Chapter 56

It's trending on social media.

#How is Xu Li's recovery going?#

#Congratulations to Xu Li for surpassing 30 million followers#

Xu Li also responded positively, saying "Thank you everyone."

Good times don't last long.

The trending topics were like a dull knife, dissecting Xu Li's name for everyone to chew on. The leader of the anti-fans, waving the banner of "justice," tore her past, her efforts, and even the future she hadn't had time to explain to shreds with the most offensive words.

The 8 million+ views on the "black screen" weren't just numbers; they were 8 million hands pressed against her throat—each playback a slow, agonizing torture of "you deserve to die." Her phone continued to vibrate as she curled up on the bathroom tiles.

The moment Tan Yuze kicked the door open and rushed in, her fingernails were already digging into the scars on her wrists. He didn't say anything, but simply used his knee to hold down her kicking legs, like pinning down a cat with its fur standing on end, and pressed her wet head into the crook of his neck.

She cried until she vomited, and all she could squeeze out of her throat were "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," as if she were the one who was being cyberbullied and she was the one who was guilty.

The agent slammed down the phone for the third time. The press release was written and deleted repeatedly, until finally only one sentence came out: "She did nothing wrong."

At three in the morning, a young woman on the team squatted in the corridor crying, saying, "Sister, let's call the police." But everyone knew that the law couldn't reach those knives hiding behind anonymous IDs.

Later, Tan Yuze picked her up from the blind spot of the surveillance cameras every day, playing the song she sang off-key during her audition when she was 16 in the car. Her manager borrowed a therapy dog ​​to keep her company, and the golden retriever would always nudge her palm with its head—until one day she suddenly squeezed it back.

Later, she learned to look directly into the chat during her live streams and say, "This sentence will make me sad." Haters commented "pretentious," but a young girl left a message: "Sister, I didn't cut my wrists today."

Xu Li's hands still shake when she posts on Weibo, but the accompanying picture is an oil painting she made: a white egret entangled in a net is using its beak to peck off a black line.

The edge of the palette was stained with tears, like some kind of medal. She hadn't forgiven those people.

I finally understand:

“They want me to rot, but I’ll bloom for them to see—even if the flower is stained with blood.”

At four o'clock in the morning, Xu Li woke up from a nightmare.

In her dream, there was an endless black screen filled with bullet comments, like a locust swarm sweeping across the land, blotting out the sun. She reached out to block them, but the words turned into blades, slicing off her body piece by piece.

When she woke up, Tan Yuze was dozing off against the edge of the bed, his palm still loosely holding her wrist—there was a crescent-shaped pinch mark that had already scabbed over.

He woke up as soon as she moved.

"Did you have a nightmare?"

Xu Li nodded, her throat dry and sore. Tan Yuze got up to pour water, his shadow stretching long in the night light, like a wall that refused to fall.

She suddenly spoke, her voice hoarse like sandpaper: "I want to post a Weibo." Tan Yuze didn't turn around, only saying: "Okay, I'll type it for you."

When the Weibo post was published, it was just dawn. There were no PR statements, no lawyer's letter, only one sentence: "I'm still alive, and I'll be feeding the pigeons in the park today." The accompanying picture was a selfie: she was without makeup, with dark circles under her eyes, but she was smiling, holding a bag of corn kernels in her hand.

After sending the message, she turned off her phone and stuffed it into a drawer. "Let's go," she said to Tan Yuze, "if we're late, we won't be able to get a bench." Sunlight streamed down like honey onto the park bench.

Pigeons hopped around her, pecking at the corn in her palm. A little girl in a school uniform approached timidly: "Sister, are you Xu Li?" Xu Li hummed in response.

The little girl took a strawberry candy out of her bag and stuffed it into her hand: "My brother said bad things about you, so I'm apologizing for him." The candy wrapper was crumpled, with a crooked dinosaur printed on it. Xu Li clutched the candy and suddenly burst into tears.

The little girl panicked and stood on tiptoe to wipe her tears with her sleeve: "Don't cry, my brother is stupid." Tan Yuze watched from the side, his eyes also reddening.

After that day, Xu Li started going to the park whenever she had free time. She brought her drawing board, her guitar, and a well-worn copy of "The Little Prince." Someone secretly took a picture of her and posted it online with the title "Xu Li stages a photo to whitewash her image."

The comment section remains chaotic, but a few dissenting voices are gradually emerging:

"The pigeons she fed seem to have gotten a bit fatter."

"She drew a picture of that little girl. It was pretty ugly, but the little girl was smiling so happily."

