Let Me Meet You chapter 24

Farce

Sheng Min didn’t tell Li Xuan about this matter. Instead, he carefully tucked the fortune paper away. On the way back, he ordered the bed he had seen in the morning.

The city’s fast delivery service—he forgot to choose a delivery time, so the default was “as soon as possible.” When it was delivered the next day, the sky hadn’t brightened yet.

“Just leave it at the door,” Sheng Min answered the phone groggily. It took him a while to understand what the delivery person was saying.

The delivery man seemed surprised: “Don’t you need help setting it up?”

“No need.” Sheng Min quickly thought it over. His trophies and large promotional posters were still in his study, so if the delivery man bumped into Li Xuan, it could be awkward. “Just leave it at the door.”

The delivery man happily agreed and reminded Sheng Min to confirm receipt online before leaving. Sheng Min hung up the phone and hesitated between bringing the bed inside or going back to sleep. Suddenly, the person beside him spoke up: “So, who are you going to have set it up?”

“You’re awake?” Sheng Min turned his head.

Li Xuan had gone into the study after dinner last night. Sheng Min had been reading, but he had actually been waiting for him. Halfway through, he realized he had no reason to talk to Li Xuan. The act of waiting felt strange, so he put down the book and lay down. However, he had already slept most of the afternoon in the car, so he had trouble falling asleep again. He tossed and turned, forgetting when exactly he finally fell asleep, and had no idea when Li Xuan came into the bedroom.

“Did I wake you up?” Sheng Min glanced at the clock. It was just past seven, so Li Xuan had probably only slept for less than two hours. 

“No,” Li Xuan yawned, covering his mouth. After a pause, he said, “You really bought it?”

“Didn’t I say I would?”

“Hmm.” Li Xuan replied absentmindedly, his voice nasally, his messy hair partially covering his eyes.

Sheng Min noticed his arm exposed outside the blanket. The bedroom was cold, so he picked up the remote and turned the air conditioning up two degrees. “Can you set it up?”

Li Xuan glanced at him sideways. “You assume I can.”

Sheng Min had indeed assumed this, though he couldn’t explain why he felt it was a given that Li Xuan could do anything. “You can pick locks.”

“By any measure, that’s a different job.”

Sheng Min wasn’t sure what he meant. “Then I’ll call Yang Xu later to find someone to help?”

Li Xuan didn’t answer right away, sitting up after a while and getting out of bed.

Sheng Min thought he was going to get some water, but he suddenly realized Li Xuan was probably going to set up the bed.

“No rush, you can sleep a bit more,” he called after him.

“No, you sleep. I’ll finish setting up and sleep next door. Just bring me the bedding later.” He repeated, “Sleep,” twice, his tone neutral, without any sign of anger, though Sheng Min sensed a slight irritation. It didn’t seem like morning grumpiness, nor like he was annoyed about being assigned work early.

“What’s wrong?”

“Wrong with what?” Li Xuan asked in return, his expression puzzled, as though he didn’t even realize there was a hint of irritation in his voice.

Sheng Min pursed his lips, then decided it was probably his own sensitivity. But he still got up and walked over to him. “Let’s do it together, I can pass you the tools.” Seeing that Li Xuan remained silent, he softly asked, “Is that okay?”

Li Xuan furrowed his brow slightly, the earlier irritation gone. After a moment of silence, he agreed, turning to open the door.

After setting up the bed, Li Xuan moved to the study. Sheng Min’s study was originally a bedroom, so it was spacious enough to avoid feeling cramped.

He usually spent most of the day in the study, and now he didn’t even need to return to the bedroom at night—it felt like he had taken root in the study. More accurately, it felt like he had rooted himself in front of the computer. Every time Sheng Min passed by the study door, he saw Li Xuan hunched in his chair typing on the keyboard, or writing on paper. Sometimes he would talk on the phone while writing, his tone forceful when angry, as if he were a different Li Xuan than the one Sheng Min knew.

On the weekend, the two of them barely spoke, even though they were under the same roof. When Monday came and they had to go to the interview, they finally sat together for lunch.

Sheng Min looked at the faint blue under Li Xuan’s eyes and wondered if he had gone without sleep for the past few days, but he didn’t say anything.

“What time is Yang Xu coming?” Li Xuan asked, picking up a shrimp.

“Two o’clock,” Sheng Min glanced at the clock, it was already past one. “Are you very tired? You can sleep in the car later, the recording studio is a bit far.”

“I’m fine,” Li Xuan replied, tilting his head to stretch his neck with a soft cracking sound. “I’m not tired.”

Sheng Min frowned and went to the bedroom to get a steam eye mask.

“I really don’t need it,” Li Xuan put down his chopsticks. “I won’t be able to sleep in the car.”

“Even just a nap would help.”

“I haven’t finished reading the interview outline.”

“I’ll read it to you.”

“Alright. Now you have added another piece of evidence for people to assume that I’m your boyfriend,” Li Xuan said casually. The words were out, and both of them froze.

After a moment, Li Xuan cleared his throat awkwardly: “I was just saying that, I…”

“I know.” Sheng Min interrupted him. Li Xuan didn’t continue speaking, his lips pressed into a thin line, with a hint of frustration in his eyes.

