Chapter 36

—• VOLUME 3: City Lights•—

After that day, I packed my things and went on another business trip, lasting over a month, with no chance to continue hearing Lin Ze’s story.

When I returned home again, it was the hottest time in Chongqing. The temperature outside had been above 40°C for seven consecutive days. The urban area’s temperature warning only went up to 42°C, but in reality, it might have been even higher—the TV stations just didn’t report it. In such weather, most people wouldn’t step outside even if you paid them, but Lin Ze, to his dismay, still had to walk his dog.

I only went out for a short while in the evenings, and when I saw Lin Ze’s Alaskan Malamute, I couldn’t help but admire the dog’s endurance—it didn’t even get heatstroke. During Chongqing’s hottest days, the nights were almost as sweltering as the afternoons, like a giant steamer. In front of hotpot restaurants, many people sat shirtless, eating spicy hotpot. Whenever I ran into Lin Ze, we’d buy ice cream and chat in an air-conditioned drinks shop.

The Alaskan Malamute refused to leave once it entered the shop, so the two of us played with it inside, taking turns riding on its back. The dog’s temper was even better than Lin Ze’s—it never refused anyone and obediently lay on the floor wagging its tail. As long as we didn’t try to take it outside, it was perfectly happy to stay in the cool shop.

Other customers found the Alaskan Malamute amusing and came over to ride it too. The whole shop burst into laughter as everyone took turns. The shop assistant, a pretty girl, even gave it cream puffs to eat.

“After Situ Ye left, did you fall apart?” I asked him.

Lin Ze thought for a moment. “It was okay. Not the worst.”

“What was the lowest point you’ve ever been at?”

Though it wasn’t very considerate of me to ask, I knew that with someone like Lin Ze, he might even share some unexpected things. I’ve genuinely learned a lot from him as a friend—about people, about life, and about storytelling.

Lin Ze once encouraged me: it’s true that writers should let their work speak for itself, but it’s also best not to hide in a closed cabinet while writing, not to conceal yourself. Take topics like marginalized groups or social phenomena, for example. Uncovering them and telling their stories is meant to heal and draw attention. If you stand on the sidelines as a detached observer, hiding where no one can see you, the impact won’t be the same.

It’s like a protest march. If the organizers stay in the back shouting slogans while sending others forward to take the bullets, that’s not the original intention of LGBTQ+ volunteers and rainbow organizations. If you shout for society to treat homosexuals and heterosexuals equally but hide your face behind protest signs, afraid of being recognized and affecting your life, unwilling to reveal who you are, speaking ambiguously and evasively when advocating for rights—how can you convince society to accept gay identities?

The reason he’s willing to share his story and let me write and talk about it freely stems from this mindset—at least ensuring he’s done everything he can. It’s easy to stand on the sidelines or in the back and point fingers, but stepping forward makes a different impact.

Lin Ze thought for a while. “For a long time, I felt like I’d failed two people. I’ve always remembered them—one was Situ, and thankfully, I could make it up to him. The other was a friend from an online game, but I could never make it up to him.”

“What about the other one?” I asked. “Was that friend ‘also’…?”

The drinks shop wasn’t the best place for gossip. When it came to sensitive terms, we had to use code words, which was risky. But Lin Ze shook his head. “No, no. Just a friend from Legend of Mir. I used to play that game—I told you before, I was a warrior, playing with Zheng Jie.”

“In college, we didn’t live in the same dorm, but we’d meet up sometimes. After the dorms closed at 10 p.m., we’d get bored and play games. Zheng Jie was a mage, I was a warrior. We played a lot, so our levels were pretty high. One day, I logged in and found Zheng Jie had taken on a female Taoist disciple, so we started playing with her.”

“Not long after, ‘she’ admitted to being a guy—a male playing a female character.” Lin Ze laughed. “A high school boy, you know how it is. The messy stuff in games, it’s all the same when you talk about it.”

I nodded. Lin Ze lowered his voice. “Zheng Jie stopped paying attention to him once he found out he was a guy. But I… you know, I liked that kind of younger guy, so I often played with this disciple. So Zheng Jie’s disciple became mine. I found out he was a high school sophomore living in the dorms, often skipping evening self-study to go online, pulling all-nighters, and had a girlfriend. I’d take him leveling when I had time. We weren’t super close, but whenever I logged in and saw him, I’d call him over to mess around and kill time. We played like that for over half a year, until I graduated.”

