Eating melons (2/2)
Elsewhere in a cafe, Su Mingyu was busy soothing his distraught parents while calling his assistant: “Go to my house. Get Suisui’s middle school hospitalization records—and his diagnosis of severe depression. Post them from the company’s official account to prove he’s telling the truth.”
While he scrambled to comfort his parents and direct his assistant, Gu Yilan looked strangely calm, almost leisurely. He even had the mood to ask, “Did you bring the wooden box?”
Su Mingyu grabbed the small box from the floor and dropped it on the table with a sharp thud, then went back to his phone call.
Gu Yilan slowly picked up the box, unlocked its rusty latch with the code Su Zesui had given him, and opened it.
Inside lay a diary with a blue cover, as if gifted across time itself—
[My mood is steadier today. The nurse gave me a little notebook. I’ve decided to use it to record the people and things I can’t forget. 🙂]
From the phone nearby, a young, clear voice echoed the words in the diary: “Why was I able to endure with such determination? Because there are people and things I love. And that’s why we have to keep living.”
Just as Su Zesui had said, the diary recorded not only treatment notes and memories from the past, but also the letters Gu Yilan had once written to him, transcribed in full.
Some pages were slightly wrinkled, stained with tear marks that seemed to cut across parallel worlds—proof of the boy’s suffering during that time.
But on the very last page, there was only a silly drawing of a smiling sun, with three words beside it: The dawn’s here.
In the livestream, not once did the boy bring up Zhou Qizhao’s name again.
Instead of hating or condemning the one who twisted the truth, he shared his story of walking out of darkness, comforting other victims of bullying, and explaining the harm of campus bullying along with ways to prevent it.
His Suisui had grown into a sky of his own—someone who could bring light to others.
. . . . .
Su Zesui also saw the Su Group’s official account release his medical records.
But since regaining his memories, those diagnosis papers were already etched into his mind, so when netizens began fervently discussing them, he didn’t bother leading everyone to check that trending topic again.
Soon, however, new hashtags began appearing one after another—
#A City Quantum Mechanics Lab Members Speak Up for Su Zesui#
#A City No.1 High School, Class 2-4 Students Say: Su Zesui May Be Moody, But He’s Not a Bad Person#
#Renowned Psychologist Gui Yuping Confirms He’s Su Zesui’s Current Counselor#
#Even the Gu Family’s Butler and Maids Create Social Accounts to Voice Support for Su Zesui#
Su Zesui’s finger paused mid-swipe on the tablet. His nose prickled, and a warm current flowed through his chest, like sunlight pouring over him—gentle, bright, and full of strength.
Earlier, he hadn’t even clicked into the trending topic with the medical proof, even though it was the strongest weapon for guiding public opinion.
But when it came to these heartfelt statements of unconditional support, he read every word carefully, and responded with genuine gratitude to each one.
Among them, of course, were Mr. Gu, his big brother, and also Feng Chengwen, Tong Jing, and Yuan Mingcheng, who had already been protecting him all along.
The boy was sincere and open-hearted. When faced with vicious comments, he would fidget with his fingers in discomfort. But when he saw words of encouragement, his eyes shimmered with tears, his voice choking with emotion.
That raw, genuine presence—combined with his habit of reading out everything he saw, whether good or bad—drew in a flood of onlookers.
The scandal had already flipped multiple times, involving countless people and an overwhelming amount of information. Many onlookers couldn’t piece things together, their understanding scattered and contradictory.
But now, in Su Zesui’s livestream, he actively guided everyone through the newest trending topics, while the comments filled in gaps. The information imbalance was gradually erased, and the situation began moving forward rapidly.
Even so, because there were too many questions in the comments and Su Zesui spoke slowly, the livestream stretched on for seven or eight hours. In all that time, he didn’t eat a single thing.
Neither did anyone at the cafe. None of them had the appetite, and they pushed through until six in the evening.
Finally, the PR team reported excitedly to Gu Yilan: “Mr. Gu, the trending topics are all positive now. The situation has completely reversed!”
At that, everyone at the table let out a long sigh of relief. Some cheered and pumped their fists; others, overcome with emotion, cried tears of joy for the hard-earned victory.
Gu Yilan, who had silently orchestrated everything from start to finish, allowed a rare smile to touch his lips. He looked toward the lawyer. “Have all the blockchain records been secured?”
The lawyer, practically shaking with excitement, replied quickly: “Yes, secured—every single one. Not a trace can escape.”
“Good.” Gu Yilan closed the diary in his hand and stood. “Send the lawyer’s letters. They get two choices: those who are truly remorseful can post a public apology of no fewer than a thousand words, and we’ll let bygones be bygones. The ones who refuse—we’ll sue them into bankruptcy if that’s what it takes. Time and cost aren’t an issue.”
