The room fell silent.
Liu Yanchu couldn’t help but chuckle. Song Cheng and Qin Wuyan both turned to stare at him. He quickly regained his composure and waved his hand. “Nothing, just a little cold.”
Everyone: “…”
Gan Yawen struggled internally, then finally looked at Song Cheng with a pleading expression. “Really, no other photos?”
Song Cheng shook his head honestly. Just these few, all carefully kept in reserve.
Gan Yawen, still unwilling to give up, turned to Qin Wuyan as a last resort, but Qin Wuyan only gave him a helpless look.
Sighing, Gan Yawen said, “Then we’ll use this one. Qin Laoshi, pose like in the photo. Song Cheng… you sit next to Qin Laoshi. Do you remember what you were wearing back then?”
He directed the question to Song Cheng, but instead of answering immediately, Qin Wuyan interjected, “I remember—it was the school uniform.”
“That’s enough,” Gan Yawen said with a relieved smile, then stood to let the other groups submit their photos.
The staff took the phones, connected Song Cheng’s, and quickly printed the chosen photo. A digital copy was saved for later comparison. Song Cheng picked up the printed photo, gazing at the winter sunlight and youthful scene, letting out a soft sigh.
Qin Wuyan noticed and asked curiously, “Why the sigh?”
Song Cheng hadn’t intended to say, but since he asked… pointing at the photo, his voice carried a wistful note. “I still prefer you in the photo.”
Qin Wuyan: “…”
He stated the obvious. “That’s me in the photo—and me in person too.”
Song Cheng: “But the you in the photo looks better, more charismatic.”
Qin Wuyan: “…What do you mean? The present me has no charm for you?”
Song Cheng quickly clarified, “That’s not what I mean. Don’t twist my words. I said more—don’t forget the word more.”
Qin Wuyan thought to himself: what’s the difference? Anyway, he felt that he didn’t measure up to his younger self.
Still, seeing Song Cheng treasure the photo softened him slightly. He lowered his head again, looking at the photo in Song Cheng’s hands.
Soon, the other groups had selected their photos.
The couple group chose one from the eve of their wedding, during a backstage moment at an event. The performing artists had already gone onstage, and they waited in the corridor. Liu Yanchu made a joke that made Lü Ruosi laugh; they stood close together, she playfully tapped his chest, resting her head against him, while Liu Yanchu smiled, subtly shielding her from the wall behind.
The backstage staff, fans of their couple pairing, had captured the moment and posted it online. Lü Ruosi saw it that night on Weibo, saved it, and had kept it ever since.
The friends’ group had countless photos. Since they were friends, not lovers, there was no need for discretion—they could appear in photos freely. For couples, discretion was required, but they didn’t have that concern. A quick search online showed plenty of options.
Zhao Feifei flipped through the pages rapidly, unable to decide. Yang Qing took the phone, typed in a few keywords in the browser, and found a photo. She showed it to Zhao Feifei. “How about this one?”
Looking down, Zhao Feifei saw it was from the day of the White Peony Awards. The ceremony had ended, guests were leaving in order. She hadn’t entered with Yang Qing, but they left together. Yang Qing had a calm expression after not winning, and she mirrored that.
To outsiders, it seemed like an ordinary photo—but to them, it held deep meaning.
Zhao Feifei smiled faintly. “This one’s good.”
Yang Qing’s face lit up with joy.
Meanwhile, the Hard-to-Forget group struggled to choose from their photos. Yue Yuran asked, “How about this one from my first album’s big sales? Or this one from the day your fans reached ten million, when we went out to celebrate?”
Su Yu looked and shook her head slightly.
Yue Yuran continued scrolling, finding a few more. “Or your graduation day, or the day of the music festival gig… oh, this one—someone’s birthday party, this one’s nice too. Looks warm, what do you think?”
Su Yu spent a moment deciding, retrieved her phone from the staff, and scrolled through nearly ten thousand photos. She found one near the bottom and handed it to Yue Yuran. “I want this one.”