“That period right after graduation was the hardest. I couldn’t even support myself—only 600 yuan a month. Zheng Jie was worse off than me, jobless, stuck at home every day. Neither of us dared to ask our families for money, and we didn’t live together. I couldn’t even take care of him then—I had to focus on surviving first… For three months straight, after all expenses, I had just over 200 yuan left. My phone was out of credit from all the interview calls. The newspaper said I could claim reimbursement later. Fuck, I couldn’t even pay rent. On the last day, they announced the probation results—three new hires, the other two had connections. I did the most work, but I was the one who got fired.”

“After I got fired, I couldn’t pay rent. By the end of the month, I had to give money to my roommate. It was a crappy place—rent was only 300, but I didn’t even have that. My family called to yell at me, the newspaper fired me, my roommate was hounding me for rent and utilities, and I didn’t have a single extra cent. I called my ‘wife’ and said I was working overtime, so he couldn’t come over to my place to have sex. He got mad and hung up on me.”

“I didn’t dare go home because I’d have to pay rent if I did. I wandered outside all night and remembered I still had some equipment in the game, so I went to an internet café to log in. The gear was all trash—I didn’t know if I could sell it for 200 or 300.”

“When I logged in, Zheng Jie’s disciple was already higher level than us. He asked why we hadn’t been on in so long. I told him I’d started working and was busy. I wanted to sell a ring and a weapon, and he asked why I was selling. I told him the truth—I didn’t have money for rent or food. He told me to give him my bank account number—he’d lend me money.”

“Did you give it to him?” I asked.

Lin Ze hummed in agreement. “Yeah. I was immature back then. That kid didn’t have much money himself—what he saved was from skipping lunch or drinks. We all knew that. But my gear was crap, and my character’s level was low. At best, I could sell it for 70 or 80 yuan. So I gave him my bank card number, thinking I’d pay him back after my next paycheck. But realistically, even with a paycheck, I wouldn’t have had the money to repay him for months. A little later, he said it was done—he’d transferred 600 yuan to me.”

“That 600 yuan saved my life. The whole world’s full of scammers, but he actually trusted me and lent me that much. When I took the money home, I just wanted to cry—not because I was so broke, but because I was so moved.”

“Why didn’t you just crash at Zheng Jie’s place?” I asked.

“Zheng Jie was already crashing with someone else.”

Me: “…”

“Did you ever pay your disciple back?” I asked.

“I asked for his phone number because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to log into the game. He said, ‘It’s fine, Shifu. Don’t sell your gear—just come online when you can.’ I said, ‘Give me your number,’ but he said he didn’t have a phone. I said, ‘Give me your account details—I’ll pay you back when I get my salary.’ He said, ‘No, don’t worry about it. Pay me back when you have money. I’ll borrow my girlfriend’s meal card for now. Shifu, I’m just afraid that if you pay me back, you won’t play anymore. I just want to play with you guys. Don’t sell your gear or quit, okay?’ I thought, ‘Damn, I’ve really hit rock bottom as a man.’ Then my roommate texted me again about the rent, so I said a few more words to my disciple and hurriedly logged off to go pay rent.”

“I logged in a couple more times after that, but I couldn’t keep my promise to him—I didn’t play with him or pay him back. I didn’t even dare spend money on internet cafés. I found a new job as an entertainment reporter for a website. During the probation period, I could only afford instant noodles. My disciple really wanted me and Zheng Jie to come back and level with him, but Zheng Jie had moved on to another game, and I couldn’t spare even a little time.”

“Later, I tried to pull an all-nighter on a weekend just to play with him, but when I logged in, he wasn’t there. I asked a friend, who said he was playing with another female character—probably his in-game wife. Another month passed, and I finally got retained at my job, so I was back on my feet. I logged in to find him, but he still wasn’t there. I heard his account had been scammed by his in-game ‘wife’ (a male player), so he quit. After that, I always wanted to pay him back, buy him some good gear, and level with him, but I could never find him again. I’ve always felt guilty about it, so now, whenever someone asks me for help, I do what I can. It’s because I can’t bear to fail my disciple, who gave me that 600 yuan when I was at my lowest. ‘Help in emergencies, not in poverty’—if colleagues or friends are in a tight spot over money, I’ll lend them what I can.”