The final meeting adjourned, and everyone felt as if they’d just emerged from a brutal battle.
As Gu Yilan walked toward the exit, he stopped in front of Zhou Qizhao, who was huddled at the doorway. For once, he crouched down to meet the boy’s eyes—the very instigator of all this.
His brows arched, but his dark eyes carried not the faintest smile. The oppressive, suffocating aura around him was like that of an asura returning from the depths of hell, sending chills through the room.
Zhou Qizhao’s jaw began trembling uncontrollably.
He had his phone with him—he knew the online tide had turned completely. His account with hundreds of thousands of followers had already been banned. Now, he was nothing more than a rat crossing the street, condemned by all.
Zhou Qizhao incited public opinion and bullied his classmates, yet he was more thin-skinned than anyone.
Reading the insults about him online, his face flushed red with shame and anger, his hands clenched into fists, his whole body wound tight like a bowstring ready to snap—yet with nowhere to release his fury.
Now seeing Gu Yilan, he was so overwhelmed by a sense of failure that he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t help but roar, “You’re so powerful, if you have the guts, kill me right here in this society governed by law!”
Gu Yilan looked at Zhou Qizhao, whose face still bore the mark of a slap, and replied coolly, “Sometimes, dying is far easier than living.”
Zhou Qizhao’s body shuddered, but he still forced himself to sneer: “What do you mean?!! What are you trying to do?”
“Nothing much,” Gu Yilan said. “I was just thinking—perhaps your parents haven’t had time to tell you why they’ve been swallowing their pride so much lately.”
Zhou Qizhao froze. “Why?”
“Because there was a problem with your company’s finances, and I found it,” Gu Yilan explained “kindly.” “All of your relatives are in high-level positions at the company, right? Good. They’ll all be going to jail one by one soon. But you’re a minor, so you can escape.”
Zhou Qizhao’s expression went stiff instantly, like he’d been struck square in the chest. His pupils shrank sharply, filled with disbelief and shock.
He had grown too accustomed to the life of a pampered young master. He couldn’t even imagine what his life would look like if his family went bankrupt—how miserable it would be.
“Just take on their debts and live out there, working hard to pay it back,” Gu Yilan continued. “Anyway, you can’t study right now either.”
Zhou Qizhao stammered, stunned: “…Y-you’re making this up.”
“I just spoke to the principal of No.1 High School. You’ve been expelled for bullying your classmates,” Gu Yilan said flatly. “Not that it matters—you can’t stay in A City anymore, so whether you’re still enrolled or not makes no difference.”
Zhou Qizhao’s face went deathly pale. His lips trembled, but no words came.
He knew exactly what Gu Yilan meant. He had become a public enemy—walking down the streets of A City would get him pelted with rotten eggs. Wherever he tried to find work, no one would take him.
Work? Just a week ago, he had still been the pampered young master of the Zhou family, wanting for nothing… Now, this humiliation was worse than death.
Rage, shame, pain, and despair tangled into a knot inside him, and Zhou Qizhao collapsed onto the ground, his whole body wracked with uncontrollable shudders.
Gu Yilan glanced at the trash at his feet, then indifferently withdrew his gaze and walked toward the door.
What goes around comes around.
. . . . .
In the master bedroom, Su Zesui had long forgotten hunger and time. His throat was dry, but he still kept reading the comments streaming past in the livestream.
At some point, the tone of the chat had shifted—it became warmer, kinder, filled with concern and support, wrapping him in a fresh wave of comfort.
Many asked him about the details of his bullying experience.
Normally, Su Zesui’s PTSD made him avoid such topics completely. But now, for the sake of awareness and education, he no longer resisted, patiently recounting the events to his viewers again and again.
The audience responded with genuine care, promising to stand firmly against school bullying in the future…
When Su Zesui had started streaming in the morning, the sunlight had been bright, spilling into the master bedroom like gold. So he hadn’t turned on any lights.
But now, as the hours passed, dusk had settled in. Even the afterglow of sunset had faded, leaving the room darker and darker.
Immersed in the glowing words on the screen, Su Zesui hadn’t even noticed.
Lit only by the white glow of his phone and tablet, he kept tirelessly reading, forgetting entirely about the light switch.
Until the bedroom door slowly opened. Bright light from the hallway spilled through the crack like a sudden dawn, as if someone had torn open the darkness.
Startled, Su Zesui finally lifted his gaze from the comments and turned—
Gu Yilan stood framed in that glow, holding the familiar blue diary in his hand. With a faint smile at the corner of his lips, he said, “Suisui, it’s all over now. Let’s have dinner together.”
After pausing briefly for a few seconds, Su Zesui curved his eyes and smiled as well: “Coming.”