Chapter 135: “My Name Is Tao Yan.”
This was a recollection and a flashback.
Xie Xizhao had watched Xuan Yang’s two dramas many times. The first thing that amazed him was the cinematography; the second was the sheer creativity. The only downside was the wildly unrestrained storytelling.
Now, the drama felt like a ball of yarn that had finally been untangled. After enough buildup, the truth was laid bare before everyone.
Like most ordinary people in fishing villages, Tao Yan’s parents left home at a young age to work in a distant city. Although they were poor, life was still happy enough. In their second year away, Tao Yan was born. His childhood was not extravagant, but it was carefree.
The unexpected happened when Tao Yan was nine.
A knife-wielding murderer broke into their rented home. Blood soaked the old carpet in the living room. The small child curled up inside the wardrobe. Through the narrow gap, he saw his parents’ eyes, forever frozen in death—along with the final desperate lip movement they made toward him:
“Don’t come out.”
He was the sole survivor of the massacre. The most unfortunate orphan reported by the media. He had witnessed the purest, most senseless evil in this world. And when he opened his eyes again, he saw the kitten his parents had promised to take him to buy just two days before.
“Why a cat?”
On the silent night road after work, Xie Xizhao stood by the roadside, watching Xuan Yang teasing a stray cat with a treat stick.
The latter froze for a moment, then nervously adjusted his glasses, like a student being questioned.
Then he said, “Ah… just something to hold onto.”
He gestured in an attempt to explain. “You know, right? The companionship of animals can actually have a therapeutic effect on some people with mental illnesses.”
Xie Xizhao looked into his clear, innocent eyes. After half a second, he simply said, “Mm.”
Cats were fine, but the imagined cat was clearly not a good therapeutic aid. After learning about Tao Yan’s situation, An Wen made up his mind—he wanted to help him step out of his illusions.
He sought out his cousin, Ji Mingxian, a psychologist. His cousin also liked Tao Yan and agreed to help.
However, the process was far from smooth.
Tao Yan had been sick for too long, and he showed an unusual resistance to treatment.
He liked Ji Mingxian too, but only up until the treatment began. He was introverted and naive, yet at times, he displayed an uncommon sharpness.
On their fifth meeting, Ji Mingxian attempted to take the first step in therapy. But he asked:
“Sister, are you going to take my cat away?”
This was a scene that kept Xie Xizhao trending on the hot search list for an entire day and night.
An autumn evening. A boy in a worn-out school uniform ran desperately through the alleyways. Beside him, a warm, orange-colored kitten raced along, its tiny legs moving at full speed. The setting sun bathed them in golden light, like a gentle hand stroking them.
Behind him was his first friend since moving to the fishing village, yet at this moment, that friend seemed like a monstrous beast.
He ran as fast as he could, murmuring under his breath, “Hurry, kitty… hurry.”
Tears slipped down his expressionless face, falling onto the ground covered in ruins. On the dusty concrete, they spread into large, dark stains.
His lips trembled, his gaze unfocused. He tripped and fell—just like on that rainy day.
But this time, his cat didn’t say it was the start of a romance drama.
An Wen caught up to him and saw his pupils, blurred by pain.
He felt like he was about to be dragged back, so he spoke in a voice that was both soft and utterly despairing:
“An Wen, why are you doing this?”
At that moment, the once rebellious young man looked at the pale, thin, and painfully desperate boy in front of him, as if struck by a heavy blow.
And without realizing it, tears slipped down his own cheeks as well.
That day was the second day after they had adjusted the script. It was also one of the rare scenes that passed in a single take. Everyone was fully immersed in the emotions.
In the script, the only one who was supposed to cry was Tao Yan. But when Ji Yan shed that single tear, Xuan Yang didn’t call for a cut.
Ji Yan and Xie Xizhao—two friends who had already crossed paths frequently during the competition days—had caused quite a stir when the show first aired.
CP fans cried out in excitement, welcoming their “white moonlight” back into the palace, while some talent show fans joked: [Ah, these two together? Feels like they’re about to break into a performance stage any second—won’t that be a little distracting?]
That concern lingered all the way until the show aired. But at this moment, no one voiced such doubts anymore. Or rather, in this moment, to the audience, they had long since become Tao Yan and An Wen—not Ji Yan and Xie Xizhao.
This scene took place in the final few minutes of Episode Six.
When the episode ended, discussions about Tao Yan’s Summer exploded.
From the moment the show revealed that Tao Yan was suffering from delusions, discussions had already surged on forums and supertopics. Thanks to meticulous fans analyzing details in advance, many viewers weren’t completely shocked by the revelation. Of course, that didn’t stop them from crying in front of their screens—while simultaneously rewatching from Episode One, searching for hidden clues, and unintentionally stabbing themselves with emotional discoveries.