I spun around on the barstool, looking at his Alaskan Malamute. My thoughts were: the dog is handsome, but my feelings are complicated.

We sat quietly for a while. Lin Ze was also looking at the Alaskan Malamute, which lay on the floor blissfully, panting with its tongue out. I figured that in this heat, its belly against the cool floor must feel amazing.

A dog’s happiness is actually pretty simple—belly on the ground, spring blossoms everywhere.

“Why don’t you guys get a dog?” Lin Ze’s thoughts jumped quickly. After just talking about his hardships, he acted like nothing had happened.

“Nah,” I replied. “No time to take care of one. I’m away from home for months every year, and Alaskan Malamutes are too big—they eat a lot and poop a lot. The eating is manageable, but the pooping is terrifying… If I’m out and Pig-Bear doesn’t walk the dog, the house would turn into…”

Lin Ze, clearly afraid I’d describe something too vivid, cut me off decisively and suggested, “There are smaller ones. You could get a Husky—they look just like Alaskan Malamutes…”

Me: “…”

Lin Ze: “…”

“Okay, fine. Huskies might drag you around, but you could ride a bike while walking it—just tie the leash to the bike.”

I’d actually tried walking a Husky like that once, but I didn’t tell Lin Ze. The result was: the bike got dragged over, then dragged along the road, clattering and bumping as it went.

“Uh…” I said. “Do Alaskan Malamutes cost 2,000?”

“Around 1,000? I’m not sure. This dog was a gift from Rongrong—its dad’s a show dog.”

“Oh?” I instantly knew there was more to the story. “Last time, you only told half of it.”

“Only half?”

“Two-thirds or three-quarters. Tell me about the dog first.”

“The dog actually belongs to Zheng Jie. After he bought a place in Nanping, Rongrong helped him with the interior design and gave him this dog. We raised it together for a while. When it first came to my place, it was only this big…” Lin Ze gestured, and compared to the massive dog now, I could imagine how cute the Alaskan Malamute puppy must have been. “He wanted me to be happier—having a dog could distract me a bit. That day when Situ Ye called me, Zheng Jie was listening the whole time. During that period, I just felt…”

“So tired. Don’t want to love anymore,” I said sincerely.

Lin Ze nodded. “Right. Later, I fell for Zheng Jie again. That was the second time I liked him. Do you know what it’s like to like someone a second time?”

I shook my head. It sounded like a strange thing, but thinking about it, it was also an interesting experience. The first time, during his student days, he fell for Zheng Jie—attracted by each other’s looks and personalities. As they grew up together, the feelings faded. Then, one day, he fell for him again. This time, it had nothing to do with appearance or personality. The first love and the second love were fundamentally different.

“I’ve never experienced it, but I can understand it. Are you two still friends now?” I asked.

“Let me finish first. This is really complicated.”

[Third person perspective: Lin Ze]

During that time, Lin Ze was completely exhausted. He used to believe that as long as he gave, he’d receive something in return—even if just a little.

When he was young, he thought his world and life could change bit by bit through his own efforts. As long as he stayed positive, everything would improve. But what happened with Situ Ye made it almost impossible for him to muster the energy to love anyone again.

He even wondered if he should follow Yang Zhiyuan’s example and just get married—become a husband in the eyes of women and a father in the eyes of children.

That day, after hanging up with Situ Ye, he lay silently in bed. Zheng Jie turned off the TV and came in to turn off the light for him.

Later, Lin Ze dragged himself to work, exhausted, and went to the director’s office to explain the situation with Situ Ye. Before Situ Ye left, Lin Ze had still held onto hope of finding him and told the editor-in-chief that Situ Ye was still on sick leave. The day after the phone call, Lin Ze had to admit that Situ Ye was going back to his hometown to get married. Surprisingly, neither the director nor the editor-in-chief asked many questions. They just said, “If he’s gone, then he’s gone.”

