Lend Me Your Shoulder - Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Xu Yeyu hummed to herself as she unlocked the apartment door.

Xiang Wei had just stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a towel. He gave her a curious glance.
“You’re in a good mood.”

Xu Yeyu, fresh from making her “trade,” tossed her keys onto the table and grinned.
“Every second I see my husband, I feel blissfully happy.”

He gave her a once-over, rolled his eyes, and decided she wasn’t even worth a comeback.

After drying his hair, Xiang Wei headed straight for the snack cabinet. As he rummaged around, he asked casually,
“Where’s that Yakult gummy candy I bought yesterday? You already finished it?”

“Nope,” Xu Yeyu said as she took a sip of water. “I secretly gave it to Professor Lu. Thought it might score me some points.”

“Oh?” Xiang Wei raised an eyebrow. “And? What did he say?”

Xu Yeyu paused to think. “I ran away too fast to catch his reaction. But overall? I’d say it was disbelief—with a touch of stunned amazement.”

“…Excuse me?”

“I mean,” she went on dramatically, “he was probably overwhelmed by my queenly affection. Utterly swept away by the sheer magnitude of it.”

She licked her lips, eyes dreamy. “Just imagining the look on my face when I handed it to him—I bet I was dazzling. Who wouldn’t be captivated?”

Xiang Wei gave a rare nod of agreement. “Yeah, sure. Totally.”

“You really think so?” she beamed. “What part exactly?”

“The part where it’s delusional. A textbook case of eighth-grade syndrome, courtesy of Xu Yeyu.”

“…You’ve got three seconds to vanish from my sight, Xiang Wei.”

The snarky back-and-forth came to a pause. After her shower, Xu Yeyu noticed a new message from Lu Yanbai on WeChat—it was about the second public account article she was working on.

In the office earlier, he’d walked her through the general structure: the key themes, tone, and focus areas. Now, he had sent over detailed reference material to help guide her writing.

Xu Yeyu opened her laptop, launched a blank document, and began typing.

Psychology didn’t have an infinite number of hot-button issues. The same few topics came up over and over—resurfacing, evolving.

This time, she was tackling depression.

Her fingers tapped rhythmically on the keyboard as the outline of her article began to take shape:

As of 20XX, individuals with depression made up 4.2% of the population in China, and 4.3% globally…

Xu Yeyu’s hands paused.

Her chest tightened.

Reading the statistics and first-person stories hit her unexpectedly hard. A wave of sadness swept through her, making her feel faint for a moment.

Insomnia, anxiety, relentless self-doubt—those were already battles enough. And yet, society often layered on scorn and misunderstanding like salt in a wound.

Midway through the draft, overwhelmed by emotion, she clicked open her chat with Wanwan.

[I’ve made a decision.]
[For the next book, I’m basing the plot around this. I’ll weave in themes of depression and autism, and raise awareness through the story.]

She knew her main job as a writer was to tell stories, to flesh out compelling protagonists. But that didn’t stop her from embedding purpose in her work.

Even if only one reader walked away with a better understanding of these groups—if just one person dropped their judgment because of her words—then everything would be worth it.

Before, it had only been an outline in her mind. But now, after writing this tweet, that faint idea had hardened into resolve.

She didn’t know how many hearts she could reach—but she had to try.

Unexpectedly, Wanwan replied almost instantly.

[???]
[Didn’t you say something similar thirty times already? You’ve proposed no less than thirty versions of the heroine for this “new book.” You really think I’m going to fall into your trap again?]

Xu Yeyu: [Maybe.]

Wanwan: [?!]

Xu Yeyu: [I’m serious this time. I want to write a boy who’s beautifully broken—depressed, slightly autistic. And a female lead who slowly heals with him. Redemption. Healing. It’s set.]

Wanwan: [I’ll believe it when I see 30,000 finished words.]
[Also, I’ve learned never to trust female authors—especially the charming, talented ones like you, Night Xi.]

Though they’d met a few times, Xu Yeyu never posted pictures online. Her readers had no idea what she looked like.

Xu Yeyu: [Alright. If I don’t write it this time, I’m not human anymore.]
[I’m a fairy instead.]

Wanwan: [Great. Finish it. Or prepare to receive a blade in the mail.]*

Xu Yeyu yawned, her energy flagging. Satisfied with her draft, she collapsed onto the bed and dozed off.

By 9 a.m. the next morning, the tweet was done.

She messaged Lu Yanbai:
[Professor, I’ve finished the tweet. Do you have time to look it over?]

Eight minutes later, he replied:
[Give me a moment.]