The pacing and narrative structure of the show had been exceptionally well done. With its steadily growing reputation, the level of discussion effortlessly soared to an unprecedented peak. And the scene between Xie Xizhao and Ji Yan undoubtedly pushed everyone’s emotions to their climax.
Especially Xie Xizhao.
This was his second time showcasing his crying scenes to the public, the first being in a past music video.
Three years into his career, Xie Xizhao had never lost control of his emotions in front of the camera. And this time, the role of Tao Yan was undoubtedly the complete opposite of his own personality.
But… he played it so well.
Not just in the usual “his acting is amazing” way, but in a way that felt as if he was burning through his entire life in that very moment—an overwhelming, contagious intensity.
Especially when he was running while talking to the cat—many of his younger fans, who adored him, simply broke down in front of their screens.
His collapse and despair were executed with such precision that there wasn’t a single trace of performance in it. Even Hong Wu ended up calling him, subtly probing, “How have you been feeling lately?”
At the time, Xie Xizhao was at home having hotpot with the TP crew. His eyes were streaming from the spice, and his voice was hoarse. Hong Wu, listening on the other end, was nearly convinced he needed a psychologist—until he heard Xie Xizhao lower his voice and say:
“Can you guys save me some meat? Seriously, are you all bandits?”
Hong Wu: “…”
He asked, “What are you doing?”
Xie Xizhao, completely baffled, replied with an innocent look, “Eating hotpot.”
As they spoke, Fu Wenze casually dropped several slices of fatty beef into his bowl. Xie Xizhao, maintaining a dignified front, muttered a polite “Thanks, brother,” but his voice couldn’t hide his obvious delight.
Hong Wu hung up in silence.
Later, when Lu Yong heard about this, he mocked him, “You said his emotions weren’t in place, but you totally got fooled yourself.” Hong Wu had no comeback. But that was a conversation for another day.
In any case, that night, Xie Xizhao’s crying scene flooded the homepages of every major blogger.
Everyone, as if by unspoken agreement, collectively forgot about the time when he first transitioned to acting—when countless voices had called him a “pretty face riding the hype.”
This legendary performance completely cemented Xie Xizhao’s transformation—from a mere idol with mass appeal into a truly recognized young actor with undeniable talent.
At the same time, discussions surrounding Tao Yan’s Summer and its storyline grew more intense.
—
Why did Tao Yan resist psychological treatment so much?
Because he had been sick for too long. And the initial trigger for his illness had been far too cruel. Over the years, as he grew up, there were few things in his life that truly brought him happiness.
In earlier episodes, the audience saw him being b*llied by delinquent students, ostracized in silence due to his introverted nature. These experiences exacerbated his condition. At the same time, his illness itself had shaped his personality.
As for how his condition had persisted for so long, the drama revealed the answer through a conversation.
After discovering that Tao Yan had a psychological disorder, An Wen went to see his grandmother. His emotions were turbulent at the time—because he believed that the old woman had enabled Tao Yan’s delusions.
Even though she knew her grandson had a mental illness, she still indulged him. She even bought all kinds of cat supplies for the cat that existed only in his imagination.
But when An Wen saw the elderly woman, he found himself unable to speak.
She had lost her husband at a young age, and later, her only daughter as well. Her frail back was hunched, her face etched with the marks of time. Looking at the young man in front of her, she asked softly:
“Child, tell me… how should I explain reality to Xiao Yan?”
What was reality?
Reality was the bloodstained floor. The lifeless eyes of his parents. And the unbearable memories that followed.
Reality was the media tearing open his wounds for their stories. The whispers behind his back wherever he went—“Poor thing.”
Reality was the sympathetic gaze of teachers at school. And the innocent, careless voices of children asking—
“Why don’t your mom and dad come to parent-teacher meetings?”
She carried the weight of immense sorrow as she watched the child lying on the couch, speaking earnestly to the cat that existed only in the void.
And she thought—
“Let it be.”
It was just a cat.
As long as her Xiao Yan was willing to eat, willing to sleep well, willing to forget about the parents who were no longer in this world—then what harm was there?
He just wanted a cat. A cat that could talk, that could accompany him.
That afternoon, for the first time, An Wen began to doubt his own choice.
He thought about the Tao Yan he had first met—introverted, yes, but with calmness and serenity in his eyes. He thought about the old news reports he had dug up, black-and-white text concealing faded blood and tears.
If it hadn’t been for Ji Mingxian’s firm words—”A person cannot live in an illusion”—he might have thought the same thing.