Lin Ze found it strange. Logically, the editor-in-chief should’ve at least scolded him a bit. But it was as if everyone had agreed not to mention Situ Ye in front of Lin Ze. Later, Lin Ze gradually realized—the entire newspaper office knew about his relationship with Situ Ye.

It was probably the reporter who overheard their fight who spread the news. Maybe even the editors from the women’s magazine across the hall knew. Newspaper offices are gossip hubs, yet the director and editor-in-chief hadn’t said a word about it. Lin Ze felt both sad and grateful for their silence.

He began to feel lucky he’d joined a good workplace. No one talked about him—at least not to his face. Even if they did privately, it was probably with sympathy rather than, “Did you hear? Our office’s Director Lin is gay and got dumped by his subordinate! Let me tell you the details!”

He forced himself to pull it together and work hard, hoping to forget everything. But Situ Ye had been too big a part of his life—it wasn’t something he could just forget. If it had just been a lover, throwing himself into work might’ve helped temporarily. But Lin Ze had to interview, write features, use photos, and drive—all things tied to Situ Ye. He’d left countless traces in Lin Ze’s life. The car was still parked behind the lot at Bei Cheng Tian Street, untouched, with the keys sitting in Lin Ze’s home.

Lin Ze was emotionally drained.

On Friday after work, all he wanted was to go home and sleep, but Zheng Jie was waiting for him downstairs.

Lin Ze was surprised. “Did you forget your keys?”

Zheng Jie smiled. “No. Let’s go eat.”

Lin Ze hummed and followed Zheng Jie, assuming he’d made plans with his girlfriend, Rongrong. But they got off the light rail at Guanyinqiao, and Zheng Jie used a group-buying coupon for a hotpot meal—just the two of them. Rongrong wasn’t there.

Lin Ze rolled up his sleeves to pick food and asked, “Did you fight?”

Zheng Jie looked blank. “No.”

Lin Ze nodded and asked how things were going with Zheng Jie lately. Zheng Jie then launched into an animated retelling of his relationship—how great Rongrong was, how much she liked him, calling her a “silly little pig”… Lin Ze listened with a smile, finding joy in Zheng Jie’s happiness. But then Zheng Jie suddenly hesitated, as if realizing something.

Lin Ze could sense it immediately—that kind of unspoken understanding that comes from years of closeness, like family. Zheng Jie had realized he was getting too excited and worried it might affect Lin Ze’s mood.

It was the same mentality that made singles on Valentine’s Day and Qixi Festival want to break up every couple they saw and drag them through the streets. The way Zheng Jie abruptly slowed his speech, stammering, almost made Lin Ze spit out his beer.

“Go on,” Lin Ze said, both amused and touched, patting Zheng Jie’s shoulder. “Where did she take you next?”

“Just… just to her alma mater,” Zheng Jie said, his face red from drinking. He laughed at himself and went back to eating.

Lin Ze asked, “When are you meeting her family?”

Zheng Jie said, “Oh, right. She said their Alaskan Malamute is about to have puppies and asked if we wanted one. If we do, we can go pick one up after they’re born.”

Lin Ze nodded. “Sure. How much money do you have left?”

Zheng Jie thought. “Haven’t counted.”

Lin Ze said, “You can’t go empty-handed the first time you visit her family. Bring a gift.”

Zheng Jie said, “I should have some left. I’ll check when I get back. If it’s not enough, lend me some for now.”

Lin Ze remembered Zheng Jie had only had about 3,000 yuan when he quit his job. Since then, he’d been dating Rongrong and had bought her things, so he probably didn’t have much left. Rongrong was a good girl—she wouldn’t ask Zheng Jie for anything, but eating out, shopping, and movies still cost money. Lin Ze needed to help Zheng Jie find a job soon.

He should’ve done it earlier. Lin Ze had been too worn out lately to think about Zheng Jie, yet Zheng Jie hadn’t brought it up either—just silently stayed by his side, accompanying him to Karamay to search for someone, sitting with him at the table all night, pulling him out to watch TV when Lin Ze just wanted to lie in bed staring blankly… Thinking about it, Lin Ze felt pretty guilty.

