Chapter 84
The Song of the Nameless audition site.
The media wasn’t allowed inside, so reporters anxiously lingered outside, ready to swarm at the slightest hint of movement. Several actors had already finished their auditions, their expressions varied—some looking uneasy, while others appeared full of confidence.
Fang Huai glanced around. The most confident-looking one was last year’s Venice Film Festival Best Actor, a fellow Chinese actor who spoke as if the role of Lin Xiao was already his.
“Huaihuai, I’ll be waiting outside for you,” Ye Yuyuan adjusted Fang Huai’s collar and said lightly, “Don’t be nervous.”
Fang Huai raised an eyebrow at him, then nodded after a moment and said, “Because our family is rich.”
Even if he didn’t get the role, he wouldn’t starve.
Ye Yuyuan lowered his gaze to him. The early morning light was soft, and a faint smile appeared in his deep, dark eyes. He responded in a low voice, “Mm.”
Parker: “……”
Even after Ye Yuyuan left, Parker was still frozen in stunned disbelief.
Fang Huai patted his shoulder, then pointed to the magazine and casually said, “Parker, did you notice the ring on his ring finger?”
Parker: “So what??”
“That’s my family’s heirloom ring,” Fang Huai said seriously. “It’s passed down to the daughter-in-law. Understand now?”
Parker: “………” He didn’t want to understand.
Parker felt dizzy. So Ye Yuyuan was the bottom? That didn’t seem right?! And then another thought hit him—if they got married without a prenuptial agreement, Fang Huai would skyrocket onto this year’s Forbes list… My god.
“Number 34, Mr. Parker.” A staff member called him in, then paused and added, “Mr. Fang, you can come in and wait as well.”
Both of them stood up at the same time, their movements stiff, walking in sync like awkward mirror images.
Despite their casual chatter, they were both quite nervous—especially Fang Huai. Over the past twenty days, he had gradually developed a deep emotional connection with Lin Xiao, but he still wasn’t sure if he was getting it right.
As soon as they stepped out and the waiting room door shut behind them, Fang Huai felt even more tense.
There had been very few moments in his life when he was this nervous—not even the night before Abyss Moonlight was released. Maybe it was because he had invested too much, poured too much emotion and expectation into this. As he stepped forward, his palms were sweating, and his fingertips were pale.
Fang Huai kept replaying his strengths in his mind. First, Xu Tuanyuan had chosen him, which meant he wasn’t entirely out of the league. Second… But no matter how he reasoned, he still felt anxious. The more he thought, the more he felt like he wasn’t in the right state.
It wasn’t just the competitors—even the media had dismissed him from the start.
“Mr. Fang, do you regret agreeing to an open audition? You missed such a golden opportunity.”
“Don’t be too nervous. It’s normal if you don’t get selected. Everyone understands you lack experience.”
“Objectively speaking, do you now realize the fundamental gap between yourself and the other candidates? We all know you’ve always been humble and self-aware.”
“…”
Fang Huai thought back to those questions the reporters threw at him when he first arrived. And throughout, he had only given one response, “I believe in myself. I’ll try my best.”
Of course, everyone—just like Parker—thought he was either joking or forcing a brave front.
The walk from the waiting room to the audition hall suddenly felt endlessly long and narrow. A flood of emotions surged through him—until he turned his head and saw Ye Yuyuan.
Ye Yuyuan was standing just outside the glass door at the end of the hallway, waiting for him to finish so he would be the first thing Fang Huai saw when he came out. The door was transparent, and through it, Fang Huai saw his Ye Yuyuan—silent, handsome, deep and steady, looking at him with quiet tenderness.
A moment later, Fang Huai saw Ye Yuyuan’s lips part slightly as he mouthed a few words.
Across half the hallway, under the dim morning light, with the soft sound of wind rushing in, Fang Huai could clearly see what he was saying, “Don’t be nervous. I love you.”
“…”
Fang Huai opened his mouth slightly, then pressed his lips together, unable to speak.
His heart, once restless, suddenly steadied, then filled with air and lifted upward. In that moment, he was absolutely certain—he liked this person.
The kind of like where he wanted to spend a lifetime with him.
The staff member, noticing Fang Huai hadn’t moved, asked curiously, “Mr. Fang?”
“Just a moment, I’m coming,” Fang Huai replied.
He took one last serious look at Ye Yuyuan, his lips curling up slightly. Then, after a brief pause, he lowered his gaze and followed the staff inside.
