Chapter 9: “Tropical Fish”

Q: So why did you nominate Cui Muhuo as your class’s Arts and Entertainment Commissioner?

A: Haha, sec～ret～

—

To be precise, Cui Qijin didn’t think her feelings toward Chi Buyu could be fully summed up as “hate.”

That word was too strong.

She simply disagreed with so many of Chi Buyu’s ways of handling things—a natural mismatch in vibes, like oil and water.

Even now, it was the same.

She still occasionally thought back to Chi Buyu at the Freshman Orientation Party, eyes rimmed red from holding back tears, and couldn’t help finding her so foolish, so utterly baffling.

They’d barely been classmates for a few days. Just because of two names? What kind of logic was it to share hardship after twisting an ankle?

The night of the first snow had come and gone. Now the streets were full of people out playing in the snow, digesting their meals, and catching the breeze. They strolled leisurely, their figures blurring into hazy, overlapping shadows.

Right after Chi Buyu happened to glance over.

Another little electric donkey scooted by at an easy pace, kicking up a wind that felt almost sticky.

Through the drifting, ghostly double images shuttling across the road, the two of them looked like a frozen frame from a movie. Everything else moved in orderly chaos—loud or frantic.

Only they stood apart on opposite sides of the street. She held the freshly bought mango in her hand; Chi Buyu’s palms were empty as she lightly bit her lip.

They gazed at each other without moving.

As if only the two of them were still, or as if only the two of them were truly alive.

“Hey, isn’t that Shuishui over there?” Chen Wenran’s high-pitched voice cut in.

Cui Qijin snapped back to reality.

Across the flowing streak of passing headlights, the thin snow on the road, the green glow beaming from the traffic light, and the sweet scent wafting from the small pudding in Chen Wenran’s hand…

She watched Chi Buyu hesitate for a moment. First, she took a few steps toward the record store up ahead, then paused, agonizing for a few seconds.

Finally, she turned back to the crosswalk and headed their way.

She moved slowly, hands stuffed in her pockets, her low side bun swaying gently in the wind.

Like a soft, squishy persimmon. And one that… strictly followed traffic rules, at that.

“Shuishui’s coming over, huh?” Chen Wenran commentated like a live broadcaster.

Cui Qijin kept her eyes straight ahead.

That nearsighted, three-hundred-degree prescription fool crossed the street with her head down, unafraid of getting hit by a car.

She said coolly, “Your little pudding’s melting.”

“Is it?” Chen Wenran gasped in horror and hurriedly cleaned up the mess. Mumbling through it, she added, “How’d you know? You weren’t even looking.”

Cui Qijin didn’t answer right away.

She waited until Chi Buyu had crossed the street, then casually shifted her gaze to the disheveled Chen Wenran.

With clear disdain, she pulled a full pack of pocket tissues from her own pocket and tossed it over casually.

“Do I need to look?”

Chen Wenran caught the tissues.

She opened her mouth to say something more, but the next second, she flashed a big smile over Cui Qijin’s shoulder.

“Heyyy, Shuishui! Long time no see～”

It was probably a habit from college. Chen Wenran was always blazingly enthusiastic toward that “military advisor” type.

Every time they met, she grinned ear-to-ear, her words to Chi Buyu laced with wavy little ups and downs.

The total opposite of Cui Qijin.

Cui Qijin stared at the nearly melted pudding in Chen Wenran’s hand, thinking it impassively.

“Long time no see, classmate Chen Wenran.”

Chi Buyu’s voice came from behind her, sounding like she was smiling so wide her eyes crinkled. The woman loved calling people “Classmate XXX.”

She’d spent a key couple of years of her childhood language development in Taiwan, so her Chengdu dialect was half-baked, and her Mandarin always had a light uptick at the ends.

But it wasn’t quite a Taiwanese accent.

Perfectly standard Mandarin overall, just floating upward—airy, never heavy or draggy.

“Yeah, I think it’s been since you went to Hong Kong this summer for that fashion design course, right?”

Ever since hearing about it, Chen Wenran had this unconscious habit of slipping into a Taiwanese lilt when talking to Chi Buyu.

So fake.

Cui Qijin thought. Then, without a change in expression, she turned her head to glance at Chi Buyu. Sure enough, at the word “Hong Kong,” Chi Buyu seemed to recall something she shouldn’t.

“Yeah, that’s right…” Chi Buyu pressed her lips together.

She glanced at Cui Qijin, then ducked her head, scuffing her snow boots randomly in the thin slush.

“Your shoe soles are wearing through.”

“How’s your mouth?”

They spoke at the same time.

Chi Buyu looked up, her gaze landing on Cui Qijin’s slightly pursed lips. Her nose wrinkled.

Cui Qijin instinctively glanced up at Chi Buyu, then looked away as if nothing happened. Lightly, she said, “I can eat and drink fine. No big deal. It’ll be better by tomorrow.”

At that, Chen Wenran let out a sudden “Ha!”

Cui Qijin shot her a flat look.

Chen Wenran popped the whole pudding into her mouth, sealing her lips tight.

Better by tomorrow?

Everyone knew Cui Qijin, the Sickly One, healed slowly. Any wound on her took forever to close up.

“Really?” Sure enough, Chi Buyu knew it too. She didn’t let her guard down, asking with real worry, “Want to put some ointment on it?”

“No need.” Cui Qijin said, emphasizing, “It’s not enough to make me sick or feverish.”

Besides, ointment on the lips tasted awful—bitter and gross. She couldn’t stand it and would rather go without. It’d heal on its own eventually, just slower than most.

Over a nasty taste, she’d pick the pain.

“Fine.”

