Chapter 32
“So, this song…”
“Is for my stars.”
The main stage lights dimmed, and the massive LED screens flickered to life, resembling a shimmering galaxy. The event organizers of Time Gathering Gala had no shortage of funds—full LCD screens were installed throughout the venue. Moments ago, they were displaying sponsor advertisements; now, every single one had transformed into a breathtaking starry sky.
Fang Huai’s red carpet placement was almost last—the only ones scheduled after him were the high-profile judges.
Ninety percent of the guests walking the red carpet were award contenders, while the “mystery guest” was not part of the competition. Traditionally, the mystery guest was allowed to perform a one- or two-minute short act, serving as a bridge between contestants and judges while also lightening the atmosphere.
But in recent years, this tradition had all but faded. Red carpet performances often felt out of place—the microphones weren’t suited for live singing, the sound system was subpar, and the risk of embarrassment in front of countless cameras was too high. Most artists preferred to skip it altogether.
No one expected Fang Huai to sing.
The host exchanged a surprised glance with the event coordinator, then stepped aside. Reporters lifted their cameras, curious spectators arched their brows, and all eyes focused on him.
At the far end of the red carpet, Fang Huai slowly turned around.
In front of him, a dark sea of people—media, onlookers, and fans dressed in support gear. Some fans wiped their eyes, some quietly lit up their LED signs, but most simply watched him in silence.
The young man smiled at them, his light amber eyes holding a warmth as soft and dreamy as starlight.
This song was called “Stars.”
As the digital galaxy swirled on the screens, the gentle melody of a piano floated through the speakers.
He had written this song last night.
There wasn’t enough time to produce a full instrumental track, so he borrowed a piano the next morning and recorded a 90-second piano backing.
Just last night—while the entire city lay asleep—a drowsy young man sat with a pencil in hand, carefully scribbling notes onto paper.
He had so much to say to them.
Thank you for staying by my side; Thank you for loving someone ordinary like me, someone who still has so much to learn; Thank you for picking me up from the dust, for patiently waiting as I slowly found my light.
Thank you for standing by me through my lowest moments; Thank you for defending me against cruel words; Thank you for always—always believing in me.
You are my stars.
Silent yet unwavering, embracing me with your light—gentle, patient, never leaving.
Fang Huai was never good with words. He typed slowly, and even when he wanted to express himself, he often struggled to find the right words.
So instead, he poured it all into the melody—soft as a whispered secret, flowing like stardust alongside the piano’s gentle hum.
The once-noisy venue fell completely silent.
Even the media stopped chattering, their eyes fixed on him.
Further back, the prestigious judges of the night’s awards watched with curiosity.
One of them nudged a colleague and asked, “What’s this boy’s name? Which award is he nominated for?”
“This song is beautiful. Is it a cover?”
“The melody is so tender.”
“I don’t know much about him,” someone murmured. “But one thing’s for sure…”
“He’s got guts.”
He truly has courage.
This was the second time he had stood in front of his fans without saying a word. His strength wasn’t great, but he still used everything he had to protect them.
This wasn’t the same as simply posting a message on Weibo.
In an event of this scale, to write a song for his fans—those who had supported him all along—and to sing it under the spotlight, in front of countless cameras… It was a bold statement.
Before this, Fang Huai’s fans had been ridiculed across the internet. Several influential bloggers had reposted the hate, and after the finals, when Fang Huai gained a new wave of supporters, these new fans turned against the old ones—calling them “leeches”, accusing them of “treating idol support like debt collection.”
And yet, Fang Huai’s actions now—standing there and singing for them—was a loud, resounding slap in the face to those critics.
His voice was still ringing through the venue—gentle, clear, and soothing. His light-colored eyes held a glow as he stood under the stage lights, looking earnestly at the crowd in front of him.
In the sea of darkness, one by one, lightboards flickered on.
Some said “Go, Huaihuai!”, some read “You got this, baby!”, and others displayed their old slogan from the finals:
“No need to reach—you’re already a star.”
No one spoke. Some still stood in the shadows, but their lightboards shone stubbornly in the dim crowd—like countless silent confessions, flickering like scattered stars, slowly igniting across an endless night sky.
In the front row, a girl clutched her sign, sobbing uncontrollably, her hands trembling. Fans farther back wiped at their red-rimmed eyes in silence.
And those who couldn’t attend the event—watching through TV screens and live streams—also stared, eyes glistening.
For a long time, they had felt adrift, falling, battered by cold winds. But now—they felt their feet land on solid ground, wrapped in an embrace they had longed for.
On the streaming platform, the comments scrolled by in waves:
[At first, I just thought this boy was kind and talented… Now, I don’t even know why I love him, but I just do.]
[It’s not about anyone else—it’s just him.]
[I’m so glad I chose to support him. And I’m so proud.]
[I want to like him for a very, very long time.]
The short performance had a strict time limit—it wasn’t long, and already half the song had passed. The piano accompaniment continued to flow as Fang Huai held his microphone, drawing in a steady breath during a brief two-second pause—
He was singing so earnestly.
Even more than during the competition.
Every emotion, every thought, he poured into the melody, his eyes shining with quiet determination.
And then—just before the chorus began—
The LED screen and the surrounding LCD displays suddenly shifted.
The twinkling starry sky vanished.
Instead, the screens now displayed a flood of messages and photos:
@LittlePaws: Baby, keep going, but don’t push yourself too hard. Just do what makes you happy. Everything else—leave it to us.
@HuaihuaiIsMyLittleCake: I’ve already contacted the show’s producers. We’re hoping they can postpone the finals. Get well soon, Huaihuai!