He was going to make it, Fang Huai suddenly thought.
Maybe he wasn’t the best actor here, but he was the one most suited to play Lin Xiao.
Besides—
Ye Yuyuan loved him.
And someone loved by Ye Yuyuan couldn’t be that bad.
*
As Fang Huai and Parker walked in, the previous actor was still performing.
Many actors hadn’t left after their auditions—they stayed to watch. There was no strict rule about leaving immediately after performing, as long as they didn’t make noise. The atmosphere was relatively relaxed in this regard.
The next actor up for the audition was a fellow countryman, Jiang Yuan, a seasoned and highly skilled actor. Two years ago, he successfully transitioned his career with a Republican-era spy film, and in recent years, he had been expanding internationally.
He was considered one of the top contenders for the role, alongside last year’s Venice Film Festival Best Actor winner. As for Fang Huai… well, he probably ranked somewhere past 20th place.
Jiang Yuan’s appearance also fit the role well—since “Lin Xiao” was Chinese, domestic actors naturally had an advantage. In comparison, actors like Parker were mostly there to make up the numbers.
Xu Tuanyuan handed Fang Huai an A4 sheet—an excerpt from the script. Fang Huai saw the number “10” written on it. Someone nearby sucked in a breath—this scene was clearly not easy.
Parker looked down at the paper for a minute, nodded politely toward the judges, and began his performance.
In auditions, sometimes the hardest scenes weren’t the ones with intense emotions or complex movements. More often, the real challenge came from scenes that seemed too ordinary.
Yes, in the few minutes of an audition, explosive scenes—ones involving extreme joy, sorrow, or anger—were actually easier to handle. Especially for experienced actors like the ones present. Jiang Yuan’s scene was difficult precisely because it had minimal emotional fluctuations; it was just a simple slice of everyday life.
Several actors had received this scene before. Most of them had looked uneasy after performing it.
Jiang Yuan closed his eyes briefly, then immersed himself in the role.
Half a minute later, Fang Huai unconsciously straightened in his seat. No one spoke, but the watching actors exchanged glances, silently conveying their thoughts.
…That was really good.
It was genuinely impressive. The emotions felt natural—not forced or exaggerated. For a scene like this, the key was in the details and subtle expressions, and Jiang Yuan had mastered both. Years of experience had clearly paid off.
Fang Huai knew, deep down, that he wasn’t at that level yet.
Even Xu Tuanyuan, who had remained expressionless throughout most performances, couldn’t help but nod approvingly.
“Jiang Yuan’s acting is incredible.”
“He’s always been solid. His film Midnight is being submitted to Cannes this year—who knows, maybe he’ll…”
“For the role of Lin Xiao, it’s probably between Jiang Yuan and Wang Shuli… Don’t take it too hard, the competition is just too strong.”
Parker leaned over and whispered to Fang Huai. Wang Shuli was the confident actor they had seen outside earlier.
Fang Huai watched Jiang Yuan’s performance intently, without saying a word.
Parker assumed he was feeling inferior and discouraged, so he didn’t say anything further and continued watching.
Jiang Yuan’s scene lasted a total of three minutes. When he finished, someone on the judging panel couldn’t help but clap, though Xu Tuanyuan quickly stopped them.
“Please wait for further notice,” a staff member told him.
Jiang Yuan nodded politely and took a towel to wipe his sweat—despite having no intense physical movements in the scene, his meticulous attention to detail and precise control of body language had still made him break into a sweat.
He didn’t leave immediately but stood there casually watching. His gaze briefly passed over Fang Huai without lingering.
Next up was Parker.
“Good luck,” Fang Huai whispered. “It’s best if you use your native language—don’t force yourself to speak Chinese.”
Parker nodded and went up. He attempted to use Chinese at first, but his nerves made him stumble over his words, unable to find the right rhythm. Finally, he gave up and switched to French, which improved his performance slightly.
He wasn’t too disappointed—Chinese actors had the advantage here, and he was mainly participating for the experience.
Now, it was Fang Huai’s turn.
Strangely enough, despite being Xu Tuanyuan’s supposed first choice for the role, almost no one took him seriously. Some of the judges yawned or played on their phones, while several actors who had been watching got ready to leave. In their minds, the audition had effectively ended with Parker’s performance.
