03
Ruan Yu, now both suspicious and anxious, hurried back.
Taking advantage of the traffic jam, she opened the story Her Eyes Smile and began reading. After just flipping through a few pages at random, she found multiple striking similarities.
For instance, the New Year’s fireworks scene—the plot, dialogue, and even the male lead’s inner monologue in the other story matched hers exactly.
Even more shocking was another scene where the female lead left school on a weekend holding a pot of "Little Flower Farmer Canned Flowers."
This was a popular DIY potted plant trend at Suzhou No. 1 High School back then—each can grew a different plant, from chrysanthemums to watermelons. But Ruan Yu’s was special; she had modified hers to grow both sunflowers and lavender.
She had come across this detail in her diary and used it as material to enhance the nostalgic feel of her story. Yet, the other author had also written about this exact detail—sunflowers and lavender.
Similar examples were too numerous to count. The short story’s fast pace and dense plot points meant these overlapping elements had been published earlier than hers. However, the other author was a newcomer with little exposure, so Ruan Yu hadn’t noticed before.
What the hell?
From the rearview mirror, Liu Mao noticed her expression growing increasingly grim. Seizing the moment at a red light, he turned and asked, “Ms. Ruan, is there anything I can help with?”
Ruan Yu looked up and immediately shook her head.
Liu Mao probably knew her profession, but she had always kept a low profile about it—not even revealing her pen name to her parents, let alone a blind date she’d just met.
Besides, the situation hadn’t escalated to the point of needing legal assistance.
So she said, “I can handle it myself for now. Thank you.”
Ruan Yu got out of the car at her apartment building, thanked Liu Mao again, and hurried upstairs.
In just that hour-long car ride, after the storm on the forums, her book review section and her work account with over 200,000 followers had also been flooded.
Insults and accusations piled up. Her readers were utterly defenseless against such a “solid” plagiarism comparison, and many even demanded an explanation.
One loyal fan did propose a theory in her favor: What if the other author was Wen Xiang’s alt account?
In the online fiction community, there was a practice called “testing tropes”—publishing under a throwaway account first and abandoning the idea if it didn’t gain traction. But Ruan Yu clearly hadn’t done that.
As the controversy continued to escalate, everyone was waiting for her response.
Amid the overwhelming rumors, she carefully read through the other story again. After gripping her hair and taking a moment to calm down, she decided to contact the author first.
The other writer’s pen name was “Poet,” and their Weibo handle was A Person Who Writes Poetry —a new account with only a handful of inactive followers. The latest post, from Sunday evening four days ago, read: Going back to school again, ugh.
Probably a middle schooler.
Ruan Yu sent them a message but received no reply.
Then she realized—today was Thursday. If the other person was a boarding student, they likely didn’t have access to their phone right now.
Exhausted, she kicked off her high heels and collapsed onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling light. Lines of vitriolic comments floated through her mind—
Plagiarizing scum, stop pretending to be dead. Come out and say something!
How is this trash still on the leaderboard? Get the hell out of Jinjiang!
Wow, what a clever way to blend tropes. Did your other books also get popular by copying?
Many of these comments came from strangers who had no prior grudge against her—just conclusions drawn from the plagiarism comparison. So rather than anger at being slandered, what she wanted most was to figure out: How on earth could two stories overlap to this extent?On Friday evening, as school let out, the area outside Suzhou No. 1 High School bustled with activity. Xu Huaishi pulled out her phone at the bus stop and casually logged into her Jinjiang account.
Over a month ago, she had stumbled upon a "heart-wrenching" story in an old flip phone. The male lead—her older brother—had apparently harbored a crush on a girl from another class during high school but was too cowardly to confess before leaving the country.
The tale was so tragic it could move anyone to tears. Unable to contain herself, she registered an account on her usual fiction site and wrote a short story based on it.
It wasn’t about pursuing a side gig—just an overwhelming urge to vent. She couldn’t share it with friends and feared online forums might spread it too widely, risking her brother finding out. So she chose Jinjiang, the "treasure trove of women’s literature."
But Xu Huaishi soon realized her mistake.
Because she went viral. Her comment section exploded with thousands of replies in just two days, and the flood of messages informed her that a moderately popular writer had plagiarized her work.
Xu Huaishi stood frozen, taking a long moment to process the shock. When she finally snapped out of it, she quickly searched for the other story, skimmed through it, then found the author’s Weibo. Furious, she prepared to demand an explanation.
