Chapter 17: Meimei's Plan

Yu Tu’s room wasn’t big, but the bookshelves were packed to the brim—books, model kits, and a dazzling collection of trophies, medals, certificates, and prizes. Every one looked polished and cared for, arranged with quiet pride.

Jingjing charged straight in like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Wow… I didn’t realize you had *this* many…”

Yu Tu wrapped his arms around her from behind, following her gaze as she moved layer by layer through the memories. He’d answer here and there.

“Was this the basketball game where you broke your arm and still wore a cast just to show up?”

And so on—questions that painted a picture of a life lived with quiet determination.

When they reached the middle shelf, the graduation photo, Jingjing squirmed in his arms.

“Tell me… am I prettier now than in high school? Even more beautiful?”

“Hmm… you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And every minute, you get more stunning.”

Before dinner, Jingjing finally got to hand over her carefully prepared gift: a sleek, old-world-style hard drive, filled with all her favorite shows and series—including two that hadn’t aired yet. Aunt Yu nearly lost her teeth laughing.

She wiped her hands first, then took it, muttering, “Oh my god… oh my god… this is *perfect*…”

Yu Tu’s face cracked a little. He leaned close, whispering into her ear: “When did you even have time to do this?”

“Right before I came back,” she said, batting those long lashes. “I told Dandan I needed to organize some files. She helped.”

Her eyelashes fluttered innocently.

“My point is—why didn’t you *tell me* I could’ve helped prepare too?”

She blinked again, wide-eyed and sweetly clueless. “Do I really need to remind you of everything?”

After dinner, Aunt Yu waved off Uncle Yu to clean up, then pulled Jingjing down beside her to watch the new drama.

“Jingjing, was this shoot tough on you?”

Yu Tu sighed, passing water, tossing a walnut into her bowl, trying to stay invisible. Finally, Aunt Yu noticed: “Oh… Yu Tu, why don’t you take Jingjing out for a walk?”

He grabbed her hand and led her into the courtyard’s bike shed.

“You made a mistake,” he said, grinning. “You need punishment.”

Jingjing tried to protest. “It’s not my fault! You just have zero emotional intelligence!”

That only earned her a deeper, more serious punishment.

Yu Tu steadied his breathing, turned, and pulled out their old-school 28-inch bicycle. Something appeared in his hand—some kind of gadget he fiddled with under the frame.

Then he hopped on, long legs planted firmly on the ground, stretched out his left hand, and grinned at her—boyish, bright, full of mischief.

“Miss Qiao Jingjing,” he said, “would you like to go for a ride?”

Warm fingers tugged hers, and suddenly she was perched on the bike’s crossbar, tucked safely in his arms. The wheels rolled forward, wobbled once, then caught rhythm as they turned onto the main road.

Every breath he exhaled brushed against her hair, lifting strands like whispers. Through thick winter coats, their bodies pressed close. Their heartbeats synced—two pulses, one rhythm.

“This was my route to school every day,” he said.

“Yeah… sometimes you’d stop at that little shop ahead to buy steamed buns.”

He shifted closer, burying his face half in her fluffy hat, shielding her from the winter chill.

With Yu University’s legendary face-scan clearance, they slipped through the high school gate. A few steps in, Jingjing realized how warm and cozy it felt.

“You added padding to the crossbar, didn’t you? It’s not cold at all. Not even uncomfortable.”

He smiled. “Wait till you see this.” He walked ahead, stopped beneath a streetlamp, and gestured proudly. “I built a makeshift astronaut seat—basically what astronauts use on space stations.”

“What? You made this yourself?”

She reached out, touched it. The material felt unfamiliar—narrow, supported by a light frame, fragile-looking but solid.

“It’s simple. Not hard. Just makes it better for you.”

Joy bloomed in her chest—so much joy it drowned out every designer gown, every custom jewel she’d ever owned.

“We should go back to Shanghai and buy a new bike,” she mused, leaning into him, already dreaming of riding to Zha Pu Bridge at sunset.

He rubbed his cheek against her hat.

“No can do. I used some restricted recycled materials. By regulation, I have to turn them in. I promised Engineer He from the R&D team—I’ll hand them over when I start work tomorrow.”

Late at night, Dr. Yu had been put through the wringer by his girlfriend—endless photos of the seat, the bike, her leaning on it, sitting on it, even hugging the little chair. The lighting was terrible, the shots blurry. She was disappointed.

On the fourth day of Lunar New Year, Yu Tu went to visit relatives in the mountains with his parents, driving Uncle Yu’s little car.

Aunt Yu kept sighing the whole way. “You insisted on keeping it secret! I couldn’t tell anyone how happy I am. It’s killing me.”

Then, “You told me I could watch the unaired episodes—no copying, no sharing. I wanted to show off! But I couldn’t. It’s torture.”

Jingjing… Jingjing… the sound of her mother’s voice oddly calmed Yu Tu’s nerves. His restlessness melted away.

Without Yu Tu around, the air felt hollow. Jingjing dragged herself out of bed near noon. Her phone buzzed—Chu Zhu’s WeChat popped up: “Jingjing! Jingjing! Check out the ‘Most Beautiful Moment’ voting on Weibo. There’s a photo of you and Teacher Yu—ranked around 20th!”

Jingjing clicked through. It was part of a holiday-themed user campaign: people shared candid shots from festivals, and everyone voted.

Street scenes, stage performances, temple fairs, flower markets, soldiers on duty—every image radiated warmth, life, the soul of ordinary moments.

She scrolled past a few pages—and there it was.

The photo: soft, dreamy night haze, unmistakably a rainy southern city. Streetlights glowed like yellow umbrellas, casting long halos. A large-wheeled bicycle carried two silhouettes.

A boy in a black puffer jacket stretched his legs wide, feet planted on the ground, one hand on the handlebars. In his arm, cradled like a cloud, was a girl in white hat, white scarf, white puffer coat—soft, pure, glowing. Her head tilted back, only her chin and lower jaw visible. Her eyes hidden behind his lowered head. They were kissing.

She remembered that kiss—light, fleeting. He’d nudged her cheek with his nose, guided her to sit properly on the little seat, murmuring, “Jingjing, stop playing. Let me focus on the road.”

Qiao Jingjing ignored the vote.

She saved the photo anyway.

File name: *Yu Tu’s Love Letter (II).jpg*

That evening, Xiao Zhou and his friends headed to a bar in Donghu Lake. He begged Jingjing to come along. She refused. Without Yu Tu, it just didn’t feel worth it.

Pei Pei sent a message: the outline for tomorrow’s episode. Theme: hometown. A chance for overseas wanderers to speak, walk, and witness how their roots had grown.