Besides, Xu Tuanyuan hadn’t even given Fang Huai a glance. Maybe the so-called personal pick was just a rumor? Even if it wasn’t, after seeing so many talented candidates, he had surely changed his mind.
“Fang Huai,” Xu Tuanyuan said coolly. “Do this scene. Two minutes to prepare.”
He handed Fang Huai a piece of paper. At the top, the number 10 was printed.
Fang Huai: “…”
Everyone: “…”
It was clear now—Xu Tuanyuan did have high expectations for Fang Huai. Typically, only strong actors like Jiang Yuan were given Scene 10.
But whether that expectation was a good thing or not… some people weren’t so sure. They looked at Fang Huai with barely concealed schadenfreude.
“That’s rough.”
“Director Xu is overestimating him… he’s not up for it.”
“Nothing to see here. I’m leaving—catch up later.”
At that moment, both Parker and Xu Tuanyuan couldn’t help but worry that Fang Huai might crumble under the pressure.
But thankfully, he didn’t.
From the moment Fang Huai took the paper, all the noise around him faded into nothing.
Lowering his gaze, he studied the words on the page.
—In his vision, the printed characters seemed to float, radicals breaking apart and rearranging themselves in midair, forming something entirely new. Hidden images within the text emerged, revealing unspoken meanings between the lines.
He took about thirty seconds to absorb everything, imprinting each sentence into his memory.
Then, he closed his eyes.
He could hear his own heartbeat racing, the rapid flow of blood through his veins.
From the moment he started watching Jiang Yuan’s performance, Fang Huai had barely spoken. He had expected his competition to be strong—but not this strong.
A while ago, seeing such an outstanding performance might have made him nervous, uneasy, even panicked and self-doubting. But now, he felt none of that.
Strangely, the stronger his opponent was, the more he felt…
Eager to try.
It was as if the blood coursing through his veins was set ablaze, colliding and sparking like flint against steel.
Fang Huai closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. His hearing grew sharper, cutting through the noise of voices, the rush of traffic, reaching across the vast Pacific Ocean to a distant, unfamiliar land. He could hear the rumbling of rusted train tracks stretching forward beneath a gray-blue sky.
A single raindrop merged with the sea, crushed under the thunderous roar of the railway.
Then, a flood of sounds surged in all at once.
Fang Huai heard Lin Xiao’s clumsy attempts at speaking English, heard the dull thud of his body being shoved into the mud, the spasms of his sobs in a dimly lit warehouse. Then came the scent of gasoline, the flickering of flames, the endless, unresolved arguments. Mold creeping across a dining table. A boiling kettle knocked over, scalding everything in its path.
An indescribable tension settled over the audition hall. Without realizing it, people fell silent. Sunlight filtered through the windows, casting soft light onto Fang Huai’s eyelashes.
The clock on the wall ticked forward. The second hand let out a crisp click.
Two minutes were up.
And in that precise moment, Fang Huai opened his eyes.
—A sudden, inexplicable unease gripped the hearts of everyone in the room.
*
The boy in the chair sat with a slightly hunched back, alarmingly thin, his complexion pale to the point of sickliness. His brows were furrowed, his expression shadowed and grim.
And his light-colored eyes… had no focus. They absorbed no light.
No one needed to be told. Everyone instinctively understood—
This character was blind.
At that moment, Fang Huai was completely unrecognizable from the bright and straightforward young man he had been just moments ago. It was as if an entirely different soul had taken over his body. He was darker, more frail, more broken. Though he had the face of a youth, his presence was that of a man teetering on the edge of death.
July 12, 2004.
This was five days after Lin Xiao had been locked in a warehouse. His first day home after being discharged from the hospital.
The boy remained curled in the chair, so still that if not for the faint rise and fall of his chest, one might mistake him for a corpse. He held this posture for several seconds until, at last, his index finger twitched.
Slowly, he lifted his head, turning in a vague direction. His light-colored, unfocused eyes shifted sluggishly.
“…Ah Yu,” he said, pausing before forcing a weak smile. “You… you’re home from school?”
His voice was painfully hoarse, like sandpaper scraping against raw paper.
Lin Yu was Lin Xiao’s younger brother.
No one could hear what this nonexistent ‘Lin Yu’ had supposedly said—but judging by the boy’s reaction, it wasn’t anything pleasant. His unfocused eyes flickered slightly, then turned elsewhere.
Slowly, he grasped his white cane and stood up.
