese-nor-Western style suits you so well. No one else could pull it off.”

…So that’s what he meant by “no one else could do it.” Zhuang Lin had been basking in that comment all night.

Zhuang Lin: “I really want to hear this song that’s ‘so perfect for me.'”

Guan Lan: “I wrote it so long ago. I’ll have to look for it.”

Zhuang Lin thought this was just an excuse, but then Guan Lan took down the guitar hanging on the wall.

Guan Lan: “You’re in luck. I’m in the mood today. I’ll sing it for you.”

Zhuang Lin wondered how many people in the world had heard Guan Lan sing—probably quite a few. But he also wondered how many people had the privilege of hearing Guan Lan sing just for them. He hoped he was the only one.

Guan Lan strummed the guitar, his hair falling to his cheeks. When he looked down at the strings, his eyes sparkled with a gentle light.

“By the river, leaning on the rail at dusk,

The autumn leaves fill the misty waves,

A lone goose drifts down to the sandbank,

I can’t bear to look, I can’t bear to look, as the beauty of the world fades.”

Zhuang Lin knew Guan Lan could sing. As a songwriter, of course he could sing—at least he wouldn’t be off-key. But he didn’t think Guan Lan’s singing would be anything special. It was obvious—with his looks and songwriting talent, if his singing wasn’t terrible, why wouldn’t he debut as a singer? The fame and money would far surpass what he could earn as a producer.

But his singing was so beautiful.

Such a warm, tender depth of emotion, like a dream woven from soft clouds.

“Sweet meetings, but parting is uncertain,

How can I bear waking to the sound of rain on the empty steps?

Old friends are hard to gather, new sorrows pile up,

Thinking of leaving, thinking of leaving, the clouds vanish without a trace.”

Zhuang Lin had never heard a song like this.

The lyrics were melancholic, but the guitar melody was lively and playful, giving it a carefree, roguish charm. Two completely different styles, yet they blended together so naturally, so beautifully.

At that moment, he acknowledged that some people were born with genius. Every note was filled with inspiration, awe-inspiring yet also despairingly unattainable.

“I planned to drown my sorrows in wine,

The cry of a lone goose echoes in the vast sky,

Lying among flowers and green grass, under a quilt of mandarin ducks,

For her, I’ve grown thin with longing.

In the alleys of fireworks, a scholar in white,

I’ll trade my fleeting fame for a quiet drink and song.

I’ll trade my fleeting fame for a quiet drink and song!”

As the guitar stopped, Zhuang Lin’s mind was filled with overly sentimental late-night radio shows, where the host would say in a slightly affected tone, “Have you ever fallen in love with someone because of a song?”

When Guan Lan looked up at him, Zhuang Lin knew he was done for.

That one glance was like a cosmic storm. All his previous struggles, denials, and self-deceptions were swept away, turned to dust, and scattered across the universe.

Zhuang Lin thought, What do I do? My life is over.

Not wanting to disturb the air in the room, Zhuang Lin softly said, “Give me this song. I want to sing it.”

Guan Lan: “It’s yours. I’ll let you sing it when the time is right.”

Zhuang Lin: “No, I want to sing it this time.”

Guan Lan: “Why the rush? This song doesn’t really fit the style of this EP.”

Zhuang Lin: “I’m afraid if I wait too long, it’ll belong to someone else.”

Guan Lan: “It’s been waiting all these years—just for you.”

—I’m afraid if I wait too long, you’ll belong to someone else.

—I’ve been waiting all these years—just for you.

Many years later, one of the two people present would recount this conversation in his autobiography.

The other party, however, refused to admit it. He insisted that the conversation didn’t happen that way, claiming the other person had a vivid imagination and suffered from cognitive dissonance and memory distortion, blurring the line between fantasy and reality.

The truth, perhaps, is known only to the two people who were there.