In the opulent private room of Jianye International Hotel, a group of well-dressed men and women clinked glasses, their faces flushed from alcohol.
"Director Chen, we look forward to your continued partnership in future business endeavors."
"Director Chen, another toast to you! Sip as you please—I'll finish my glass!"
"Director Chen, may your wealth and success grow ever brighter!"
…
The star of the evening was Chen Hansheng. Every toast and compliment centered around him.
"I wonder which fortunate woman will marry a man like Director Chen," remarked a rosy-cheeked woman, her voice laced with honeyed sweetness as she raised her glass.
At thirty-five, Chen Hansheng embodied the pinnacle of a man's vigor, experience, and capability. His social status granted him effortless confidence, and his eloquence naturally drew admiring glances from women.
"Miss Zhang, did you know Director Chen remains unmarried? He's the city's most eligible bachelor," someone interjected.
"Then his standards must be too lofty for ordinary women like us," the woman replied coyly, handing him a business card with a gaze that seemed to smolder. "Your career thrives, but one must balance work with family life," she added softly.
Chen Hansheng accepted the card politely. As their fingers brushed, he felt a faint tickle—Miss Zhang's index finger had subtly grazed his palm. Her eyes lingered on him with unmasked longing.
Chen Hansheng chuckled noncommittally and took his seat.
By the evening's end, most guests were tipsy. The striking Miss Zhang cast a lingering glance at Chen Hansheng as she departed. He responded with a mimed phone call, sparking a delighted smile. An assistant approached. "Shall I drive you home, Director Chen?"
"Unnecessary," Chen Hansheng waved him off. "My new apartment across the street is barely 100 meters away. I'll drive myself."
After the assistant left, Chen Hansheng trudged to his Land Rover. Slumping into the leather seat, he exhaled deeply, weariness etching lines into his face.
Post-banquet gatherings always left him emotionally drained, hollowed out.
*In this world, we're all prisoners of circumstance.*
"Hah."
He snorted bitterly. If happiness were measured by wealth, he'd surpassed most. He had no right to complain.
Starting the engine, his hand brushed against an object in his pocket—Miss Zhang's business card.
"Zhang Mingrong… Not a bad name," he muttered. With a flick of his wrist, the card arced through the night air before being ruthlessly crushed beneath the Land Rover's tires.
The adult world thrived on pretense. Only fools took it at face value.
Inside the car, *500 Miles* played on repeat:
*If you miss the train I'm on*
*You will know that I am gone*
*You can hear the whistle blow*
*A hundred miles…*
Though the lyrics felt alien to his privileged life, their melancholy resonated deeply. The repetitive numerical motif echoed life's relentless grind. Across eras and borders, those who left home—whether in prosperity or poverty—carried an indelible loneliness.
"Haven't visited Mom and Dad in ages. Maybe I'll go tonight."
Fueled by whiskey's lingering warmth, Chen Hansheng impulsively turned the steering wheel.
Suddenly, blinding white light flooded his vision—**CRASH!**
Then, nothing.
…
"Xiao Chen! Wake up! The bus is arriving!"
Chen Hansheng pried open gummy eyelids to assaulting sunlight, his skull throbbing with hangover fury.
"Ugh… Never drinking like that again," he groaned, massaging his temples.
"It was our last high school class party—everyone overdid it. Besides, drowning rejection sorrows is understandable," said a chubby, dark-skinned teen beside him. He smirked. "I warned you not to confess to Xiao Rongyu after graduation. How'd that work out?"
"Plenty of guys chase her. You're just another casualty," the boy jabbed. Noticing Chen Hansheng's vacant stare, he frowned. "What, mad I criticized your goddess? We've been brothers since diapers! You only knew her three years. Bury last night and move on!"
As the lecture continued, Chen Hansheng interrupted: "Who are you?"
"**Me?!**" The teen gaped before erupting. Yanking Chen Hansheng off the bus at the next stop, he shouted, "Did rejection fry your brain? I'm Wang Zibo! Your best friend! Or did you forget your own name—Chen Hansheng?!"
"Wang Zibo?" Chen Hansheng did have a friend by that name… but he should be in Iraq.
"Aren't you supposed to be in Iraq?"
"D*mn you, Chen Hansheng! Wishing me dead?!"
Chen Hansheng fell silent, staring at his reflection in a bus shelter window—a teenage boy, familiar yet foreign, with peach fuzz on his chin.
The sky stretched cloudless. Unpaved roads kicked up dust motes dancing in sunlight. A nearby barbershop blared F4's *Meteor Rain*:
*Let's watch meteor showers grace the Earth*
*Let your tears fall upon my shoulder…*
The scene, paired with the saccharine pop, churned Chen Hansheng's stomach. *Is this cliché rebirth trope happening to me?* He lurched to the roadside and vomited.
Wang Zibo rubbed his back. "Get it all out. You'll feel clearer."
When the heaving subsided, Chen Hansheng's mind sharpened. Wang Zibo's face finally aligned with memory.
"Where… are we going?" Chen Hansheng croaked.
"To collect our university acceptance letters!" Wang Zibo replied, unfazed. He attributed his friend's oddness to last night's humiliation.
The mention triggered Chen Hansheng's recollection: they were indeed en route to school. He'd been admitted to a mediocre college, Wang Zibo to a prestigious one.
The year wasn't 2019.
**It was 2002.**
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This version maintains the original narrative flow while smoothing out syntax and enhancing descriptive details. Let me know if you'd like further refinements!