Chapter 3: The Planetarium’s Space Club

North of the campsite, about 200 meters away on a slightly higher hilltop, lay the observatory’s viewing outpost.

Right now, the courtyard was lined up like a military parade—dozens of long telescopes and massive instruments stood in rigid formation, each one followed by a pair of eager eyes behind its eyepiece.

This was the observatory’s aerospace club. The meteor shower had long since lost its charm for them.

Now, as they scanned the sky, they listened to Teacher Yu speaking beside them: “The Yutu rover’s landing site is in the Bay of Rainbows on the Moon. There are several key reasons for choosing this location…”

Everyone in the club—kids, adults, even retirees—called him Teacher Yu. Rumor had it that the director had pulled out all the stops, nearly dismantling half the country’s space research division just to steal him away.

Of course, the "all stops" only meant he showed up one day a month. The rest of the time, he was deep in national aerospace R&D, a top-tier scientist with no time for amateurs.

Coming here to teach hobbyists? Just a mental break.

In the past few months, attendance at the club had skyrocketed. Interest was through the roof. Enrollment numbers were exploding.

But the club couldn’t expand—it wasn’t approved. The director had heard the same phrase from last year’s military parade, repeated so many times it had become a joke:

*“The coolest ones were all handed over to the nation.”*

“Sister Jingjing,” a round-faced boy suddenly appeared beside her, grinning with a gap-toothed smile, “why do we get meteor showers? What’s the difference between meteors and comets?”

“Oh,” she said softly, voice like a lullaby, “a meteor shower is just… a whole bunch of stars flying across the sky together.”

It wasn’t quite time yet for the peak viewing. Still, kids, parents, even young couples gathered around, silent and still—no phones raised, no photos taken.

For the first time, Jingjing felt a quiet pride. She didn’t need spotlight or fame to shine.

But out here, in the open night, her clear, sweet voice—already fragile—was easily swallowed by the wind.

“Xiao Zhu,” she called, “do you see that lit-up spot over there? That’s the observatory’s viewing station.”

“Go ask if they have a megaphone—just a little ‘bee’ type. The director said I could ask Zhao Gong.”

Xiao Zhu turned on his phone flashlight and dashed off. Within minutes, he returned dragging a small procession behind him.

At the front: Zhao Gong, carrying a microphone and two compact speakers.

Behind him: people with telescope barrels slung over their shoulders, others waving laser pointers at the sky like conductors.

And someone murmured low: “Qiao Jingjing? Where is Qiao Jingjing?”

Zhao Gong explained: “These are members of the observatory’s aerospace club. They heard she was giving a talk on astronomy. No one could stop them—they just came running.”

Jingjing blinked. “The aerospace club? Those are all experts.”

“I’m fine teaching kids,” she said, flustered. “But when *they* show up… I’ll be like a carpenter showing off his saw in front of Lu Ban himself.”

“Don’t worry,” someone laughed. “We brought our own teacher. We can all pitch in. But honestly? We’d love to hear you too.”

Amid the chatter, a space opened. A figure stepped forward—three or four paces away.

It was Yu Tu.

Jingjing froze.

He looked just like before—slightly longer hair, broad shoulders, eyes still sharp and clear.

He stopped. A soft smile touched his lips.

“Long time no see.”

“Long time no see.”

For three seconds—or maybe longer—Jingjing forgot how to breathe.

Or rather, she didn’t know how to breathe. She turned her head toward the sky. Already, a few prelude stars streaked across the dark, trailing fire.

Somewhere in the fog of her thoughts, she whispered: *I never got to make my wish… and now it’s already come true.*

Yu Tu watched her—half-turned, gazing upward, her ponytail swaying gently in the breeze, just like years ago.

Jingjing felt her mind go blank. Not that she’d lost it—she didn’t need to think anymore. Not when he was here.

In less than a minute, the group of elite scientists had set up the entire observation zone with military precision. The speakers were tuned, the mic handed to Jingjing.

Even Xiao Zhu, usually a die-hard fan of “boss supreme,” noticed her dazed expression. The quick wit, the playful charm, the gentle warmth—all gone.

She looked like a dreamy girl who’d forgotten how to speak. Not sweet, not even cute—just… wooden.

But oh, what a beautiful kind of wood.

Under the stars, she glowed.

Yu Tu reached out, took the mic without hesitation.

“In two minutes,” he said, “the Perseid meteor shower will reach its peak. Please look this way.”

The event ended after midnight. Campers began slipping into their tents one by one.

Jingjing lingered, slow-footed, heading toward her tent. Xiao Zhu bounced nearby.

“Jingjing! Over here!”

“Did you return the mic and speakers to Zhao Gong?”

“Of course! I even coiled all the cords for him!”

“Did you say thank you?”

“Of course! He was thrilled. Kept saying you’re the smartest celebrity ever. Said next time I go to the observatory, I should ask him for a meal card.”

“What about everyone else? Did you thank them?”

“Everyone else? You mean… Teacher Yu?”

“Yeah, him too. He had to leave in a hurry—he’s flying out early tomorrow morning.”

On the drive to the airport, still deep in the early hours, Yu Tu realized he must’ve been half-asleep. Because somehow, he found himself scrolling through Qiao Jingjing’s微博.

Her latest post: posted at 11:59 PM.

Two photos.

One was a selfie, backlit by a sky full of falling stars. Her smile was fresh, bright—like she was eighteen again.

The other showed a crowd of people, all looking up, faces glowing with wonder—old, young, children, all laughing with pure joy.

In the crowd, Yu Tu spotted himself—almost a silhouette, face hidden. But he knew, deep down, he was smiling too.

For the first time in his life, Dr. Yu clicked “Like” on someone else’s post.

The gesture vanished instantly into the sea of fan celebrations—no ripple, no trace.

What in the world?

Who gets up this early?

Yu Tu was startled.

The flight from Shanghai to Dunhuang was perfect—normally, he slept from takeoff to touchdown. But today, sleep wouldn’t come.

He remembered high school Jingjing.

How could he forget?

She’d been the radiant center of every class—bright, lively, impossible to ignore.

And more than anyone else, she’d been the only one who’d never let go of a question: *Why?*

Because why? It wasn’t necessary.

Still, he’d spent a few seconds crafting an answer he thought wouldn’t hurt:

“One day, I want to find someone who’ll work alongside me.”

Half-dreaming, he remembered: Jingjing had once been the most active member of the astronomy club.

She’d volunteered for everything—carrying tripods, adjusting levels, organizing logs. Even tried lifting the heaviest lens tube herself.