Chapter 36
“@Lin ShengyunV: Frost Composer, @FangHuai(Verified). Looking forward to working together.”
[Director Lin: Can’t resist!]
[HOLY—IT’S REALLY HIM!! MY BOY DID IT!!!]
[Uh, didn’t someone just say he was washed up? Is Lin Shengyun crazy, or were the people spreading rumors just delusional?]
[If he was really creatively drained, would Director Lin have chosen him to compose Frost‘s theme song?]
[Wait, why does it only say ‘Composer’? Not ‘Singer’ or ‘Composer & Singer’? I’m not nitpicking, it’s just… weird.]
If Fang Huai were involved in Frost, he had no real industry credibility. His only major advantage was his popularity. Frost wasn’t a pure art film—if he were the singer, his fanbase would at least help boost its visibility.
But as a composer? That was strange.
Even as a singer, people doubted his qualifications. Let alone as the lead composer. Fang Huai writing the theme wouldn’t bring hype to the movie—at most, only his fans would listen.
Would the others really agree to this? Would the investors?
And for those who had believed the rumors that Fang Huai couldn’t write music anymore, this was even more shocking.
Had Fang Huai recovered? Or was Frost about to crash and burn alongside him?
Most people suspected that Lin Shengyun had simply forgotten to add “Singer” to the announcement, and that Fang Huai was actually doing both. That, at least, would make more sense.
Only a few people knew the truth: Fang Huai was indeed the composer, but whether he would be the singer was still uncertain.
…It wasn’t that Lin Shengyun didn’t want to give him the opportunity—it was that Fang Huai couldn’t take it. He could still force himself to compose, but singing? That was out of the question for now.
But just composing was already enough.
Everything was moving fast. As Shi Feiran coordinated the publicity efforts, he couldn’t help but wonder—why had Lin Shengyun suddenly made the announcement?
When they had met yesterday, Lin Shengyun had indeed considered letting Fang Huai compose the song. Fang Huai had no objections, but Lin Shengyun hadn’t immediately agreed—after all, Fang Huai’s resume wasn’t strong enough to take on such a key role, and the investors wouldn’t approve.
Following Wang An’s suggestion—let Fang Huai write the song, but don’t credit him—would have been a cowardly move, but it would have been the most practical solution for Frost.
Shi Feiran had no idea what had changed Lin Shengyun’s mind. The director didn’t seem like the kind of person who acted recklessly. How could he possibly be willing to let Frost sink or swim with Fang Huai?
But that wasn’t the priority right now. There was something even more urgent.
Fang Huai’s team and fans weren’t pushovers.
Before anyone could even start questioning whether Fang Huai was qualified to compose for Frost, his team had already taken action. They compiled a highlight reel of all his original compositions—from the folk songs he performed as a street musician, to his songs from the Stellar Light auditions, the preliminary rounds, and the red carpet performance of Star, along with various snippets he had written casually over time.
Fang Huai’s biggest weakness was his lack of credentials.
His career was still young—he hadn’t even released a full album, let alone one that could compete for awards. He had no official accolades to his name. The only way to prove himself was through his work.
The compilation video, He and the Stars Shine as One, was simultaneously uploaded to YouTube, Weibo, and Bilibili. At the same time, Shi Feiran, speaking on behalf of Fang Huai’s team, responded to Lin Shengyun’s Weibo post.
“@StarlightEntertainment(Verified): A frosty season, a destined meeting. Thank you for your trust. @LinShengyunV @FrostOfficialWeiboV.”
Before the video was released, few people had paid much attention to Fang Huai’s composition skills.
They only knew he had a great voice and worked incredibly hard.
But when all his songs were placed together, people realized—Fang Huai’s ability to compose was just as strong.
His music was full of life, brimming with spirit.
Individually, his songs might not have stood out too much, but when played together, his unique style became undeniable. He had a way of blending himself into different emotions and scenarios, translating them seamlessly into melody.
[Say what you want, but musically, he’s a natural talent.]
[My boy is incredible. How is he this amazing? I’m crying.]
[He’s definitely talented, but it’s a shame he won’t be able to write songs anymore…]
[Who the hell started that rumor? Get lost.]
After Lin Shengyun officially confirmed that Fang Huai was the composer, the rumors about his creative downfall lost all credibility.
“Do you want to go see the stars?”
“If you want to go, we’ll go right now.”