Then, after another pause:
[Do you remember which hotel we had dinner at last time?]

[Yes, why?]

[If you’re free now, come over.]

[?? What’s going on?]

[The flash drive’s missing.]

At exactly ten o’clock, Xu Yeyu stood outside Room 310, catching her breath as she stared at the door.

She was just about to knock when she noticed a waiter coming out of Room 311.

Thinking she might get some helpful information, she stopped the waiter.
“Closed already?”

The waiter smiled. “Yeah, things are a little different right now. The chef’s dealing with some personal stuff, and the boss can’t be bothered, so we’re shutting down earlier than usual. Normally we wait for the last guests around 9 p.m., but lately, we clear out fast.”

Another waiter chimed in, laughing, “We’re off the second people leave. Ten minutes, tops.”

Xu Yeyu nodded. “Has it been like this recently?”

“Yep.”

Before she could ask more, the door to 310 swung open.

Banna stood in the doorway, sharp and elegant, ten-centimeter heels clicking on the floor, red lipstick flawless.

Everyone inside was staring at her.

Xu Yeyu stepped in and instinctively moved toward Lu Yanbai’s side. “Still no trace?”

Lu Yanbai shook his head.

Her memory of the flash drive was murky. She vaguely recalled fiddling with the little pendant attached to it—but when Lu Yanbai had messaged her about its disappearance, she’d searched her whole place.

Nothing.

She was fairly certain she didn’t have it.

“Basically, we’ve ruled everyone else out,” Banna announced, eyes locked on Xu Yeyu. “You’re the only one left.”

Xu Yeyu blinked. “How exactly did you lose it?”

“I left it plugged into the laptop, then left without taking the computer. When I remembered, I came back—but it was gone.”

“How long were you gone?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

Xu Yeyu suddenly remembered. “Wait—I found a rideshare order on my phone that night. But Professor Lu gave me a ride home… Did I call that ride for you?”

Banna nodded. “Yes. I was the first to leave because I couldn’t get a ride.”

Then she turned to the crowd. “But if I’m not mistaken, Xu Yeyu, you were the last one out, weren’t you?”

Xu Yeyu frowned. “I honestly don’t remember.”

Someone chimed in, “Professor Lu left just before her. She was definitely the last student to go.”

Lu Yanbai stayed silent—confirming it without a word.

Xu Yeyu tried to process, but Banna didn’t give her the chance.

“Everyone else had no reason to take it,” she said coolly. “And you? You had motive and opportunity.”

“I remember you playing with the flash drive during dinner. You were clearly interested.”

It felt like the ceiling had just fallen on her.

Sure, the last person to leave was the obvious suspect—but the logic still didn’t hold.

“What motive?” Xu Yeyu asked sharply.

“Stealing it could mean serious profit. The ideas on that drive are worth a lot. Anyone who sells it could make a killing. Everyone here loses—except you.”

Xu Yeyu narrowed her eyes. “But what if the person does lose something—say, a hundred thousand—but makes a million selling the drive? Doesn’t that motive still exist?”

Banna shot back, “It’s not stronger than someone with nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

“Then fine,” Xu Yeyu said, “Let’s check the surveillance footage.”

“There’s none in the room,” Banna said. “And the drive is small enough to pocket. Cameras outside can’t catch that.”

“…”

Banna took a step forward. “Can you swear, with absolute certainty, that you didn’t take it?”

Xu Yeyu’s heart pounded. Her fingers curled into her palms, pressing hard.

She was drunk that night.

And when she got drunk—she forgot things. Entire stretches of time gone, like a tape with blacked-out scenes.

She tried to remember.

A fragment surfaced: Her hand brushing the pendant again.

Banna’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts.

“Why aren’t you answering? Afraid to swear? Everyone else has cleared their name but you. What are you hiding?!”

Xu Yeyu was frozen, sweat prickling at her temples.

Then—a hand.

Lu Yanbai’s warm palm wrapped around her wrist.

She flinched, startled by the sudden contact.

He stepped in front of her. His voice was calm—but it filled the room.

“She wouldn’t do something like that. I’ll vouch for her.”

Gasps rippled across the group.

“You what?” Banna stared at him, incredulous. “Do you even understand the gravity of the situation? And you’re still protecting her?”

“I believe her,” Lu Yanbai said quietly.

Banna laughed in disbelief. “No matter the evidence? You’d believe her no matter what?”

Lu Yanbai’s grip tightened.

Xu Yeyu could feel the steady heat of his hand against her skin—gentle, but unshakable.

His voice came again, firmer than ever.

“Yes. No matter what.”