“…Sorry,” he murmured. “My hearing hasn’t been great lately… I can’t tell where you are.”
Only now did everyone fully understand.
He couldn’t see.
When he had spoken to ‘Lin Yu’ just now, he hadn’t actually been facing him—he had been speaking into empty air. Most likely, ‘Lin Yu’ had snapped at him impatiently. This small detail had been Fang Huai’s own addition.
The boy leaned on his white cane and moved very slowly toward the ‘table.’ He picked up the kettle, intending to pour a cup of tea for his younger brother.
“Are you thirsty? I can—I can pour you some tea. What would you like to d—”
Suddenly, his wrist trembled violently.
Scalding hot water spilled out, searing his skin. He flinched, his body shaking from the pain—but he didn’t cry out.
Having just watched Jiang Yuan’s performance, everyone in the room understood what had happened—‘Lin Yu’ had pushed him.
“Tea? What tea? You disgusting blind f*ing queer.”**
Lin Yu had been humiliated at school.
He had finally worked his way into the local white kids’ social circle, but the moment word got out that his brother was a blind homosexual, everything fell apart. His carefully built reputation, gone. And so, he came home and took it all out on Lin Xiao.
“Why don’t you just die? Who the hell gave you the right to be my brother? Why do you have to be such a disgusting freak? Why can everyone else see, but you can’t?!”
The boy remained frozen in place, still hunched over, still gripping the kettle.
Silently, he listened.
His back was rigid, his shoulders tense. Quietly, he hid his scalded hand behind him. His fingers twitched in pain.
After a long pause, he finally whispered, “…I’m sorry.”
But Lin Yu didn’t stop. He kept going, spewing more venom.
The boy clenched the kettle, the burn on his hand growing red and swollen. His breathing grew uneven. His chest rose and fell sharply. His unfocused pupils trembled slightly.
But then—everything settled.
His breath steadied.
And he spoke, softly.
“Ah Yu, I lost my sight… because of you.”
The moment Fang Huai uttered those words, someone in the room let out a sigh.
A few judges exchanged glances and shook their heads. Even Xu Tuanyuan frowned slightly.
The actors who had performed Scene 10 before couldn’t help but feel a sense of superiority.
Up until this line, Fang Huai’s performance had been incredible. He lacked the years of refinement and experience that others had, but his ability to immerse himself in the role, to become the character, had exceeded all expectations.
He was an experiential actor—since he couldn’t rely on technique, he relied entirely on raw emotion. And he had done it so well.
But this line—“I lost my sight because of you”—had been handled too lightly.
He had said it like a simple statement of fact, with almost no emotional shift.
When they had first immigrated, Lin Yu had fallen in with the wrong crowd—white kids who drank, drag-raced, and did drugs. Lin Xiao had gone looking for him and was dragged into the car.
Half an hour later, there was a crash.
Lin Xiao had shielded his brother with his own body. He suffered a concussion and retinal detachment.
This entire scene had been somber and repressed, making this one line its only emotional breaking point. Any experienced actor—someone like Jiang Yuan—would have seized this moment, letting the quiet despair and helplessness swell until it reached numbness.
But Fang Huai wasn’t swayed by the room’s reaction.
He simply continued.
The fight with his brother escalated. It ended badly.
Lin Yu slammed the door and left.
What happened next wasn’t in the script—actors were supposed to interpret Lin Xiao’s emotions and improvise.
Jiang Yuan had delivered an excellent performance earlier.
He had numbly set down the kettle, returned to his chair, and lowered his head to organize his books. He didn’t cry, but the sheer depth of his despair seeped through the air, pressing down on everyone’s breath. It was a masterful blend of technique and emotional nuance—Jiang Yuan had seamlessly fused his skill with the character’s emotions.
But Fang Huai didn’t do the same.
His fingers curled slightly.
Silently, he finished pouring the cup of tea and placed it on the table—on the seat where Lin Yu often sat. Only then did he turn, slowly and dully, using his white cane to navigate his way into his own room.
He shut the door.
And the moment the door clicked into place, his body gave out for an instant—he staggered, barely managing to steady himself by gripping the white cane with force. The boy took two sharp breaths, then walked to his desk and picked something up.
Even though he was blind, he still lifted the object toward the sunlight, as if he were trying to examine it.
He held it in his left hand.
His right hand let go of the white cane and carefully turned the little object in his palm.
—Suddenly, someone in the room realized.
It was an old pinwheel.