"...She's wearing the same T-shirt from her 2019 concert today; I have the same one."

The third wave of online attacks came faster than expected. Someone dug up her high school diary, took screenshots out of context, and accused her of being "misogynistic" and "fake innocence."

The topic went viral, with a bright red "Explosive" sign following it.

Xu Li sat on the studio floor, surrounded by a group of people:

The agent bit her nails and cursed, the public relations team wrote a statement overnight, and Tan Yuze was peeling an apple for her—the peel hung down long, like a retreat route that refused to be broken.

Xu Li suddenly said, "I want to start a live stream."

Everyone was taken aback.

"No filters, no deleted comments," she paused, "I want to talk to them." The moment the live stream started, the number of viewers soared to three million.

The barrage of comments was like an avalanche:

[Green tea bitches, get out of the entertainment industry!]

[The hype-mongers are at it again]

Did Xu Li commit suicide today?

She stared at the screen and said softly, "I didn't commit suicide today, and I won't in the future. Because I discovered..." She held up the strawberry candy wrapper, "...that someone apologized to me with a piece of candy."

The chat was silent for a second, then a new comment appeared:

I also have candy, lemon flavor, okay?

Next is the second one:

Mine is cola flavored.

Article 3:

[Sister, my brother is such an idiot, he's standing in the living room as punishment.] Xu Li laughed, tears falling onto the keyboard.

"Then let's all come to the park. There aren't enough benches, so I'll treat you to ice cream." At the end of the live stream, she played "The Brightest Star in the Night Sky."

No one was cursing in the live chat.

At the end, she said to the camera, "I don't forgive those who committed evil with knives, but I forgive myself for trembling in the darkness."

"And—" She suddenly leaned closer to the screen, as if speaking to someone: "Tan Yuze, I stole some of the strawberry cake from the fridge, don't be angry."

The screen was instantly flooded with "Ahhhhh!" comments.

A few months later, Xu Li held a large-scale concert. Tickets were not sold to the public, but only given to IDs that had given "candy" in the live stream back then.

More than 7,000 people came to the event, some holding strawberry-themed light boards, others carrying lemon candies. For her last song, she sang her newly written "A Letter to the Night":

They say you should wither away.

But you have grown thorns.

It wasn't to stab anyone.

It is for in the wind and snow

Hug yourself.

When the chorus came on, the entire audience lit up with their cell phone flashlights, like a gentle galaxy. Xu Li burst into tears on stage, while Tan Yuze held up a light sign that read "I'm not angry today either."

After the event, Xu Li received a package backstage. There was no sender, only a card: "I'm sorry, I also insulted you back then. Now I'm a volunteer against cyberbullying. —A former hater"

Inside the box was a jar of origami stars, each one bearing the inscription: "Thank you for not dying." Xu Li hugged the jar to her chest and said to Tan Yuze:

"Let's go home."

"Is there any cake left in the fridge?"

"Yes, we have a strawberry and lemon combo." Xu Li updated her Weibo at night. The accompanying picture was of the jar of stars and a photo of two people holding hands with their shadows.

The tagline consists of only five words: "Survived, and in full bloom."

At 2 a.m., #XuLiSurvivedAndBloomed# became the top trending topic.

Clicking into the topic, the first thing you see isn't fan comments, but a 42-second surveillance video: — the brother of that little girl from a few months ago.

He had a buzz cut and was wearing a red vest that read "Anti-Cyberbullying Volunteer," handing out flyers at the subway entrance. Someone recognized him: "Aren't you the big V who used to lead the criticism of Xu Li?"

The boy froze, then bowed to the camera: "Yes. I owe her an apology, and I owe everyone a 'Don't become like me'."

The video was shared 1.8 million times, and the comment section was unusually quiet. Xu Li wasn't asleep. She was squatting on the living room floor, disassembling the thousand stars one by one.

The 273rd message reads: "Sister, I printed screenshots of your live stream into posters and put them up in the corridor of the depression ward. The nurses said that someone cried all night after seeing them."

The 411th note reads: "I once told you to 'get out of the entertainment industry,' but my sister is your die-hard fan. The year her depression was at its worst, it was your off-key singing that kept her company all night. Thank you for not dying and for saving her."

Tan Yuze brought over a glass of hot milk, squatted down next to her, and carefully refolded each glass along the creases.

"Should I reply?" he asked.

Xu Li flattened the last star—on which were written in childish pencil characters:

"Sister, I'm 9 years old. Mom says you're a 'bad girl.' But I secretly watched your live stream and I think you're like the rose in 'The Little Prince.' When I grow up, can I take you to my planet?"

