**My gaze flicked to the doorway, catching a fleeting silhouette.**
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Her. The figure moved fast, but the outline was unmistakable.
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I'm Lu Huai, and that was my childhood friend.
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The eternal second-place finisher.
A writing prodigy.
A novelist who naively thinks she's hidden her identity well.
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True, no one else knows the famous author "Tang-Tang" is actually her. But I uncovered her secret long ago.
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That writer who reliably delivers 100,000-word updates, whose prose is sharp yet whimsically unreasonable.
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I discovered her during a sleepless night, scrolling through a forum when one of her campus novels caught my eye. At first glance, it didn't interest me much—until I saw the comments section erupting:
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*"Are you writing about Lu Huai in this story!?"*
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Honestly, I didn't react much at first.
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Then I reached Chapter Two—the protagonist barely spoke, struggled with emotions, excelled in STEM, and often got lost in his own world.
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*Hm... Now I understand why readers were making a fuss.*
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I didn't comment or like the post. Just quietly bookmarked it.
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From that day on, I refreshed her updates religiously, occasionally dropping brief remarks under an alt account:
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**[lii]:** *"The male lead's dialogue feels off today."*
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Or
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**[lii]:** *"Guilty conscience?"*
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Then I'd wait for her edits.
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Though Jiang Tang never replied, she'd quietly delete an overly bold narration or patch in an explanatory line next chapter.
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Honestly? Just knowing she read my comments satisfied me.
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At school, we act like strangers, our eyes barely meeting.
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But through words, it feels like we've known each other forever.
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