Yue Yuran examined it. They had just met not long ago; Su Yu’s style was still plain, not as fashionable as now, and his underground band persona was so overly dramatic it was almost cringe-worthy.
Honestly, Yue Yuran didn’t really want to choose this photo—his outfit in it was atrocious, a relic of his early “dark history.” But it was also one of the reasons fans liked it. Seeing Su Yu’s expression, he realized how much she wanted this particular photo.
So he agreed without hesitation: “Alright, then we’ll go with this one.”
The photography studio they had dismantled shortly after leaving had been rebuilt, now with a dedicated prop room and makeup area.
Whoever was ready first would go first. The staff set up the scene. The couple group needed a backdrop and a large printed audience background. The friends’ group scene was simple but tricky, requiring an entire wall, Roman-style decorations, and a red carpet.
The Hard-to-Forget group had the most complex background: the original photo was taken in a bar, complete with a bar counter, a bartender, dancing guests, and multicolored lights. By contrast, the Wash-Clean group’s scene was straightforward enough to make the staff want to cry.
A long wooden table, a pile of books, and opposite it a twelve-paneled floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, the trees were still green, but a thin layer of white remained on the leaves from last night’s winter snow.
Finding a green scene with snow wasn’t easy. Without it, there would be plenty of options. While staff prepared outside, Song Cheng stared blankly at countless pieces of clothing.
The stylist held up several outfits resembling the school uniform. “Which one looks most like what you wore back then?”
Song Cheng paused for a second, then turned and grabbed Qin Wuyan’s clothes, pulling him forward. “You choose. I’m not worrying about the size.”
The puzzlement on Qin Wuyan’s face instantly turned into understanding. Before picking, he couldn’t resist commenting: “Good call not letting you choose yourself. Otherwise, you’d come out looking like a sack.”
Song Cheng: “…”
He shut his mouth and silently watched Qin Wuyan direct the stylist. “None of these are right. He didn’t wear a tracksuit, just regular winter clothes: white shirt underneath, a green wool sweater over it, a black tie, dark gray pants with a hint of velvet.”
“No, not this green—dark green,” he said, pointing to his chest. “There’s a fist-sized school emblem here. Do you have badges?”
Looking at Qin Wuyan, Song Cheng felt he might be the most enthusiastic guest for this segment. Even from his back, he could tell how much Qin Wuyan was looking forward to recreating the photo.
Lost in thought, Song Cheng barely noticed the stylist had already gathered similar-sized clothes. The emblem, however, couldn’t be found, so they repurposed an English-style badge from a female outfit.
The stylist handed him the clothes. Song Cheng looked at the unfamiliar outfit, a question mark forming in his mind.
This was his old school uniform? Quite flashy…
In the dressing room, he changed, facing himself in the mirror, feeling no nostalgia, only estrangement.
And a little absurd… He was an adult now, in his twenties, not supposed to be wearing a teen’s outfit.
Clearly, he was the only one thinking that way. When he stepped out, Qin Wuyan paused while adjusting his glasses, and the stylist’s eyes lit up.
Song Cheng smiled sheepishly and sat down. The stylist hurried over to do his makeup. Watching him in the uniform, Qin Wuyan wanted to laugh but couldn’t quite bring his lips up.
It looked almost the same, yet different—time had left indelible traces. Fortunately, after all the twists and turns, they were back together.
Qin Wuyan changed into clothes similar to the photo: a black-and-white geometric turtleneck and black jeans with chains, a style he had embraced early in his career. Back then, newly debuted, full of pride and passion, he had designed a persona that only wore black and white to maintain a cool, aloof image.
Though that persona collapsed in less than two years, the outfit still suited him perfectly.
Song Cheng didn’t react much as Qin Wuyan changed. But when he finally put on the meticulously chosen gold-rimmed glasses, Song Cheng’s gaze immediately locked onto him, unblinking, fixed.
