Chapter Fifty: What Kind of Man Are You?

At nine in the evening, the bar was packed to the brim. Zhang Han and Sun Hao sat in a corner, chatting idly. Patrons passing by noticed the program being filmed and glanced over with curiosity, but no one came forward to disturb them.

On stage, the resident singer finished a song and was called down by the owner. Soon after, a man with a baseball cap took his place at the piano. The brim of his cap cast a shadow over his face, making his features indistinct. The audience assumed it was just a new singer and paid little attention. Zhang Han and Sun Hao, however, straightened up at once—the moment they’d been waiting for had finally arrived.

Sun Hao’s feelings were a tangled mess. He had never truly moved on from those memories, and now the experience was about to be shaped into a song. He felt anticipation and dread in equal measure.

Zhou Miao flexed his fingers. The musicians beside him, having already familiarized themselves with the score, signaled an “okay”—the arrangement wasn’t complicated, and a few glances were enough to master it.

The production team’s camera panned to the stage at just the right moment. Zhou Miao sat upright, his slender fingers pressing the keys.

A haunting, sorrowful prelude filled the bar, adding a melancholic air to the atmosphere. Conversations faded as all eyes turned toward the figure on stage.

“The television keeps flickering, your contact’s still saved, you treated me well, but I ruined it all with my own hands.”

“We used to dream of a place to sleep and eat, but how could we endure those nights and days, not even able to scrape together a down payment? I smashed the wall in anger, it’s still not fixed. A bowl of hot porridge—you worried I’d have too little, so you always left half to take away.”

These lyrics pierced Sun Hao’s heart like a blade. His throat felt choked, unbearably tight. He tipped his head back and downed a glass of liquor in one gulp. Meanwhile, the song continued. Sun Hao, clutching his glass, walked to the front to listen more closely.

“Let me describe it—how beautiful your eyes reddened for the future. Back then, I never understood your pain.”

“If only in my youth I’d been accomplished and free of self-doubt, if I’d known what truly mattered, all those dreams—I owe you for a lifetime for not giving them to you.”

“If only in my youth I’d known restraint, I wouldn’t have let you suffer for my sake. At your wedding, I’d drink a few more rounds with the man by your side.”

By now, Sun Hao’s face was streaked with tears. He bowed his head, hiding behind his glass to shield his grief, but the tears refused to stop.

To have promise in youth is only an “if.” Nothing in the world is more bitter.

If only he had truly achieved something in his youth, what might things look like now? But that was just an “if.”

It wasn’t just Sun Hao. Zhou Miao’s song struck a chord with everyone present. Whose youth was not lost in confusion? Who hasn’t dreamed of an “if”? Who hasn’t wondered whether, if their younger self had truly been accomplished, everything might have turned out differently?

Unnoticed, the bar had fallen completely silent; everyone was lost in Zhou Miao’s music, immersed in quiet sorrow.

“If only in my youth I’d been accomplished, free of self-doubt, tasted the flavor of regret—money and status gained, yet wishing to turn back.”

“If only in my youth I’d known restraint, I wouldn’t have let you suffer for me. At your wedding, I’d drink a few more rounds with the man by your side—at your wedding, a few more rounds.”

“Wishing for my youth to have been accomplished...”

As the song ended, the bar erupted in thunderous applause. Zhou Miao shook hands with the musicians and stepped down from the stage. Only then did the patrons realize that the man who had just sung was Zhou Miao himself!

Though many longed for a photo or autograph, everyone restrained themselves, merely calling out his name from afar. A young woman even shouted, “Miao, I love you!”

Zhou Miao looked over, and the girl, suddenly shy, crouched down. Zhou Miao smiled and waved to the audience.

Once the three were seated, Sun Hao, eyes red and swollen, poured Zhou Miao a drink and raised his glass. “This is for that song. I’ll listen to it for the rest of my life—it’s marvelous.”

He drained his glass in one motion. Zhou Miao hesitated—drinking wasn’t ideal for a singer—but indulged this once, emptying his glass and wincing at the taste. Foreign liquor really didn’t suit him.

“What’s the name of this song?” Sun Hao asked eagerly.

Zhou Miao’s eyes twinkled. “It’s called... ‘What Kind of Man?’”

Sun Hao and Zhang Han were both taken aback. Why that name? Admittedly, Sun Hao’s actions hadn’t exactly been manly, but it didn’t quite fit the song.

Zhou Miao grinned. “Just kidding. The title is ‘If I Were Accomplished in Youth.’”

Sun Hao finally relaxed. He loved the song, but if it had been called ‘What Kind of Man,’ he wouldn’t have been able to accept it. ‘If I Were Accomplished in Youth’—that was just right, just as he’d guessed.

“I have to hand it to you, Zhou Miao,” Zhang Han said admiringly. “To write such a brilliant song in just two days—it’s no easy feat.”

As a top host, he’d met plenty of singers who marketed themselves as musical prodigies, most of them charlatans who didn’t even understand music theory, outsourcing their so-called compositions. A true songwriter like Zhou Miao was rare in today’s music scene—especially one with looks to rival most idols. In the words of that once-popular phone ad:

“Too stunning to be considered just talented!”

That was the impression Zhou Miao gave. Though he was genuinely talented, it was his face that drew the most attention.

Even after his sharp rebuke of fans at the press conference, he still attracted hordes of diehard admirers swooning over his photos, sending private messages begging for selfies.

But Zhou Miao refused—if anything, the more they begged, the less he posted. He was even pondering how best to deal with these overzealous fans.

With the song performed, the episode’s recording came to an end. Zhao Weiming invited Zhou Miao to dinner, hoping to persuade him to stay on as a regular guest, but Zhou Miao refused outright.

“No need. If I hadn’t promised beforehand, I wouldn’t have come even once. You’d better find someone else.”

Zhou Miao’s response was no surprise to Zhao Weiming, who sighed. “There probably won’t be a second season of ‘Tailor-Made.’ Ratings are just too low, and it’s hard to get guests.”

“In my opinion, you shouldn’t limit yourself to celebrities’ love gossip. Friendship, family—those are great topics too. Also, expecting musicians to write a resonant song in just two days is unrealistic. I don’t know which amateur set that schedule, but it’s a bit foolish,” Zhou Miao said bluntly.

Zhao Weiming awkwardly sipped his wine—he was the very “amateur” Zhou Miao was talking about.

“What do you think would work better?” he asked.

Zhou Miao set down his chopsticks and offered his advice seriously. “First, musicians and guests should connect in advance—by phone, if necessary—to discuss the direction and framework of the song. Give musicians more time. Once inspiration strikes, then start filming. After learning about the guest’s story in detail, fine-tune the song to capture every nuance.”

With that, Zhao Weiming understood. This would be like revealing the topic ahead of time, letting the musician prepare before recording. It was a practical solution.

This was Zhao Weiming’s first time producing a music variety show. Pressured by the advertisers, he’d been forced to launch before he was ready, which led to the show’s disastrous flop. At least, there was still hope for redemption.