“Let it be.”
—
As Ji Mingxian and An Wen repeatedly clashed over Tao Yan’s treatment in the drama, outside of it, a debate raged among the audience as well:
Should Tao Yan even be “cured”?
Some believed that Tao Yan’s delusions were a manifestation of his illness. Avoidance might alleviate temporary pain, but it wouldn’t solve the underlying problem. He had already become completely disconnected from reality. And yet, he wasn’t incapable of engaging with the world—his friendship with An Wen was proof of that. That connection could be the first step toward healing, toward moving forward and starting a new life.
But others argued that Tao Yan and his cat had become true companions. Forcing them apart now—forcing him to face the harshness of reality—was an even greater cruelty.
After all, some of the exclusion and b*llying he had faced hadn’t come from his illness but simply because he was “an outsider.”
So why couldn’t he just stay with his cat and continue living happily?
The two opposing sides argued fiercely, and Tao Yan’s Summer officially became the hottest trending drama in the entertainment industry.
Countless viewers discussed the plot, analyzing every hidden detail within the show. Even a popular debate program joined the frenzy, featuring the topic as its latest argument, capitalizing on the hype.
All of this led to one inevitable outcome—by the third week of Tao Yan’s Summer airing, the platform’s membership subscriptions reached an all-time high.
And then, the long-anticipated finale arrived.
An Wen ultimately let Tao Yan go. Ji Mingxian only sighed.
Tao Yan returned home, facing an empty room, his eyes filled with an unfamiliar kind of confusion.
What followed was a drawn-out battle over the next few days. In the end, Tao Yan’s grandmother, after much persuasion, relented. Tao Yan went back to that small consultation room.
Gentle guidance. Hesitant retellings. The ticking of the clock. A variety of pills.
Everyone watched in silence as the confusion in the boy’s eyes gradually faded, bit by bit.
He repeated himself countless times:
“My name is Tao Yan.”
“I had a talking cat.”
“It was orange with white markings.”
“It spoke to me.”
“It said…”
Yan Yan, don’t cry.
Yan Yan, don’t cry. Be strong.
You are the best boy in the world.
You will be happy, healthy, and brave.
At that moment, the fast-cut montage came to an abrupt stop.
The quiet room was empty.
The lazy, orange-and-white figure was no longer there.
There were no sudden sarcastic remarks.
No more gentle, earnest encouragement.
At the end of summer, a pale-faced boy put on a long-sleeved cotton shirt.
He looked at the camera, lips moving slightly—
“My name is Tao Yan.”
“My name is Tao Yan.”
“I am eighteen years old.”
“I have a secret…”
The second half of the sentence suddenly dissolved into the cold, silent air.
—
By this point, the screen was flooded with bullet comments.
The boy on screen had never looked so clear-headed. Xie Xizhao’s performance in this drama was arguably the peak of his recent years, particularly his mastery of micro-expressions. His eyes alone often stole the show. But right now, no one had the heart to critique his acting.
They simply watched as Tao Yan stepped out of the consultation room and into the world.
He went to college, studying astronomy—his greatest passion.
At university, he made several friends. His professor liked him because, despite being shy, he always sat in the front row.
He was diligent, hardworking, and won scholarships.
He often returned home because his grandmother was now suffering from the early stages of dementia and needed his care.
To the townspeople, he was no longer the strange child but a dependable young man.
In the final scene, he returned to his room.
The sunlight was warm and quiet.
On his phone was a message from An Wen:
[Back home? Let’s meet up. My sister just got back from her business trip too.]
He smiled.
But just as he lowered his head to type a reply, his fingers suddenly paused.
He lifted his gaze.
The camera followed, slowly rising, mirroring the first scene of the series.
Unknowingly, the audience, too, followed the camera’s direction, their eyes drawn to the distance.
Below the sycamore tree sat a cat.
A little chubby.
Orange, with milky white markings.
Autumn had arrived. The wind rustled golden leaves, as if breathing into the camera’s ear.
Among the quiet whispers of shifting foliage, the lens met a pair of familiar brown eyes.
The progress bar crept toward its end.
The screen faded to black.
And in the darkness, a familiar voice whispered—
“My name is Tao Yan. This year…”
“Twenty-one years old.”
“I have a secret. I have a…”
The screen froze.
In the absolute silence, only the sound of the audience’s breathing remained.
Tao Yan’s Summer had come to an end.
Almost at the same time, Xie Xizhao received a call from Lu Yong.
Lu Yong said, “Just giving you a heads-up—keep it to yourself.”
He paused for a moment before continuing, “Insider news—you’ve been nominated for this year’s Stellar Award.”
