Pat Me Please

Returning home, Yu Zhou cooked a bowl of noodles, took a few bites and then opened her phone to check the comments on Changpei.

In the comments, there was one: “Heard it’s going to be made into an audio drama, dreaming of Susu as the lead again.”

Yu Zhou chuckled and scrolled down, seeing a reader who had posted several comments.

For example, in the third chapter, they said, “This is so suitable for a drama! Just imagine the certain VA saying, ‘Do you want me to help you pat?’, ah, I’m dying just thinking about it.”

In the sixth chapter, the same reader commented, “This suits a certain VA so well! I can already hear her voice in my head.”

Yu Zhou didn’t want to read any further, so she refreshed the comments. The latest one was sent by a user called “Little Tail of Su Chang,” who said, “I came to read the original novel in advance.”

Yu Zhou closed the Changpei app, feeling a bit lost. She had originally planned to enthusiastically post on Weibo to tell her readers that her new story had been confirmed for audio drama adaptation, but now she didn’t feel like doing it.

Of course, she understood her fans’ expectations, and their anticipation for a collaboration was, in fact, a recognition of her work. However, there was an indescribable, hollow feeling in her heart.

Suddenly, so many fans received the news; she wondered how the word had spread. Speculating that there might be another post on the forum, Yu Zhou left the dining table and lied on the sofa before opening that long-lost forum.

However, there were no posts about “Pat Me Please” Instead, there were several posts about “Shrine.”

Normally, she wouldn’t click on posts about audio drama discussions, because they were considered a form of secondary creation and she didn’t understand much about the production process. But this time, she went in unexpectedly and read carefully.

The latter part of the post wasn’t about the plot at all.

They were discussing the added value of the audio drama for the original novel.

At first, when she saw the word “reciprocation,” she felt amused and thought it was quite cute. But as she continued to read, one netizen said, “This story was quite unknown before; when I read it back then, it had less than 700 favorites. Now it’s getting published—probably after the physical release, it will gain more popularity and the audio drama can also ride on the coattails of the physicals.”

Another person was surprised: “Only 700 favorites back then? It’s almost 100,000 collections now.”

“Yeah, back then, nobody had heard of this story. We didn’t even know the protagonist’s name, LMAO.”

“How did such a small IP manage to rope in Su Chang and Peng Xiangzhi?”

“It must be their ancestors’ blessing; that’s what they always say.”

Below that, someone laughed, “This is just good luck and they suddenly became famous.”

Some mischievous netizen said, “If I were the author, I’d kowtow to the audio drama.”

Yu Zhou stared at the words “kowtow” for a long time. Then, her scalp started to feel numb belatedly. Drawing a deep breath, she assumed there must be netizens to refute the words.

However, after scrolling down several dozen responses, someone commented, “Hahaha how bad of you, but what you said is the truth.”

“Although this but that[1], it’s a fact. It has been said long ago, every time we discuss the original works that are boosted by the audio drama and the author should kowtow, we all called Ba Da Qin Chai to show up, hahaha.”

Yu Zhou’s eyes felt a bit sore and she blinked twice to clear her vision. She moved her phone farther away and she could see the screen clearly again. Am I not going to become presbyopic?

Then, she emotionlessly exited the post, just in time to see another post titled “Which dramas do you think the original work should give the crew…”

The remaining two words were hidden in the content of the post.

Usually, she wouldn’t even click on this kind of post, but today she opened it.

It was a post from last month. Upon opening, the screen of her phone could only show five comments and three of them were “Shrine.”

Yu Zhou found it difficult to describe her current feelings, as if she had no feelings. She just slightly opened her mouth, inhaling and exhaling continuously and then she felt her ears turning red.

It wasn’t the kind of red ear during embarrassment; it was more like being exposed or having her clothes stripped off, leaving her feeling humiliated.

She glanced at her own alternate account, the one she’d used for battling for Xiang Wan, which was still logged in. However, she didn’t have the courage to argue back. She just felt her own ears getting hotter and hotter, more and more scorching.

It was like being burned under the blazing sun.

The crux of the matter was that it was tough for her to refute. If she were a netizen, an onlooker, someone unrelated to her interests, she might agree with the netizens or find their sarcastic words shameless yet humorous and not a big deal.

However, it was regrettable that she wasn’t merely a bystander. She was the author of “Shrine.”

This obscure work of 500,000 words indeed had few readers—only about 700 people, aside from herself, knew how she painstakingly typed each letter during those unnoticed nights.

Those latter 100,000 people had no idea.

They didn’t know how she managed to withstand the loneliness of no response and projected her solitude into her words. They also didn’t know how she incessantly talked to her characters.

They didn’t know how she could cry while describing a character’s tears. As her vision blurred, she wiped away her own tears and continued writing.

Nor did they know how after the character’s joyous experiences, she would secretly smile, her lips pursed, restrained yet genuine as she sat behind the screen.

Occasionally, she would write till two or three in the morning, causing her neck to ache so much. She wore slippers to take a bath, seeing strands of hair on the floor, she picked them up and thought to herself, “I’m never staying up late again. Who knows how long it will take to recover?”

But she had no choice, during the day, her life was filled with endless hustle and bustle and only in the quiet of the night could she empty herself, forget her 10,000-yuan job and become a dreamer creating worlds.

She would be thankful to anyone who treated her work with care, but she didn’t think she needed to kowtow to anyone.

Everything came from her; why should she lose her dignity and kowtow?

Yu Zhou suddenly felt that she seemed to have done a disservice to the characters and stories she had created.

She never asked Shen Bai and Qiao Qiao if they wanted this kind of popularity, whether they wanted to be lifted up and gazed upon by millions, or if they missed the time when they only had conversations with her.

Yu Zhou closed the forum, opened her novel on Changpei and stared blankly at the title, “Shrine.”

She stared blankly for a long time.

Her phone vibrated with a message from Su Chang asking, “Are you home?”

She replied, “Yes.”

Su Chang sent a voice message. She first chuckled softly, then asked Yu Zhou, “Would you like something to eat?”

Yu Zhou didn’t respond because her mind was filled with another comment.

The comment had read—

“Shen Bai should also kowtow to Su Chang. Not gonna lie, Su Chang’s voice adds so much to it.”

Yes, she couldn’t deny that Su Chang had one of the best voices in the world, which could certainly enhance anything, such as a simple question like “Would you like something to eat?” could be asked with lingering charm.

If the statement meant that Su Chang’s voice made Shen Bai more vivid and added more charm, Yu Zhou would not argue.

However, she did not think Shen Bai should kowtow to Su Chang.

“虽然但是”, an internet slang, just simply combine 虽然(although) and 但是(but), means “although things are like this, but…”