The homepage of "Wen Xiang" featured a pinned post— Response : No plagiarism or borrowing of plot elements. Regarding the similarities between I Really Want to Whisper in Your Ear and Her Eyes Smile , I’ve contacted the other author, Someone Who Writes Poetry , for clarification and am awaiting a reply. Further updates will follow once the situation is clear. (God knows this story about unrequited love is based on my own school days... /facepalm)
The parenthetical remark, of course, wasn’t convincing enough, so the post also included a video showing the last modified timestamp of her outline document—dated before Her Eyes Smile was published.
The video displayed both the document’s timestamp and its contents in a continuous sequence, making it a far more solid rebuttal than a mere screenshot.
Sure enough, the comments under the post were noticeably more rational.
Xu Huaishi hesitated, then opened her private messages.
Wen Xiang’s message began with a brief explanation of the situation. The last few lines read: "I Want to Whisper is entirely my original concept, and I never intended to disrespect your work. However, I can’t deny the objective similarities between our stories. I’d appreciate your clarification and look forward to your response."
Recalling Wen Xiang’s claim about the story being "based on personal experience," Xu Huaishi wavered between doubt and belief. She revisited Wen Xiang’s novel and soon noticed something odd.
When adapting the text messages into her own story, she had omitted certain details—yet some of those very elements appeared in Wen Xiang’s work.
What did that mean?
Despite the early summer warmth, a chill ran down her spine, raising goosebumps for no reason.
A male voice interrupted her thoughts. "Xu Huaishi, why are you just standing there? Three No. 19 buses have already passed, you know?"
She looked up to see Zhao Yi from her class approaching from across the street. His buzz cut and the lollipop dangling from his mouth like a cigarette gave him the air of a delinquent.
Annoyed but struck by sudden inspiration, Xu Huaishi grinned. "Zhao Da, what a coincidence!"
"Whoa," Zhao Yi raised an eyebrow, closing the distance in a few strides. "Since when does the sun rise in the west? Flattery out of nowhere—what’s your angle?"She giggled behind her hand and whispered, "With your vast connections and resources, I was wondering—do you have any 'black tech' that can dig up someone's real info just from their Weibo account? Nothing illegal, just a name would do."
Zhao Yi spoke with grave concern, "Young lady, even looking up a name is illegal."
She choked back her words and sighed, only to see him lean in conspiratorially and say, "But money talks."
Xu Huaishi hesitated, then gritted her teeth. "How much?"
He flashed an "OK" sign. "Thirty thousand RMB."
"..."
She turned to leave, but Zhao Yi grabbed her arm. When she looked back, he grinned, revealing a row of white teeth. "Friendship discount—one cup of milk tea."
An hour later, at a street-side milk tea shop, Zhao Yi answered his phone, exchanged a few words, and finally said, "Thanks, Uncle. I’ll treat you to crayfish another day."
Hanging up, he snapped his fingers, grabbed a menu, scribbled two messy characters, and slid it across the table.
"Ruan Yu?" Xu Huaishi repeated the name a couple of times, then after a moment of thought, said, "Zhao, since you’re already being so helpful, how about accompanying me back to school?"
"What for?"
She pointed at the menu. "To the school history museum. I want to check if this person is our alumna."
Xu Huaishi remembered the last draft message in her brother’s inbox—sent the day before he went abroad. It read: "My last glimpse of you was your photo in the school history museum. Goodbye."
So she thought, if there really was such a miraculous coincidence in the world, if "Wen Xiang’s" claim of "personal experience" wasn’t a lie, then there must be a photo of Ruan Yu there.
Under the pretense of "forgetting homework," the two dashed toward the school history museum in the glow of the setting sun.
The museum was already closed at this hour, but thanks to Zhao Yi’s relentless pestering—putting on a full theatrical performance for the janitor—Xu Huaishi seized the chance to slip inside unnoticed and sprint straight to the second floor.
The hall was empty. The setting sun streamed through the glass windows, casting dappled shadows of tree leaves onto the floor. She tiptoed silently, holding her breath as she wound her way through the exhibits, finally arriving at the wall of outstanding graduates.
The school had been established nearly fifty years ago, and this museum had stood for two decades, its walls now crammed with photos.
Her eyes locked onto the Class of '07 section. She ran her finger along the rows of photos, her heartbeat gradually quickening.
Nervousness, taboo, and excitement.
At seventeen, her subconscious preferred to believe in a secret buried by time over something as ugly as plagiarism.
