Today’s dinner was beef rice—our favorite. Fresh beef tenderloin, sliced into strips and seared to fragrant perfection, arranged neatly on a plate. It was topped with a thick gravy simmered from potatoes, corn, and peas, crowned with a sunny-side-up egg. Only those who’ve tasted it truly grasp its magic.

I carried two steaming bowls from the kitchen, calling to Baiyu sulking on the sofa: "Dinner’s ready! Your favorite beef rice."

Baiyu stood, scowling as she stomped over. She snatched one bowl from my hands without a word and turned toward the stairs.

*Sigh.* She’d never eat with me. Every meal, she’d retreat to her room alone.

Normally, I’d just shrug it off, eat at the table, and muse about loneliness.

But today, I stopped her: "Wait."

She froze, half-turning. Her brow furrowed, impatient, still clutching the bowl.

"I just watched your livestream—"

The moment the words left my mouth, Baiyu stiffened. Her porcelain-pale face flushed crimson, like a ripe apple. Her whole body trembled slightly.

"N-No! You shouldn’t watch that, idiot!" She twisted away, hiding her burning cheeks.

*Strange.* She’d dance and sing so freely for strangers online, yet crumble when family saw it.

...Actually, I got it. I knew she was my No.1 fan—my biggest supporter—but I’d never admit it to her face. Same shame. Every creator battles this: craving validation yet cringing when someone actually sees your work.

Thoughts like *"What garbage is this?"* or *"If anyone knows I wrote this, I’d wanna die"* haunted me constantly. At least, they haunted me.

"Why not?" I grinned exaggeratedly. "Your singing’s amazing."

No one dislikes praise for their effort. Her scowl softened a little.

"Really?"

"Mhm! Absolutely."

"T-Then... did you see my dancing too?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. She stared at her feet, fidgeting.

"Well..." I teased, "a bit clumsy, but super cute!"

Her eyes snapped up, fiery. "I’m not clumsy!"

"Oh? Not clumsy?"

"No! Don’t you dare say that!"

"...Okay, okay. Still cute, though."

"Hmph! You’re just humoring me!" She puffed her cheeks, snatching a spoon to poke my waist.

"You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you?" I paused, nodding at the table. "Sit. Eat while it’s hot. Talk to me."

"Tch. Like I’d eat with *you*." She shot me a sideways glare, scoffing as she turned for the stairs again.

"Wait—I’m actually Qian Niao’s—" I blurted.

Baiyu stopped dead, slowly turning back.

"—biggest fan," I finished weakly.

I still couldn’t say it: *I am Qian Niao.*

"You like Qian Niao’s work too?" Her eyes lit up like she’d found a kindred spirit. But just as quickly, she masked it, forcing a stiff frown. "H-Honestly? I never pictured *you* liking it."

She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, avoiding my gaze.

*Yeah, yeah. Sorry for liking Qian Niao, huh?* I bit back the thought. "I know every one of Qian Niao’s stories."

"Which is your favorite?"

"*Lilith!*" I answered without hesitation. *Mess With Me, Lilith!* was my debut—clumsy prose, cringey plot—but it held everything I wanted to say. My heart bled into it. Later works like *Midnight Logbook* were experiments, pushing boundaries... but they’d never hold that raw, first-love fire.

Every writer knows: a debut is different. It’s yours alone.