@WinterMe: I love you. Every version of you.
These were real messages from fans—comments left on Weibo and in fan groups.
From the preliminaries to the finals, these were the words that had always been there.
Unlike the malicious edits spread by gossip accounts—claiming his fans had “pressured” him into winning—these messages showed the truth.
They had never demanded anything from him.
They had waited for him. They had supported him unconditionally.
And there were so many pictures, too—
Fans holding their lightboards in the dark; Gathering before events, discussing every detail of their support plans; Waiting outside venues, some so exhausted they had fallen asleep…
Fang Huai had so little time to gather everything.
But he saw it all.
Every single thing they did for him—
He had always seen it.
In the venue, no one could find the words to speak.
When they first arrived, they hunched their shoulders, trying to stay unnoticed. They hesitated, afraid to wear their support gear openly, walking like stray rats in the streets, not even daring to hold up their lightboards.
But now—
Now, they stood in the brightest spotlight.
It was as if… they truly were stars.
Watched by countless eyes, cherished, shining brightly—standing alongside the person they loved most.
At some point, the audience and the media had fallen completely silent.
Lights and cameras focused on the red carpet. As the accompaniment faded, many people stared wide-eyed at the scene unfolding before them.
On stage, the young man sang the last note and gazed intently at the screen.
His eyes were red-rimmed.
—In front of him, in what had once been total darkness, countless lightboards had been lifted high.
All displaying his name.
Many people in the crowd were so moved they could hardly contain themselves.
Countless cameras recorded the moment in complete silence—
The handsome, pure-hearted young man standing there, eyes shining with unshed tears.
Before him, a galaxy of lightboards spread out like a starry sky.
He and his fans locked eyes—silent, yet brimming with warmth.
This scene—this single, fleeting moment—would be remembered and spoken of for years to come.
The night was gentle, and the evening breeze drifted softly through the air.
At Fang Huai’s feet, a tiny cleaning robot nudged his pant leg, looking up at him quietly and clumsily, as if offering comfort in its own way.
Fang Huai didn’t stay until the end of the event—he couldn’t help but sneak away quietly.
After all, he wasn’t part of the awards ceremony and wasn’t a central figure in the evening’s program. During a break, he used the excuse of needing the restroom and slipped out through the back door.
His heart was far from calm.
When he saw all those lightboards at the end, he had barely held back his tears.
Back in the guest seating area, a female celebrity next to him had even handed him a tissue with a teasing smile, making him even more embarrassed.
He didn’t dare open Weibo to check what people were saying.
After leaving the event, he briefly met with his fans, said a few words, and even as he got into the car, his chest was filled with an unfamiliar yet overwhelming emotion.
It was something that made him a little self-conscious, yet strangely exhilarating—
Warm.
Like standing in the morning sun on a cold winter day.
*
Shi Feiran drove, taking Fang Huai back to the hospital.
His complications hadn’t fully healed—his tinnitus persisted, and he still needed another IV drip.
“So, what are your plans for the future?” Shi Feiran asked casually, keeping one hand on the steering wheel.
Truth be told, he felt a little guilty.
Even though he was technically Fang Huai’s “temporary manager,” he hadn’t really done much for him.
Shi Feiran was experienced—he had managed a boy group and even an award-winning actress in the past.
But with Fang Huai, things were different.
Fang Huai seemed clueless about many things, yet somehow, he always knew exactly what he wanted to do.
Like this time, when he stood up for his fans—just as he had many times before.
And besides, Fang Huai had never officially signed a contract with Starlight Entertainment, so Shi Feiran couldn’t interfere too much in his decisions.
“I want to keep singing.”
Fang Huai’s voice carried a slight nasal tone. He thought for a moment before asking, “Have I… already become a ‘star’?”
Shi Feiran couldn’t help but chuckle. “What do you think?”
Fang Huai seriously pondered the question, then brightened a little.
What Fang Jianguo had asked him to do—in just a month, he had already completed half of it.
Though along the way, many of his thoughts and plans had shifted.
“Then… what do stars usually do?”
“Act in dramas, record albums, appear on variety shows…” Shi Feiran listed off while keeping his eyes on the road. “It depends on what you like. Oh, by the way—do you still plan to sign with Starlight?”
Fang Huai had never formally signed with Starlight Entertainment—everything so far had been temporary. He still held full control over his decisions.
Fang Huai nodded.
But for some reason, he felt like he was forgetting something.
*
Back at the hospital, hunger finally caught up with him.
He asked a nurse where the kitchen was and decided to make himself something to eat.
Borrowing a few ingredients, he fried an egg and cooked a bowl of noodles.
And just as he was taking off his apron, realization hit him.
He lowered his head, looking at himself—
A luxuriously tailored suit, deep starry blue, perfectly fitted, exuding a clear air of sophistication and wealth.
…This wasn’t his suit.
He had forgotten to return it to Ye Yuyuan.
But—he had no idea where Ye Yuyuan was.
Fang Huai pulled up a small stool, biting into his fried egg as he sat at the tiny kitchen table.
It was late at night.
The kitchen was dim, illuminated by a single small light, casting a soft, warm glow.
He took out his old-fashioned blue-screen phone.
Carefully, he opened his contacts list, eyes fixed on a certain number.
He hesitated—then finally pressed dial.
Not even two seconds later, the call connected.
A low, slightly hoarse voice came through—Clearly cold in tone, yet in the night breeze, it somehow sounded unexpectedly gentle.
“…Hello?”