But the next moment, the sound of leather shoes echoed from the stairwell. A middle-aged man bellowed furiously, "Which class are you from? School’s over—what are you doing here, huh?"
Xu Huaishi yelped in surprise. Without time to scrutinize the photos, she spun around and bolted, stumbling down the opposite staircase in a panic.
The man gave chase, and as she reached the first-floor lobby, she saw another blocking the main entrance. Cornered, she heard a familiar voice from the direction of the women’s restroom: "Over here!"
She dashed inside, spotted Zhao Yi outside the window, and hurled her backpack at him before hoisting herself onto the windowsill and jumping out.
Zhao Yi caught her firmly, slung her bag over his shoulder, and yanked her arm as they sprinted toward the small woods behind the museum.
The two vanished in a flash, leaving the fuming janitor cursing and stomping behind them.Seeing that they had shaken off their pursuers, Zhao Yi stopped and threw her bag down, collapsing onto the grass as he panted, "Xu Huaishi... does the school history museum have some long-lost relative of yours that you had to sneak in now? Just submit an application on Monday and come back then. It's not like your relative is going to run away, is it?"
Xu Huaishi was also gasping for breath and took a while to respond, "If I don’t figure this out, I won’t sleep well all weekend!"
With that, she flopped onto the grass in frustration, groaning, "We were so close!"
"Well, I’m not risking my life for this again!"
Xu Huaishi knew full well the principle of not alerting the enemy—there was no way they could get into the school history museum now. And if she asked her brother directly, he’d find out she had stolen his private "love letters" and posted them online. That would be worse than getting disciplinary action or writing a self-criticism.
So, did she really have to suffer through the weekend?
She couldn’t accept that. Kicking her legs in frustration, she suddenly remembered something and said, "Wait..."
Proving Ruan Yu’s identity didn’t necessarily have to rely on the text messages—there might be clues in the novel "Fragrant Warmth."
She recalled a passage she had just seen at the bus stop: in the novel, the male lead, "He Shiqian," would play the piano in the school’s art gallery during his free time, and the female lead, "Lin Xisheng," had once written a line of English letters on the wall of his usual practice room—lxsxhhsq.
It meant "Lin Xisheng likes He Shiqian."
In other words...
As the sun completely disappeared below the horizon, she pushed herself up and glanced at the domed art gallery fading into the night. "Zhao Yi," she asked, "has the art gallery’s walls been repainted in the last few years?"
Zhao Yi had no idea what she was scheming now. "The school’s too stingy for that, probably not."
"Then wanna risk our lives one more time?"
"..."
Fifteen minutes later, crouched on the art gallery’s spiral staircase, Xu Huaishi flipped through her phone and whispered, "Found it! The novel says it’s Room 401, the wall behind the piano!"
She nudged Zhao Yi, signaling him to take the lead, and repeated, "401, 401!"
Zhao Yi frowned and hissed, "401 is an art studio. There’s no piano there."
"Huh?" Xu Huaishi froze.
Had the author fabricated the room number to avoid being too realistic? Did that mean they’d have to search every room?
"Think harder!" Zhao Yi urged in a low voice.
Think harder, think harder.
Xu Huaishi clutched her head, straining to recall. Then, like a spark igniting, she blurted, "Do you know which piano room has a view of the second classroom on the fourth floor of the teaching building?"
She remembered her brother mentioning in his texts that from the piano room he was in, he could see that girl leaning on the railing outside the classroom, basking in the sun.
"The westernmost one—301!" Zhao Yi deduced instantly.
"That’s the one, let’s go!"
The two of them crept to the end of the third floor.
The door to 301 was locked. Zhao Yi sighed. "Got a hairpin? A thin one."
Xu Huaishi pulled one from her hair and held up her phone for light.
Five minutes later, the lock clicked open. Overjoyed, she rushed inside with her flashlight, squeezing behind the piano.
Xu Huaishi’s slender frame just barely fit as the beam of light spread across the old, yellowed white wall. Though patches of paint had peeled away, the line of correction-fluid letters in the center was still clearly visible.
—ryxhxhs.Stuck outside and unable to get in, Zhao Yi caught sight of the abbreviation and pieced it together: "Ri, ya, xiu, hei, xiu, hei... shoot?"
"......"
Xu Huaishi turned her head to glare at him, then looked back, her eyes nearly brimming with tears of excitement.
Her fingertip brushed against the rough wall as if afraid of breaking something, carefully and softly saying, "It's... Ruan, Yu, xi, huan, Xu, Huai, song." (Ruan Yu likes Xu Huaisong)
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