“You’ve met a good girl,” Lin Ze said with a smile. “Take good care of her.”

Zheng Jie said, “Huh? Why do you say that?”

Lin Ze said, “Look, you quit your job and aren’t working right now, but Rongrong still stays with you. She doesn’t think you’re lazy…”

Zheng Jie slapped his thigh. “Exactly—”

Lin Ze nodded. “So she believes you’ll make something of yourself.”

Zheng Jie said, “She’s good to my friends too. She told me to spend more time with you, worried you might feel…”

Lin Ze: “…”

Zheng Jie had slipped up. He covered his mouth, thought for a second, and went back to eating.

Lin Ze was speechless. So it was his girlfriend who was so considerate.

After dinner, Zheng Jie took Lin Ze to a movie. Sitting in the dark theater, Lin Ze thought about his time dating Xie Chenfeng.

He didn’t pay attention to the film, just kept reflecting on his love life and future.

Zheng Jie leaned over and said something with a laugh. Lin Ze had no idea what was happening in the movie, so he just nodded and laughed along with the deafening sound effects. Zheng Jie handed him popcorn, and Lin Ze grabbed a handful.

Last year, when he’d watched movies with Xie Chenfeng, the theater had been nearly empty, with just a few couples. Xie Chenfeng would lift the armrest between them and pull Lin Ze close. Sometimes, he’d raise all the armrests in the row and lie across them, resting his head in Lin Ze’s lap while Lin Ze held him. Other times, their fingers would idly tangle and untangle.

That had been a real relationship—a love no different from anyone else’s. They dated like any ordinary couple, going out, shopping, watching movies.

With Situ Ye, it was always noisy. Situ Ye couldn’t resist commenting on the plot or actors, turning even serious films into comedies with his running commentary. When he wasn’t critiquing, he’d fight Lin Ze for popcorn, the two of them tugging the bucket back and forth. Lin Ze would stuff his mouth full, then snatch the bucket back. Sometimes, Situ Ye would get startled during tense scenes and spill popcorn all over himself, making Lin Ze laugh hysterically before smacking the back of his head, causing him to spit out even more.

During breaks from interviews, they often went to the movies. Sometimes, halfway through, Situ Ye would pretend to go to the bathroom and sneak out with Lin Ze. The theaters were all along one hallway, and in the afternoons, the staff were usually slacking off, so no one guarded the doors. They’d watch most of Movie A in Theater 6, then slip into Theater 10 to catch Movie B.

The flickering light played across Lin Ze’s face as he remembered his first official boyfriend—a younger bottom, three years his junior. Lin Ze had been interning at the newspaper, and interns had it rough, always on duty. On weekends, Lin Ze would beg friends to cover for him so he could pick up his “wife” after class. Lin Ze ate at the office, his “wife” at the school cafeteria—saving money by not dining together. Then they’d meet up, buy two tickets for 40 yuan, and watch movies at a run-down theater near campus.

Back then, Lin Ze could barely support himself. He had no money for hotels, and his “wife” was poor too but adored him, always eager to sleep with him. With only 500 yuan a month for living expenses, Lin Ze took him to the theater, where they’d hold each other through all-night marathons of back-to-back films.

Lin Ze would kiss him between movies, both of them feeling bittersweet. Later, when Lin Ze thought of that boy, his strongest memory was of that dark theater—watching The Lion Roars, Red River Valley, A Walk in the Clouds…

It was all in the past now, just memories. Lin Ze hadn’t kept in touch with that boy. Not long ago, he’d heard the kid was working as a male escort—he didn’t know if it was true.

When the movie ended, the packed theater emptied. Lin Ze walked out with his popcorn and only then saw the poster, realizing what he’d just watched. Zheng Jie suggested getting late-night snacks, but Lin Ze shook his head. “I’m too full. Let’s go home.”

“Let’s go see the new place tomorrow,” Zheng Jie offered. “We’ll have a new home soon.”

Lin Ze smiled and agreed. As they walked, two girls ahead of them held hands, swinging them playfully. Zheng Jie laughed and grabbed Lin Ze’s hand too. The two of them swung their clasped hands like idiots all the way home.