The stylist noticed too, smiling. She asked, “Qin Laoshi, have you always worn contact lenses these years?”
Qin Wuyan, enjoying Song Cheng’s attention, replied, “No, I’m not nearsighted.”
Song Cheng blinked in surprise—he hadn’t expected that.
The stylist, puzzled, asked, “Not nearsighted? I thought I saw lots of photos of you with glasses…”
Almost all celebrities have photos wearing glasses, but Qin Wuyan had worn them so often, even at events, that everyone assumed he needed them.
He removed his glasses, pinching a temple with his finger, leaning back lazily. “That’s because someone likes seeing me in glasses. Normally, he’d get one second of seeing me; with glasses, he gets five. To satisfy his eyes, I just kept wearing them.”
The stylist laughed, sneaking a glance at Song Cheng. Makeup hid any visible blush, but the skin under his neck was warming noticeably.
She patted his face gently, then asked, “So you stopped wearing them later because you broke up?”
Qin Wuyan: “No. We weren’t even together then. I stopped because someone got tired of the glasses look—they didn’t like it anymore.”
He looked directly at Song Cheng. “Fashion is a cycle, tastes are a cycle, right?”
Song Cheng: “…”
After a long pause, he finally murmured, “Mm.”
Of course, it was a cycle. And now, he had started obsessively loving Glasses Qin Laoshi all over again.
When they stepped out, only Yang Qing and Zhao Feifei had just finished their shots. Liu Yanchu and Lü Ruosi were still being photographed, the photographer constantly adjusting their angles. Both were used to it, knew how to smile naturally, and the photographer’s photos were set aside. Song Cheng picked one up, compared it to the two in front of him, and felt their smiles weren’t quite right.
The photographer thought the same, and after taking numerous shots without satisfaction, finally chose one that was passable, worried that Liu Yanchu and Lü Ruosi would get too tired.
With them done, it was Song Cheng and Qin Wuyan’s turn. Without being told, Qin Wuyan sat in the left chair, picking up the shooting schedule handed over by the crew and pretending to read the old script.
Song Cheng sat beside him, unsure of how to pose at first. The staff handed him a prop phone. He froze for a moment.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
Staff: “In the original photo, you were taking a picture of Qin Laoshi, right? This is one of the props to recreate that moment.”
Song Cheng acknowledged with a soft “Oh,” holding the phone, resting his arms on the table.
In that instant, his body seemed to remember something. He blinked, holding the phone with both hands, slightly tilting it upward.
Although the prop had no screen, in his mind it was as if there truly was one, but the angle was too low to capture Qin Wuyan’s face.
Slowly, he raised it, a little higher, until it reached the perfect angle. By then, the phone had completely become a lens aimed at Qin Wuyan. He glanced up and caught Qin Wuyan looking at him.
When their eyes met, Qin Wuyan’s lips curved slowly—not the confident, teasing, midday-sun-like smile from the photo, but a smile carrying eight years of shared history. The currents of time had swept over their hearts, once intense emotions mellowed; sitting there now, Qin Wuyan felt only one thing: relief.
Relief that their story hadn’t ended that summer, that Song Cheng had knocked on his door.
Song Cheng looked at the faint smile on Qin Wuyan’s face and felt as if a huge weight had dropped from his chest. On the day they reconciled, he hadn’t felt this. Sitting here now, he felt a lifelong tension unwind, a freedom from worry he hadn’t known before.
The photographer took over ten shots, satisfied with all of them, then told them they could step down. But neither moved. Song Cheng reached out his hand, Qin Wuyan lowered his eyes and gently took it. They looked at each other again, sharing the first mutually understanding smile since the shoot began.
The photographer was unfazed; the other guests had never seen them so boldly intimate.
Behind them, Su Yu and Yue Yuran exchanged glances: “…Enough. If this romance keeps fermenting, the studio could be used for canning pickles.”