Song Shi'an took the photo and looked at it. It was a snapshot of his smash during yesterday's tennis class.
He hadn't expected his first autographed photo to be in this style.
He signed "Song Shi'an" in the empty space at the bottom right of the front.
The original owner had been made to practice his signature by that trash company. His handwriting was surprisingly attractive, with clean, decisive strokes.
"Thank you, thank you!" The male student took it with both hands, looking relieved. "Now I can finally report back."
When the students around them saw someone get an autograph, their gazes changed instantly.
The girl in the front row who had been sneaking glances at him tore a sheet out of her notebook, while several boys nearby started rummaging through their bags.
Song Shi'an reacted lightning-fast. He stood up, said, "I'm going to the restroom," and took to his heels, slipping out the back door.
He sat in a toilet stall and scrolled through his phone for a while. His Weibo follower count had risen from a hundred thousand zombie followers to over three hundred thousand, and the number was still climbing.
The days of gnawing on cucumbers in his rental room were still vivid in his mind, yet now people were asking for his autograph. This turn in his life was more outrageous than a roller coaster.
Seeing that it was about time, he was just about to open the door and leave when footsteps and voices sounded outside.
"I don't know what that Song guy's so full of himself about!"
"He's a celebrity now, of course he's full of himself."
"Isn't he just a little better-looking? What the hell has he even acted in? He's just an extra, right? And they even got him trending. Sure is convenient being pretty, huh."
"Think someone's backing him? There are loads of sugar daddies with weird kinks these days, hahaha."
Song Shi'an's hand stopped on the door handle.
Even a grown man like him could have rumors made up about him. If he were a girl, who knew what they would be saying? With their talent for making up stories, it was a waste that these people weren't screenwriters.
He pushed the door straight open.
The two people standing by the sinks froze at the same time.
Song Shi'an walked over to the sinks, turned on the tap, and unhurriedly rubbed his hands together, sweeping a glance over them in the mirror.
"Do you guys smell something?"
"What are you doing here?" One of them instinctively took half a step back.
"This is a restroom. Why wouldn't I be here?" Song Shi'an turned off the tap, shook the water off his hands, then turned around and leaned against the counter. "Good thing I was here just now, too. Otherwise, I never would've caught you two sneaking a bite."
The two exchanged a look, clearly not understanding.
"Your mouths stink so much. Whatever you snuck off to eat must've been filthy." Song Shi'an pulled out a paper towel and dried his hands, his tone perfectly level.
One of them flushed bright red and stepped forward, about to throw a punch.
The other hurriedly grabbed him and said under his breath, "Forget it. Let's go," then dragged him outside at a run.
Their shoulders knocked together as they went through the door, but they couldn't spare a thought for the pain and ran off without looking back.
Song Shi'an tossed the paper towel into the bin and adjusted his cap's brim in the mirror.
He hadn't even played a lead role yet and wasn't all that famous, but he was already facing this much malice. There was still a long road ahead.
He returned to the classroom just in time and stopped in front of his seat. His desk, which had been empty earlier, was now piled with things.
There were several envelopes, some brown kraft paper and others plain white, along with a few bags of snacks and several sticky notes stacked together.
Song Shi'an yanked his bag open and swept everything on the desk straight into it in one go.
Everything went tumbling inside, leaving the desktop instantly clear. His movements flowed like drifting clouds and running water, leaving the students beside him dumbfounded.
He zipped up his bag and leaned back against his chair. Keep your composure. Look when you get back!
By now, there was already a fan group for him at school. Since battle-damaged Ying Qi had trended yesterday, its membership had jumped from several hundred to several thousand.
Someone posted a photo of Song Shi'an sweeping everything into his bag in the group.
In the photo, he sat by the window, sunlight falling across his profile as he concentrated on stuffing things into his bag. The way he scooped up the clutter piled on his desk in one handful had an inexplicably dorky air.
"Look at Shi'an! Sweeping everything into his bag. Why is he kind of adorably dorky!"
"That's so close up! Are you sitting next to him, person above!!!!"
"I hate this! Why didn't I work harder back then and get into Jingchen!"
"I'm in his class too, but I don't dare talk to him at all. Handsome guys really do have that sense of distance. I saw someone get his autograph. I'm so jealous."
At the lectern, the old professor pushed up his reading glasses and glanced toward the back.
The students in that small section at the back were clearly distracted, all craning their heads toward the window.
The old professor spoke unhurriedly. "What's so interesting at the back of the classroom that you keep staring? Is my lecture that boring?"
The whole class burst into laughter, and the students stealing looks from the back turned around with flushed faces.
Song Shi'an took the opportunity to pull up his mask, lower his cap's brim as far as it would go, and shrink into his seat. People really did fear fame as pigs feared getting fat.
When Song Shi'an returned to his dorm after class, no one was inside.
He tossed his bag onto a chair, then suddenly remembered the pile of things he had swept into it in the classroom that morning.
He unzipped the bag and dumped everything onto the desk with a clatter.
He casually opened the kraft-paper envelope on top and pulled out the letter inside. The handwriting was rounded, with a few cute little drawings.
"Hello, Song Shi'an! I'm from the art department next door. Last week at... If you're willing, could we add each other on WeChat? My WeChat ID is..."
A line of small text was added below: "PS: You're a hundred times better-looking in person than on TV! No, a thousand times!"
Song Shi'an turned the paper over. On the back was a chibi figure wearing a mask and holding a tennis racket.
He felt the tips of his ears begin to burn.
He quickly folded the letter and put it aside, then opened the second envelope.
This one's handwriting was more freewheeling, and its contents were more direct too: "Senior Shi'an, I think I fell in love with you at first sight. I've been secretly watching you ever since that first tennis class you played in..."
Song Shi'an stared at that line, his cheeks burning.
"Are people all this bold when they talk nowadays..." he muttered, folding the second letter and putting it back into its envelope before opening a drawer and placing it neatly inside.
After putting everything away, he checked the time. He had no classes that afternoon. A few days ago, he had taken a stall-minding job in a part-time work group. The agreed time was three in the afternoon, and the location was the pedestrian street near University Town.
He put on his mask and baseball cap, climbed onto his little electric scooter, and headed out.
The pedestrian street wasn't far from campus. It took just over ten minutes to ride there.
The afternoon sun was a little fierce. He parked his scooter in the roadside parking area and followed the location pin the other person had sent him to find the stall.
The stall wasn't large. A pink checked tablecloth covered a folding table, with several neat rows of press-on nails laid out on top. The glittering nails refracted a rainbow of colors in the sunlight.
A girl with a ponytail was tidying things at the stall. When she saw someone approaching, she quickly looked up.
"You're the one from the part-time work group..." She looked Song Shi'an up and down, sounding distinctly surprised. "You're a guy?"
Song Shi'an nodded. "Yeah. Is it not okay for a guy to do it?"
"No, it's fine," she said, hurriedly waving her hands. "It's just that I sell press-on nails, and my customers are usually girls too. I didn't expect a guy to take the job."
She glanced at Song Shi'an again. He seemed a little familiar, but she couldn't remember where she had seen him.