When Lin Xiao was nine, seven-year-old Lin Yu had saved up a whole month’s worth of pocket money to buy it as a gift.
“I didn’t mean to,” he murmured hoarsely.
“Ah Yu, I wanted to be a normal brother too.”
Five days, locked inside a warehouse.
Despair. Pain. Numbness.
He knew Lin Yu resented him.
Knew that Lin Yu despised having a blind, gay brother. Knew that outside, he refused to call him brother, looked at him like trash, and the last words he had spat before leaving the house were: “Why haven’t you f*ed off yet?”
And yet.
He also remembered Lin Yu’s kindness.
Remembered the first essay Lin Yu had ever written—“My Big Brother.”
Remembered that tiny child saving up a month’s allowance to buy him a birthday gift.
Remembered the way Lin Yu had once bragged to his friends, beaming with pride—“My brother is amazing. When I grow up, I want to be just like him.”
When standing face-to-face with death, hatred and anger suddenly felt so small.
And what remained—Was love.
The boy cradled the little pinwheel with delicate care, his unfocused eyes fixed on it, as if committing its shape to memory.
A moment later, his lips curled into a soft, fragile smile.
His eyes turned red.
Outside, the wind howled through foreign streets.
Memories crashed over him like an unexpected evening storm, thick with damp nostalgia.
The audition hall fell into a long, profound silence.
*
Half an hour later.
Fang Huai stepped out of the audition hall.
As he walked through the narrow corridor and pushed open the glass doors, the vast winter sky burst into view—an endless, piercing blue.
Outside, Ye Yuyuan stood in silence.
His dark eyes were lowered, fingers absently rubbing at his cufflinks.
For once, he looked more nervous than Fang Huai himself.
Fang Huai could tell—
Ye Yuyuan wanted to ask about the results, but he hesitated, afraid that if Fang Huai hadn’t passed, bringing it up would only hurt him.
So he wavered, torn between curiosity and caution.
“I didn’t pass.”
Fang Huai was utterly smitten with him, but he kept a straight face and shook his head. “Let’s go home.”
Ye Yuyuan’s back stiffened. After a long pause, he simply responded, “Mm.”
Fang Huai took two steps forward, then turned back when he didn’t hear Ye Yuyuan following.
Ye Yuyuan was silent for a moment before suddenly stepping closer. He pulled Fang Huai’s knitted hat down—it looked like he was adjusting the brim, but in reality, he was lowering his head to kiss him.
“Huaihuai, they have no vision,” Ye Yuyuan murmured, his voice husky. “We’ll find another director. Whose film do you want to be in?”
Fang Huai: “……”
He thought for a long time before finally asking, “Really?”
“Mm.”
“But I lied to you.” Fang Huai’s lips twitched as he tried to hold back a laugh. “I don’t know if I passed or not. We have to wait for the results.”
Ye Yuyuan’s expression faltered for a second: “……”
Fang Huai’s nose and cheeks were tinged red from the cold wind. His light amber eyes stared unblinkingly at Ye Yuyuan, and after a moment, he pressed further:
“Mr. Ye, if I didn’t fail, does that mean you can’t kiss me?”
Ye Yuyuan was silent for a while before letting out a soft cough, slightly embarrassed. He lowered his gaze and kissed him again. After a brief pause, he admitted with difficulty, “Of course I can.”
“……”
Fang Huai studied him carefully and felt that Ye Yuyuan actually seemed really happy.
Ye Yuyuan was more anxious about the audition than he was. Even after they got home, Ye Yuyuan would occasionally mutter, “You’ll definitely pass.”
Fang Huai was half-worried he’d secretly go consult a fortune-teller or an astrologer to divine the outcome.
Tomorrow was New Year’s Day, and today was the last day of the year. The sky darkened early in winter, and by ten o’clock, the city square was packed with people waiting for the countdown.
After dinner, Fang Huai and Ye Yuyuan also went out, though they chose a quieter park away from the crowds to stargaze instead.
“When will the results be out?” Ye Yuyuan had been restless the entire night. Not even when Ptah released its fourth-generation AI had he been this nervous. “Tonight?”
“Probably tonight,” Fang Huai nodded. After a moment, he couldn’t help switching roles and comforting him instead. “I might pass, or I might not. Don’t be too disappointed.”
He genuinely didn’t know what the outcome would be.
