When Zhou Chen broke up with me, he said, “That thing you write, no matter how good it is, is still just a web novel.”
He offered me two million and told me to “name my price.”
I turned him down.
All I wanted was my keyboard back.
Then I turned our story into a novel.
It went viral across the internet.
He sent me a lawyer's letter.
His future arranged-marriage partner publicly posted on Weibo: “He's not good enough for me.”
His LinkedIn profile got dug up, his Zhihu answers were screenshotted, and the comments all asked the same thing:
“Is this the guy who thought his girlfriend was ‘beneath him’?”
While all that was happening, I was sitting in my rented apartment, still typing away.
They say web fiction is lowbrow.
But I want to ask:
What's so highbrow?
A bespoke suit? A Porsche Cayenne? Paying two million to buy out five years of a relationship?
If that's what it means, I'd rather never be part of that world.
I'd rather stand below the stage and use my keyboard to make my voice heard.
Even if there's only one person listening.
