Chapter 5: Speaking for the First Time in Eight Years

Jingjing sat on her yoga mat, replaying the voice message for the third time. Suddenly, it hit her: aside from that one line last night—“Long time no see”—this was the first real conversation they’d had in eight years.

Yu Tu noticed it too. His sharp mind couldn’t wrap around why there hadn’t been a single polite opener, no small talk, no awkward pleasantries—just as if they’d parted yesterday to stargaze together, not eight long years ago.

Wait—no, they *had* stargazed together yesterday. That comparison didn’t hold.

It was like… like they’d just finished class together the day before.

The yoga music was too soothing—so calming it made Jingjing feel restless. She switched it up to a pulsing modern dance track and danced until she was drenched in sweat, heart pounding fast. Yeah, definitely from the dancing.

By evening, the base cafeteria served them steaming bowls of ramen—big ones, one each. Yu Tu snapped a photo of Dà Mèng’s face next to his bowl and posted it: “Food’s decent.”

Dà Mèng’s portrait rights?
Nonexistent.

Jingjing replied quickly—still via voice, her tone slightly bouncy.

“Hmm, enough to last me two days. Two days, not two meals.”

The mess hall was packed, so Yu Tu typed instead: “That’s barely enough.”

“Nutrition’s all that matters. That’s just how our job is.”

“You cook yourself?”

“Nope. If I’m on set, I eat whatever the crew’s serving. If I’m at home, Xiao Zhu—the girl who borrowed the mic—her mom cooks, then she brings it over.”

“Oh, okay. That’s better.”

“What about you?”

“Our industry? We’ve got cafeterias wherever we go.”

Life slipped by quietly. Qiao Jingjing was already deep into the whirlwind life of constant travel between sets—hanging from wires all day, ribs aching with every breath, so she mostly stuck to typing.

Meanwhile, the studio buzzed with energy over planning the livestream. The boss was personally invested in this public outreach project—passionately so!

Xiao Zhu, now the official liaison, joined the four-person chat group. Naturally, Yu Tu added her as a friend. Every day, she chattered nonstop about progress updates, logistics, prep work.

And Yu Tu always found a way to steer the conversation back to Jingjing.

“Today, she hung for six hours straight. Her ribs are bruised purple—she can’t even breathe deeply.”

“Today’s fight scene? The other actress yanked her hair right out. Jingjing actually cried from the pain.”

“Zhou Xiaoyi kept redoing the same take over and over. Poor Jingjing got soaked three times. Gotta make sure she drinks herbal medicine before bed tonight.”

Amidst all this chatter, Yu Tu remembered that night they walked back from the observatory. Xiao Zhu had been helping carry a little speaker, chattering away just like this:

“Jingjing knows astronomy so well—she assembled the telescope all by herself!”

“She’s brilliant. Every director and screenwriter praises her.”

Jingjing…

Back then, he’d thought: *She must be kind to everyone around her.*
Now, he thought: *She’s always been working so hard.*

Not long after returning to Shanghai, the livestream day arrived.

Everything else—outfits, stage design, lighting, promotional messaging—was all handled by Jingjing’s studio.

Língjiě, sent by Jingjing to lend support, had spent an hour being briefed by Dr. Yu. By the end, she was fully converted—now a devoted “Tu-fan.” Three sentences in, she’d loop back to pushing Yu Tu to launch his own career.

Dan Dan and the others joked: “Língjiě’s been hit with a double whammy—charm and looks. She’s gone soft. Needs time to recover.”

Jingjing finally watched the livestream at 2 a.m., exhausted from night shoot, showered, medicated by Xiao Zhu, curled under the covers with her phone in hand.

Her friends were remotely directing her every move: “Make sure he wears that minimalist jacket—slim fit, waist subtly cinched—shows off his posture.”

No heavy makeup. Just a light blow-dry. Just him—his usual self—calm, composed, expression soft but steady.

She listened as he spoke effortlessly:
“We’ll start with the difference between aerospace and aviation…”
“Does anyone remember the definitions of the three cosmic speeds?”
“Our Yutu rover has a particularly romantic story…”
“China and the U.S. may have a 30-40 year gap in space tech—but that doesn’t mean we need 30-40 years to catch up…”

Jingjing held her phone upright, sitting straighter. Why did these questions feel so familiar? So achingly familiar—like a dull ache in her chest, mixed with quiet joy?

Because she’d asked him those exact questions, back when she was a teenager, lying on grass under starlit skies.

Only then, he’d always answered briefly—sometimes just tossing her a book title and telling her to look it up herself.

She’d been disappointed so many times. But still, she’d spend sleepless nights trying to come up with better questions—questions that mattered, meaningful enough that the boy obsessed with stars might finally turn around… and look for her.

Yu Tu usually stayed up late—12 to 1 a.m. was his personal wind-down window. Reading a novel, playing online chess, doing planks or other light exercises—nothing interrupted.

At 1:40 a.m., just as he reached to turn off the lights, his phone beeped.

He reached for it. It was Jingjing.

*Why… why did you talk about these things?*

His finger hovered over the keyboard. For a second, he didn’t know where to tap. Then, without thinking, he deleted the message.

But he didn’t know whether he wanted it sent—or erased. Whether he wanted to answer… or stay silent.

In the dark, he closed his eyes.

He remembered once, when Zhai Liang had asked him:
“Everyone else has their girlfriend riding shotgun, holding onto their waist. Why do you two always drive separate cars?”

How had he answered?

“The backpacks would get in the way.”

But what if it were Jingjing?

Carefully, he imagined it. And suddenly, his chest warmed.

If it were her, he’d rip out the back seat. At least break the support bar.

But why? He still couldn’t answer himself. His usually sharp mind couldn’t compute it. No flowchart could map this.

On the far end of the screen, that girl was asking him: *Why?*

He didn’t know how he’d even remembered those questions. They’d just been there—silent for years.

They surfaced when he was preparing his livestream materials at midnight.
When he was being shuffled around by the studio’s endless chatter, changing clothes, posing for photos.
Even earlier—on that summer night atop the mountain, while others gazed at shooting stars, she’d quietly swapped out the eyepiece, and the memory flooded in, filling his head, swelling his chest.

Guan noticed Yu Tu seemed off today—slightly listless, yet oddly radiant. A strange harmony.

Still that same face—expressionless, but undeniably handsome.
Yet something felt different.

“What’s going on?” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“Something’s up, isn’t it?”