He and Jiang Yuan had delivered two different emotional interpretations—there was no clear ‘better’ or ‘worse’ between them. And Jiang Yuan had more experience and refined technique. On top of that, he hadn’t seen Wang Shuli’s performance yet, and it was bound to be excellent as well. Venice Film Festival, Palme d’Or, Golden Lion—just one of those credentials was already way out of his league.
The moment he stepped out of the audition hall, Fang Huai had already made peace with it.
It didn’t matter anymore. He had done his best—now it was up to fate.
“Let’s go join the countdown.” Fang Huai stood up from the bench and dusted off his clothes. “Uncle Ye.”
This was his first New Year with Ye Yuyuan.
Fang Huai thought to himself, There will be many more in the future, but the first one will always be special.
It was 11:30. The city square was packed, and the lights had started dimming one by one. Faces blurred in the growing darkness. In the winter night breeze, couples leaned into each other. Groups of high school girls huddled together, chatting excitedly. The crowd’s noise was chaotic yet warm, carrying a unique kind of liveliness.
A few months ago, this city had felt unfamiliar and intimidating.
But now—it had become his home.
The person he loved was here. His friends, his career.
He was like a tiny seed, carried by the wind to this place. And without even realizing it, he had taken root.
And little by little—
He had begun to grow.
The year was coming to an end.
Fang Huai tilted his head back, gazing at the starry sky and the large clock in the city center. He held the memories of the past year in his palm, tracing them one by one.
From Fang Jianguo’s passing to moving to the city, participating in Stellar Light, unexpectedly composing for Frost, getting trapped in the parking lot during a typhoon, the release of Abyss Moonlight, moving into Signal Cabin, auditioning for The Song of the Nameless…
And, his Ye Yuyuan.
The man beside him was silent for a moment, then intertwined their fingers together.
The noise around them gradually grew. One by one, the city lights went out, and waves of people surged through the square. In the very center, the electronic screen lit up.
“The countdown is starting,” Fang Huai said, looking at Ye Yuyuan.
He had never counted down before. He had watched videos online and loved the excitement of the atmosphere.
“Ten—” The screen displayed the first number.
Like every other young person in the square, Fang Huai smiled and joined in. Ye Yuyuan lowered his gaze, watching him. A moment later, he too whispered, “Ten.”
Tiny stars scattered across the night sky, twinkling together.
“Nine—”
Fang Huai felt that Ye Yuyuan’s hands were a little cold. He clasped them between both of his own. Ye Yuyuan lowered his head and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.
“…”
“Three—”
By now, the noise was deafening, making it impossible to hear anything clearly. Fang Huai covered one ear and turned to Ye Yuyuan. “Mr. Ye—”
Ye Yuyuan: “What?”
He seemed not to have heard clearly. He lowered his eyes and leaned in.
“Two—”
Around them, couples embraced, and the wind howled.
Fang Huai and Ye Yuyuan looked at each other at a close distance.
Suddenly, Fang Huai forgot what he was going to say.
He tilted his head up—and kissed Ye Yuyuan.
“One!”
The final number lit up.
In an instant, countless fireworks shot into the sky, bursting into brilliant colors. People laughed, cheered, and lovers kissed.
Ye Yuyuan wrapped his arms around him, deepening the kiss.
A tide of firelight surged through the world. The clock’s last second ticked past, pages turned beneath the sparks, and the wind carried them from the old year into the new.
Everything around them felt distant. Snowflakes drifted down, soft and silent.
The new year had arrived.
Fireworks boomed, voices rang in celebration.
Fang Huai leaned close to Ye Yuyuan’s ear and said, “Happy New Year, Mr. Ye. Thank you for coming into my life.”
Ye Yuyuan was silent for a moment, his gaze softening as he whispered, “Happy New Year, Huaihuai. I’m willing to wait for you to grow up.”
Fang Huai froze. “…What?”
“Wait,” he touched his slightly flushed ears, “say that again?”
Just then, his phone suddenly rang. His mind was still stuck on Ye Yuyuan’s words, so he absentmindedly answered the call.
“Mm… Oh, got it. Thank you.”
Ye Yuyuan: “Hm?”
Fang Huai replied casually, “Nothing, they just said I… my audition…”
It was at that moment that he suddenly processed what had just been said. His eyes widened little by little. Unable to help himself, he pecked Ye Yuyuan on the lips, still holding his phone in a daze.
“They said I…”
“I PASSED THE AUDITION!”
I cheered out loud!