Xu Li pressed the star to her chest and whispered, "Reply. Reply to every single one."

The next day, the studio issued an announcement: "This Saturday at 2 pm, Xu Li will be holding a special session of 'Anonymous Replies' at the city library."

Anyone can come, bringing with them a grudge they never had a chance to take back, or a belated thank you.

She would open the letter on the spot, read it aloud, and burn it immediately. The ashes would be permanently sealed in the library, numbered: 2025-XL-Survivor File.

On Saturday, a 300-meter-long queue formed outside the library.

Some people were dragging suitcases, some were using crutches, and some were holding babies in their arms.

That day, Xu Li wore a simple white T-shirt with a badge made of strawberry candy wrappers pinned to her chest.

First letter:

“I photoshopped your portrait for her funeral and posted it in a group chat with 500 people. Three months later, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, and I listened to your songs on repeat in the hospital room. Today, my mother passed away, and I want to replace the portrait with your poster and burn it for her.”

After reading the letter, Xu Li remained silent for three seconds, folded it in half, and placed it in the copper basin. As the flames licked at her, she whispered, "Auntie, may you rest in peace."

The second letter, the third letter… some people cried to their knees, others embraced their former victims through the firelight. The last letter was a printed copy, signed: @黑粉头子_已删劉 (Account Deleted).

“Xu Li, I’ve filed a formal complaint against the marketing company that hired online trolls back then. I’ve also given the evidence to the police. I owe you 8 million 'I’m sorrys,' and I’ll repay you with 3,000 words today. I’ll spend the rest of my life repaying you.”

After the letter burned, the ashes coalesced into a small heart shape in the copper basin. After the event, Xu Li put the heart-shaped ashes into a transparent pendant and hung it on her phone.

On her way back to the studio, she came across a new trending topic:

#Please send cyberbullies to jail#

The topic's lead text is a police bulletin with a blue background:

"Recently, our bureau cracked a case involving a 'paid cyber violence' industry chain, arresting 17 criminal suspects and involving 12 million yuan."

The whistleblower is Tan Yuze. The accompanying photo shows Tan Yuze's back as he gives a statement at the police station, clutching a jar of stars. At 2 a.m., Xu Li posted a group photo on Weibo: Tan Yuze, his agent, anti-cyberbullying volunteers, a little girl and her brother, and the therapy dog ​​that had become as fat as a ball.

Everyone was gathered around a strawberry and lemon combo cake with 28 candles (she insisted on including the dog's age).

The caption reads: "Today isn't my birthday, it's a rebirth. From now on, we'll celebrate this day every year. —Survivors Alliance"

A year later, Xu Li held a concert at the Bird's Nest. Before the last song, the big screen suddenly switched to real-time bullet comments—a new plugin written by the backend programmers: all IDs containing keywords such as "suicide" or "go to hell" would be forced to display pop-ups.

Are you sure you want to send this message? After sending it, you will permanently lose your access to watch this concert online, and the system will automatically recommend the nearest free psychological counseling hotline to you.

After a three-second countdown, the number of online comments plummeted by 70,000.

Instead, the screen was filled with: "Live well" and "Bloom together."

Xu Li stood on the elevator platform and said to the 100,000 people, "Look, the tide of malice has receded, and what remains on the beach are all stars."

After the show ended, a man wearing a baseball cap came backstage.

His hat was pulled low, and his voice trembled: "Could...could I get an autograph? For 'the former leader of the haters'."

Xu Li took the poster, thought for a moment, and wrote:

To the former leader of the haters:

Thank you for turning the knife into a key. The door is open, come in. —Survivor Xu Li

The man pressed the poster to his chest and cried like a lost child.

Late at night, Xu Li wrote in her diary: "Today someone asked me if I hated those who wanted me to die. I said I did hate them, but now I'm more afraid that they will actually die. Because every 'perpetrator' who survives could be the next anti-cyberbullying volunteer."

She closed her notebook, just as Tan Yuze pushed the door open and came in, holding a cup of hot cocoa.

"What's the itinerary for tomorrow?" he asked.

“I’m going to Xiamen to film a movie, you’ll come with me.” She paused, then added, “Oh, and remember to bring a cake with strawberries and lemons.”

At 3 a.m., a Weibo post was quietly updated, visible only to followers: "If the night is too long, plant the stars in your eyes."

—To everyone typing 'Why don't you just die yet': I survived, and I've learned to replace your periods with ellipses.

(This entry will never be deleted)