The voice was calm yet gentle, murmuring through the twilight like a whisper.
The evening wind suddenly turned sharp.
The vast divide between memory and reality collapsed in an instant. Fragmented images, once blurred and faded, emerged under the glow of city lights.
For a fleeting second, Fang Huai remembered something.
A long time ago, someone had said those same words to him.
But the feeling passed too quickly—so fast that he couldn’t grasp onto anything.
His light brown eyes widened slightly, as if a faint electric current had surged from his fingertips to his heart.
And in that moment, after so long, the long-lost notes and melodies came flooding back—
The once-muted world of black and white was suddenly filled with sound, color, and light!
He strode into the room in a few quick steps, holding his phone in one hand while grabbing a pencil from the table with the other. Without hesitation, he began writing a string of notes directly onto the desk calendar.
He kept writing until the second line, his pace gradually slowing.
Just past the halfway mark of the second line, the sounds in his mind suddenly came to an abrupt stop.
It was as if the magic had reached its time limit—the carriage turned back into a pumpkin, the colors faded once more, and everything returned to an empty, pale silence.
The evening light quietly lingered at his feet. The door that had just opened a tiny crack now shut once again.
Fang Huai: “…”
He let out a soft breath, his heartbeat slowly returning to its normal rhythm.
Still no good. He couldn’t write.
That fleeting sensation from before—what was it?
“See the stars?” Fang Huai repeated the words seriously, phone still in hand.
Ye Yuyuan responded with a quiet “Mhm.”
“Are you downstairs?”
Fang Huai walked over to the window and looked down. Sure enough, there he was—a silent figure standing alone. The Maybach couldn’t enter the old residential complex, so Ye Yuyuan had come alone, standing there in the twilight, exuding a quiet loneliness wrapped in gentleness.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in a romantic hue. Clouds stretched across the horizon like fish scales. Then, without warning, the sound of rain began to grow louder.
—A sudden late-summer rain.
This city was known for its rainy summers; carrying an umbrella was always a necessity. But Ye Yuyuan clearly hadn’t brought one.
His expression remained calm, unbothered. A faint shadow of melancholy rested between his brows, but he did not look the least bit disheveled.
He stood under the sky, unmoving, not seeking shelter. His suit remained perfectly in place, as if not a single raindrop could touch him.
That is, until the distant iron gate was pushed open in a hurry.
A young man in a simple T-shirt ran out, holding an umbrella above his head. He was still wearing slippers, and as the wind carried the rain at an angle, his hair was instantly dampened.
The umbrella he held was a soft lemon yellow. The sun had already been swallowed by dark clouds, casting the world into dimness—leaving him as the only trace of color in the entire scene.
“It’s raining,” Fang Huai’s voice over the phone carried a hint of urgency. “You should—”
His light brown eyes, clear as if washed by rain, met the man’s gaze through the downpour, a trace of confusion in them.
The rain was getting heavier. Yet the man standing before him still had no umbrella.
He looked as composed and indifferent as ever, so neatly put together that there wasn’t the slightest hint of disorder about him.
“…”
Ye Yuyuan remained silent for a long moment.
Before Fang Huai could sense anything unusual, the invisible barrier around him seemed to dissolve. Raindrops finally touched his body, quickly soaking through the fabric of his impeccably tailored shirt.
“Ye Yuyuan.”
Fang Huai smiled, greeting him from two steps away before walking over with the umbrella.
He was just over 1.8 meters tall—not short by any means—but Ye Yuyuan still towered over him.
A single umbrella pulled the two of them into the same small space. The scent of dampness and rainwater became more pronounced. Because Ye Yuyuan was taller, Fang Huai struggled slightly to keep the umbrella steady.
The next second, the man silently took the umbrella from him.
His well-defined fingers curled around the handle, unintentionally brushing against the back of Fang Huai’s hand. Fang Huai didn’t think much of it, but Ye Yuyuan’s gaze lowered slightly, and his index finger subtly rubbed against his fingertip.
“Are you in a hurry?” The rain was loud, so Fang Huai raised his voice a little. “Come over to my place for a while.”
He had originally planned to invite Ye Yuyuan over anyway.
The man’s deep black eyes fixed on him in silence, offering no immediate response.
Thinking he hadn’t heard, Fang Huai tilted his head slightly and spoke directly beside his ear, “Can you come to my place as a guest? Right now.”
