135: Chapter 140 A Heartwarming Moment with Taylor

Outside the window, the night had fully unfurled, and the myriad lights of Manhattan, seen through the condensation-streaked glass, turned into a field of scattered gold.

After finishing the meal, Chen Mo collected the takeout boxes and threw them into the kitchen trash can.

When he came out of the kitchen, Taylor was leaning against the sofa, her fingers still clutching that handwritten lyric sheet, softly humming the last line of the chorus.

He picked up his coat, preparing to leave. The rug at the doorway felt a bit warm from the radiator, and that nylon-string guitar sat on the shoe cabinet.

Walking to the door, he looked back.

Taylor was leaning against the piano, her toes curling unconsciously into the carpet, a smudge of pencil lead on the cuff of her oatmeal-colored sweater.

"Chen Mo, on the day of the Grammy Awards, no matter the outcome, let's find a place afterward—just the two of us—for a drink."

"Okay, where to?"

"You've been to Tribeca, and I've been to your apartment, but after the Grammy Awards, just the two of us... let's go to Changsha."

She placed the lyric sheet on the piano music stand and walked to the door, looking up at him.

"Are you really going?" Chen Mo was momentarily stunned.

"When have I ever lied to you?" Taylor didn't look up.

The light from the wall lamp fell on the edges of her short golden hair. Chen Mo nodded and said, "Okay, just the two of us."

He pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway. In the elevator lobby, the old-fashioned heating pipes were making a faint metallic sound from thermal expansion.

While waiting for the elevator, he remembered that in the song "The Last Page," his favorite part wasn't the chorus, but the final line—

"Every page has been opened, but only this one lingers between my fingers."

The elevator arrived; he stepped in, and the doors closed.

December 8th, New York. They had written a song that belonged only to the two of them, like two children playing in a sandbox all afternoon, finally putting away their shovels and buckets, promising to come back next time.

But that kind of afternoon, sitting quietly side-by-side on the carpet, listening to the same melody, would never happen a second time.

Because that afternoon itself was the last page—

Not an ending, just finished reading.

The condensation on the window glass slowly slid down, blurring the myriad lights of Manhattan into a gentle golden halo.

December 10th, Beijing.

When Chen Mo emerged from Capital Airport, the Beijing wind scraped against his face like fine sandpaper; it was dry and freezing cold.

He was wearing a long black down jacket over a black Anta hoodie, with the hood pulled up to cover half his face.

The car picking him up was still that same black Hongqi, and the driver was still that taciturn middle-aged man.

Jessica sat in the passenger seat. On her iPad screen was today's itinerary—Weibo Night, National Stadium, red carpet, awards ceremony, exclusive interview.

For once, she wasn't wearing that beige trench coat, having swapped it for a dark gray down vest, holding a hot Americano she'd brought from the airport.

"Anta has already delivered your custom suit to the hotel in advance. It has black fabric with a subtle dragon totem pattern embroidered on the cuffs and the inside of the back. They said it was designed specifically for tonight, the only one in the world."

Jessica turned the page on the iPad and said, "Weibo has created a new award for you this year: Artist with the Most International Influence of the Year. This award didn't exist before; it's new this year. The presenter is Jay Chou."

Chen Mo leaned back in his seat, watching the poplar trees fly past outside the car window, and said, "Got it."

The night deepened as the car drove along Changan Avenue.

The red carpet at the entrance of the National Stadium was very long, and the areas behind the metal barricades on both sides were packed with fans and media.

On the December night in Beijing, the temperature had dropped several degrees below zero. Some people were holding up light boards— "Chen Mo," "dont stop"—the batteries in the light boards flickering on and off from the cold, but no one put them down.

When Chen Mo stepped out of the Hongqi, the cold wind rushed into his suit collar, but he didn't shrink away. He stood at the start of the red carpet and adjusted his cuffs.

The suit he was wearing tonight was a custom Anta piece—

The black fabric had a very faint matte sheen under the lights, and the subtle dragon totem pattern wound from the cuffs to the inside of the back. You wouldn't notice it at all if you didn't look closely, but once the light swept over it, the texture of the dragon scales would emerge, like some kind of power hidden in the shadows.

The red carpet host, wrapped in a down jacket, stood in front of the signature wall; the logo on the microphone was frosted with a thin layer of ice.