Sheng Min sighed inwardly, walked back to the table, and pushed a bowl of soup toward him with a smile. “It’s fine, eat.”

This interview was actually designed to promote Sheng Min’s upcoming new drama. It was a routine interview with no new elements, consisting of the usual questions in the entertainment industry.

What are your thoughts on your character? How’s your relationship with the cast? What breakthroughs have you made compared to previous roles?

The interview outline was provided early, and Sheng Min had already written out his answers in detail. Li Xuan reviewed them twice and had memorized most of them.

Compared to shooting an advertisement, where one has to control their posture and expressions, interviews seemed easier—just read the script. Plus, there were many fans present, and with Sheng Min’s face on display, no matter what was said, the audience always responded with applause and laughter, creating a very lively atmosphere.

However, Li Xuan wasn’t particularly comfortable with speaking these formal, grandiloquent words in front of the camera, and after more than an hour, he found it a bit boring.

As the interview was nearing its end, he adjusted his sitting position, took a sip of tea, and prepared to answer the last two questions, thinking he was almost done. But then, he suddenly heard the host say: “Sheng Min, our episode will air next month, which coincidentally is right around your birthday. So, we’d like to wish you a happy early birthday.”

This wasn’t part of the scheduled flow. Li Xuan glanced at Sheng Min in the corner of the front row, who also seemed puzzled, obviously unaware of this beforehand.

Li Xuan quickly returned his gaze, smiling indifferently and thanking the host.

“Our production team has also prepared a mysterious gift for you,” the host continued, and the fans cheered enthusiastically. For some reason, Li Xuan felt something was off. The host kept smiling as he said, “Let’s take a look at the big screen.”

Li Xuan frowned and turned his head. The screen first showed a video with a woman in her fifties. The host continued, “… Sheng Min’s mother has sent a birthday message through our program, let’s hear what she has to say.”

The host’s tone was off, attempting to sound surprised but tinged with inexplicable excitement. It reminded Li Xuan of the sharp sound of chalk on a blackboard, which made him uncomfortable. He suppressed his impatience and glanced at the screen.

Wang Shuying looked somewhat stiff, and her words seemed to have been polished.

At first, it was just a normal birthday greeting, but then the tone shifted, and she began talking about Sheng Min’s childhood.

“Sheng Min has always been a thoughtful child, but his life has been difficult. When he was five, he started acting—he was chosen because the director thought he was talented. But before the filming was finished, his father was diagnosed with cancer… It’s also our fault for being unable to do more, causing trouble for our child. To treat his father, at such a young age, he stayed at the film set every day. Whenever they needed a child actor, he would audition… In the freezing winter, sometimes he would wait the whole day. It was pitiful to watch…”

As Wang Shuying spoke, photos began to appear on the screen.

There were pictures of young Sheng Min with the cast. Surrounded by well-dressed adults, he looked even smaller and frailer, with his clothes thin and his face reddened from the cold. Then the screen changed, showing a middle-aged man lying in bed wearing a hospital gown. Li Xuan quickly realized that this was Sheng Min’s father, who, according to the story, had cancer.

There weren’t many photos, but the sight of a sickly figure was always jarring. Wang Shuying continued talking, recounting the past, only to circle back to birthday wishes. If this were an essay, it could be considered to have a neat beginning and end.

It wasn’t a long video, lasting only about five or six minutes. However, when Wang Shuying’s voice finally stopped, Li Xuan felt a significant relief in his breathing.

Whether intentional or not, the last photo on the screen lingered for a while—a thin, skeletal man with his eyes closed. It was impossible to tell whether he was sleeping or dead.

This photo left in the bright, tidy studio felt like an ugly scar on smooth skin.

“Sheng Min has truly been through a lot,” the host resumed speaking, looking at him with what seemed like sincere sympathy. Tears even formed in his eyes, making Li Xuan think that his acting skills were far better than his hosting ability.

“Fortunately, he now has so many fans supporting him. I’m sure everyone will continue to love Sheng Min in the future… and support his new drama as well… Now, let’s bring out the cake…”

A richly decorated cake was soon placed in front of them, with candles already lit. A large bouquet of flowers was also thrust into Li Xuan’s hands.

The host’s tone was exaggerated as he tried to stir up emotions. A young girl in the audience was wiping her eyes and saying, “Sheng Min, I will always support you…”

But whether it was the applause or the sobbing, it seemed to be fading away.

Li Xuan coldly watched the flickering candle flames. What was this? This wasn’t a birthday greeting; this was a hollow celebration with Sheng Min as the sacrificial offering.

What did the program team think Sheng Min was? Just a source of traffic? Ratings? A name that could bring profit? And what did the fans think of him? A vain symbol, using his emotions to project their own excess feelings?

Li Xuan didn’t doubt the sincerity of the fans’ tears, but he knew better than anyone else that Sheng Min neither needed nor wanted this kind of sympathy, just as he himself had always scorned it.

An indescribable anger swept over him, different from anything he had ever experienced. He snapped out of a brief mental blank, looking down at Sheng Min’s seat, only to find it empty—Sheng Min had already disappeared.