Maybe the boy had just finished a cup of warm milk.
There was a faint, clean scent on him, like soapwort or bamboo leaves. His slightly warm breath carried a subtle milky sweetness, and his voice was crisp and clear.
This time, Ye Yuyuan heard him.
After a moment of silence, he gave a low reply, “Alright.”
He took the umbrella and walked toward the residential building not far away. The umbrella tilted slightly toward Fang Huai’s side, shielding him completely from the rain, while Ye Yuyuan’s shoulder remained half-exposed to the downpour.
The umbrella wasn’t large, so the two stood very close. The sound of the rain felt distant, shut out from their little space.
Fang Huai was already thinking about what to cook for dinner. Meanwhile, Ye Yuyuan remained quiet, his expression as indifferent as ever—but a faint warmth crept up his ears.
His thin lips pressed together slightly, and his index finger curled subtly, gripping the umbrella tighter.
Unfortunately, the walk wasn’t long.
Fang Huai’s home wasn’t big, but it was tidy, with a nightlight glowing softly.
Newspapers covered the table, old posters hung on the walls, and the decorations throughout the room carried a nostalgic charm. Fang Huai handed Ye Yuyuan a towel and an enamel cup filled with steaming ginger tea.
Fang Huai hadn’t gotten too wet, so he simply changed into dry clothes.
Ye Yuyuan, on the other hand, was drenched. His shirt clung to his body, outlining a lean, powerful physique—the graceful lines from his shoulders down to his waist were unmistakable. His suit jacket was draped over his arm, yet he didn’t appear the least bit disheveled. He simply sat on the old sofa, his back straight.
“Do you want to take a shower?” Fang Huai rubbed his nose. “You might catch a cold.”
But Ye Yuyuan was taller than him, and his clothing size was larger. Fang Huai didn’t have any spare clothes that would fit him.
He suddenly felt a bit regretful—why hadn’t he thought of this earlier?
Ye Yuyuan fell silent for a moment, glancing around the room—He wouldn’t catch a cold.
In the end, he gave a quiet “Mhm.”
Fang Huai went to adjust the water temperature and look for some clothes for him.
He was actually a little nervous—this was the first time he had invited a friend over. As he rummaged through his wardrobe, he suddenly received a call from Shi Feiran.
“Fang Huai, barring any surprises, you’ll be composing for Frost.”
“Mhm.”
“You might need to travel in a couple of days, so get ready.” Shi Feiran hesitated for a moment but didn’t say anything more.
This was Lin Shengyun’s usual practice—every key member of a film’s theme song production team would join the crew for a while, immersing themselves in the film’s unique rhythm and inspiration.
Fang Huai was momentarily stunned before nodding.
He had read Frost’s story and, without exaggeration, he really liked it. But… he wasn’t sure if he was up to the task.
Meanwhile, in the living room.
Ye Yuyuan stood up and walked to the small wooden bookshelf.
No water dripped from him, and his fingers were dry. Lowering his gaze, he looked at the rows of books neatly arranged on the shelves.
The top shelf contained classic literature from both domestic and international authors, along with some sci-fi novels. Many of them had visible signs of being read, and a few even had bookmarks tucked inside. Fang Huai read frequently, but he had been too busy lately to do more than skim occasionally.
The second shelf was different—the books there were perfectly arranged, untouched.
Among them, one book was wedged between the others, its cover plain and unremarkable. The title: Unrequited Love.
Unrequited love.
A silent, unspoken affection that ends without ever being voiced.
Ye Yuyuan’s lips curled slightly, a flicker of self-mockery flashing through his eyes before his expression quickly returned to its usual calm.
He put the book back on the shelf and turned on his phone.
After about thirty seconds, his face remained expressionless, but his gaze had darkened.
On Weibo, a short audio clip had been uploaded.
“Lately… I haven’t been able to write songs.” It was a boy’s clean, distinct voice.
“This is a mild psychological block. He has to overcome it on his own. It might take some time.” The doctor spoke, followed by a faint sigh.
“What’s the view count? Who posted it first?” Ye Yuyuan lightly tapped his wireless Bluetooth earpiece and said in a low voice, “Take it down.”
AI worked fast.
Within thirty seconds, every copy of the audio circulating online had vanished.
But even so, in private circles, the clip continued to spread in small groups, sparking heated discussions.