She asked, "Chen Mo, which brand are you wearing tonight? This suit has such amazing texture!"

Chen Mo took the microphone and said, "Anta. Domestic."

His tone was very flat when he said those three words.

The host was stunned for a moment, then applauded vigorously. The screaming of the fans on both sides of the red carpet drowned out the speakers.

Walking into the stadium, the stage background for Weibo Night was a massive LED screen, scrolling through trending Weibo topics in real-time.

Chen Mo was seated in the second row, aisle seat, with Jay Chou next to him.

Jay Chou was wearing a dark blue Chinese-style stand-collar jacket, holding a cup of bubble milk tea—no one knew where he'd gotten it.

Seeing Chen Mo sit down, he held out the milk tea: "Want some?"

Chen Mo said, "No, I'm afraid I'll burp."

Jay Chou laughed out loud; his laughter was drowned out by the venue's sound system, but his shoulders were shaking.

"You said the same thing last time at the Golden Rooster and Hundred Flowers Awards. Do you use the same line for every awards ceremony?"

Chen Mo said, "Yes, as long as it works."

The awards segment was in the middle of the evening.

Jay Chou walked out from the side stage, holding the newly created trophy—

A crystal base with a golden globe on top, the Weibo logo engraved on the surface of the globe.

He stood in front of the microphone, and applause surged from the audience.

"This award is called 'Artist with the Most International Influence of the Year,' newly created this year. Why create it? Because someone made Weibo Night feel that if we didn't create this award, we'd be doing a disservice to this year's trending topic servers."

Laughter rolled through the audience.

"I know this guy. He's played golf with me. On his tenth swing, he hit 200 yards. It took me ten years to stabilize that distance. He's just the type—the kind of person who makes everyone who works hard both love and hate him."

"Welcome, Chen Mo."

Chen Mo stood up from his seat and adjusted his cuffs. The subtle dragon totem pattern emerged for a split second under the stage spotlight, then vanished.

He walked onto the stage and took the trophy from Jay Chou.

The two shook hands, and Jay Chou yielded the microphone to him, taking a step back.

"On behalf of the Mandopop music scene, I welcome you back." Jay Chou wasn't smiling when he said this, his voice steady and calm.

"I've always been here." Chen Mo stood before the microphone, holding the trophy.

"This trophy is the first award I've received in China this year. The American Music Awards, Billboard Awards, VMAs I've won before—those trophies are heavy, but holding them always gives me a feeling of 'this is someone else's award.'"

"Of course, it's not an issue with the awards themselves. It's that when I stood on those stages, there wasn't a single person in the audience whose songs I'd listened to growing up." He paused, looking playfully at Jay Chou beside him, "Tonight, there is."

"You brat!"

Jay Chou patted his shoulder, and the two shared a hug.

"Lastly, thank you to every one of you on Weibo. From cursing me to waiting for me—thank you for your hard work."

The audience was silent for a moment, then applause and laughter mingled together, like some kind of tacit reconciliation.

He bowed slightly and turned to walk toward the side stage.

Jay Chou was waiting for him at the side stage, the cup of milk tea in his hand already cold. He said, "When you said 'from cursing me to waiting for me,' were you responding to that wave of haters from before?"

Chen Mo took the mineral water handed to him by Jessica, unscrewed it, took a sip, and said, "That group of people is still there, but they've either unfollowed or learned to wait for me. Both outcomes are good."

Jay Chou leaned against the wall, placed the cold milk tea on the table, and sighed, "You're much steadier than I was when I first debuted. Back then, when I got cursed at, I'd be in the park writing songs to curse back. You took two years to make them wait for you."

"People who curse you won't forgive you just because you stay silent. They will only forget they ever cursed you because your work is too good."

Jay Chou patted his shoulder and said, "Then keep writing. Make them forget even more thoroughly."

The exclusive interview area for Weibo Night was set up in a small studio behind the stage.

The person interviewing him was a senior reporter from Sina Entertainment, wearing black-rimmed glasses, with a voice recorder and a handwritten outline in front of her. Her questions were very direct.

"You've won so many international awards this year—the American Music Awards, Billboard Awards, VMA Best New Artist—and the Grammy Awards nominations will be announced soon. Yet, some netizens in China still question whether your success relies on 'American packaging.' How do you see it?"

"How do I see it? I see it while sitting down."