Chapter 4: Qiao Jingjing Settles In

But there was no chance—every guy in sight seemed to be vying for the privilege of doing odd jobs for her, except him.

What was he doing back then?

Yu Tu racked his brain. He’d been explaining observation tips to the group, jotting down coordinates on star charts, deep in thought over a tricky paragraph in his paper…

Now, things that had once gone unnoticed suddenly came into sharp focus after all these years.

The pencil she handed him was already sharpened. The shared data from the previous day—once scribbled in his messy handwriting—was now clean, crisp Word documents.

He hadn’t dreamed in ages. Yu Tu pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the need to wake up and get real.

Where was the plane now? Somewhere over the Loess Plateau, probably. Still time for a nap.

Again, he found himself drifting back to senior year of high school—the faint silhouette of Qiao Jingjing, just after that one unanswered “why.”

She never spoke to him again after that. Her seat was far away. He didn’t see her by the basketball court anymore.

Even Pei Pei had asked him to help with homework. But not her. Not once.

How did her grades turn out later? Right—she’d shot up dramatically. He’d heard praise for her sudden improvement.

Must’ve gone to a university in Shanghai—maybe East China Normal? He couldn’t quite remember.

The clearest memory was what came after: overnight, her face seemed to flood every corner of his two-point life.

Bus stops. Supermarkets. Dozens of mobile app ads.
If you counted Jiaotong University, even subway stations were plastered with her posters.

A classmate turned celebrity—something that felt about as significant to Yu Tu as whether the canteen had fish today.

No mental effort required. But now, for the first time, he wondered—what kind of roles had she actually played?

Dreams don’t answer questions.

Because of relentless pressure from Professor Steve, the advisor had pulled Yu Tu aside for a serious talk just days ago.

About his next steps. And they’d more or less reached an agreement.

After his PhD, stay at the Eighth Institute, continue deep-space research—specifically at the 158th Research Institute.

That day, the professor patted him on the shoulder.

“Great. Settle down in Shanghai. If anything comes up, let me know.”

Yu Tu thanked him. That night, back in his dorm, he sketched his usual flowchart:
Settle down → household registration & job arranged; income handled by employer; housing—on his own; car—based on housing choice; other stuff—暂无 (no plans yet).

Once decided, Yu Tu was always hyper-efficient. Within a month, he’d completed every step of the housing project.

The price was just right—not too high, not too low. A colleague from the commercial space company had recently moved their whole family to Shenzhen, so the place was freshly available.

It was close—just across the street from the workplace. No need for a car budget. Most neighbors were coworkers. Quiet, simple. His top-floor apartment was even quieter. With a tiny rooftop terrace.

His parents visited once. They left the same day, leaving behind only a savings book. His dad said, “This is the stock I bought for you back then. This money—it’s yours. You earned it.”

“Him!” Yu Tu scoured every income stream, calculated the down payment and repayment plan.

With a finance undergrad background, he actually had a knack for investing—just never had the time. Mostly stuck to the simplest rule: Warren Buffett’s principle. Luckily, the one stock he’d ever bought was Maotai.

After the down payment, the loan payments felt tight—but okay. He could still keep his two-point routine: eat cafeteria food, borrow books from the library.

When Yu Tu landed in Dunhuang, Qiao Jingjing was on her way home from the campsite.

“Hey, let’s swing by the planetarium on the way!”

“What’s up, Jingjing?”

“Anything special?”

“We should thank the director!”

“Oh… really? So soon?”

The director was in a meeting. Jingjing went to the office of Director Wang.

“Director Wang, please tell the director thanks for us. We not only saw the meteor shower while camping…”

“But we also stumbled into your space club’s event—and learned a ton!”

Not long after, when she stepped out, her phone buzzed with a new group chat notification: **“Q4 Space Classroom.”**

Members: the director, Director Wang, Qiao Jingjing, and Yu Tu.

Yu Tu saw the group while putting down his luggage and heading to the meeting.

The three were already discussing turning the course into live streams. “After all,” said Director Wang, “Doctor Yu can handle any question.”

“No worries,” he added. Jingjing chimed in, “Really? That’s amazing!” followed by a little heart-eyed emoji.

Yu Tu kept walking, tossed his phone into the locker just before locking it. One quick tap—sent a friend request to “Jingjing.”

Then lock. Turn. Walk into the conference room—smooth, seamless, like hundreds of times before.

Jingjing glanced at her phone. A small red dot popped up.

**“Q4 Space Classroom” – Yu Tu wants to add you as a friend.**

She tapped “Accept.” Sent a wobbling rabbit emoji.

She didn’t get a reply until after she got home, ate lunch brought by Xiao Zhu.

The life of a celebrity wasn’t easy—especially for someone like Jingjing, who wore her dedication like a badge.

But one upside: fame gave her choices. The roles she took, the events she attended weren’t always perfect—but at least they were acceptable.

Jingjing wasn’t some pretty face without substance. She was a high-caliber, high-taste actress.

Next week, she was joining a big director’s film—wuxia, full of flying leaps and acrobatics. For months, she’d been training nonstop: gym, martial arts, sword drills, and reading every wuxia novel she could find.

If someone had mentioned Jin Yong, Gu Long, Liang Yungsheng, Wen Rui’an, Huang Yi—or even the newer name Fenghuo Xizhu—she could’ve riffed off them in seconds.

Stepping off the machine, she admired her abs in the mirror, snapped a selfie. Then—微信 ping.

**Yu Tu.**

“In transit. Can’t use phone in meetings.”

“Oh!”

She replied instinctively, almost startled. What was she even saying?

“The director wants to go live with the space class. Did you see it? When are you coming back?”

Her voice came through soft, slightly muffled—like she was whispering into a pillow.

“I’ve never done live streaming before. Need to figure out the format. Probably back in about twenty days.”

Colleagues ahead of him were already moving down the hall. Yu Tu used voice.

“Oh…”

That soft voice sounded distant, a little flat.

“I’m starting filming next Monday—off to Yunnan. So I might not be able to help much with the livestream.”

“The director said just answer questions. I’ll handle everything else. I’ll have my studio team jump in!”

They chatted a few more words. Then a coworker called out.

“Yu! Let’s go.”

He typed back quickly:
“On duty. Talk later.”