Chi Buyu nodded, hands in her pockets. Her eyes dropped, landing on the mango in Cui Qijin’s hand. She blinked, then asked, “So you didn’t eat that mango?”

“She did.” Chen Wenran jumped in before Cui Qijin could reply, fast as lightning. “Ate it the second we got back. First she cut a huge slice and couldn’t finish it, then diced it small and polished it off clean. Didn’t leave me a single piece.”

Cui Qijin kept her smile pasted on, eyeing the bare stick in Chen Wenran’s hand. Kindly, she reminded her, “You gonna keep holding that stick up? Not tired?”

“Not at all—” Chen Wenran started.

The next second, she caught Cui Qijin’s smile and cut off. Dryly, she added, “Who’m I kidding.”

“Gonna toss this trash. Toss the trash.”

Muttering, she clutched the wooden stick and bolted for a garbage can without looking back.

Cui Qijin watched her go.

Once she was out of sight, the smile faded from her lips. Turning back, she caught Chi Buyu sneakily peeking at her mouth.

Patiently, she explained, “It really doesn’t hurt. I didn’t give her any because the mango wasn’t sweet. She’d complain nonstop, and I was too lazy to listen.”

“Wasn’t that mango sweet?” Chi Buyu latched right onto the key point.

Cui Qijin blanked for a beat.

Two seconds later, she said slowly, “Average.”

“Okay.” Chi Buyu pursed her lips, like she wanted to say more.

Right then, a “thud” sounded from behind them—like a big lump of snow hitting the ground and shattering.

Chi Buyu’s attention snapped that way. Her face fell instantly. Cui Qijin glanced back to see a few middle schoolers in North Face puffer jackets over their uniforms laughing as they passed by.

And where they’d just walked…

Stood a snowman, utterly trashed. A little Santa hat and a thin red scarf lay scattered on the ground, now buried messily under kicked-down snow chunks—pathetic and forlorn.

Half its round body still clung to the bench, the cute shape faintly visible.

Cui Qijin frowned at the middle schoolers, now distant but their laughter echoing. She had zero patience for that destructive streak.

She glanced at the mangled snowman. Not kind-hearted enough to fix it, either.

She mused idly—then heard the crunch of footsteps in snow beside her.

Turning, she saw a pink pineapple-colored figure by the ruined snowman.

Chi Buyu, lips pressed thin.

She stared disapprovingly at the vanishing kids for a bit, clearly weighing whether to call them back for an apology.

But in the end, she decided to handle it herself.

Chi Buyu pulled her hands from her pockets, picked up the scarf and Santa hat from the ground, and grimaced as she brushed off the messy, dirtied snow bits.

She set them on the bench first.

Then she looked around, spotted some fresh, untouched snow piled on the grass nearby, and trekked over—nearly stepping in a puddle on the way.

She returned cradling snow, a little out of breath.

Still, she bent slightly at the waist, circling the half-kicked-away snowman twice with care. Bit by bit, she packed fresh snow onto its missing lower half, patting it firm.

Her expression serious, as if breathing life into a lifeless lump of snow—her own special spark.

Cui Qijin watched Chi Buyu’s bent back, the side bun swaying in the cold wind.

Watched the Loopy on her gloves get dusted with white snow, at risk of matting into a clump.

Caught between thoughts of “none of my business,” “her snow boots are dirty enough,” and “snow’s filthy”…

She sighed inwardly and walked over to Chi Buyu’s side.

Towering over her fluffy hairdo for several seconds, she asked softly, “It’ll all melt clean away by tomorrow anyway. Why bother patching it?”

Chi Buyu slapped a handful of snow onto the snowman.

From her angle, Cui Qijin could only see Chi Buyu’s slightly frost-nipped earlobes and hear her matter-of-fact reply.

“If it’s gonna melt anyway, why not let it melt looking pretty?”

Cui Qijin didn’t buy it. “Even if you fix it now, it could get kicked apart again any second.”

Chi Buyu paused at that. She seemed to concede the point, like it was pointless effort.

But the next second, she plopped another lump on—”pat”—and pressed it tight with her palm. Her whole head seemed to strain with effort.

“Then I’ll pack it extra firm, so it won’t go down so easy.”

You could pack it all you want; it’d still crumble under one human kick—Cui Qijin felt like saying.

But she didn’t.

Because just then, she noticed her coat wouldn’t drag on the ground if she bent over. Noticed the spare disposable gloves in her pocket. Spotted a pristine patch of white snow that Chi Buyu hadn’t…

—

She was just about to grab the mangoes and turn to leave when, in that split second, she suddenly hurled the entire bag onto the nearby bench. Her feet inexplicably veered toward that patch of pristine new snow.

She leisurely slipped on a pair of disposable gloves, eyeing the snow on the ground with clear distaste. With some reluctance, she picked out what she deemed the cleanest chunk from it.

She scooped it up and handed it to Chi Buyu.

Chi Buyu took the snow from her hand and smiled at her, her beautiful eyes curving into upside-down crescents. “I knew you’d help.”

Cui Qijin shot her a glance and said flatly, “I’m just thanking you for the mangoes.”

She added, “Even if they weren’t sweet.”

Then she noticed Chi Buyu’s pink pineapple-colored coat dragging on the ground, picking up a bit of slushy snow.

Chi Buyu herself was oblivious, in high spirits as she lifted her chin with a smug “Mm-hmm~”

“You know that mango wasn’t sweet.”

She added lightly, “Cui Muhuo, you’re such a little doll~”

She looked just like a humming pink pineapple. One with a tail, even.

Car headlights swept by, and Cui Qijin stared for a moment at the coat hem trailing in the dirt. Unable to stand it any longer, she reached out and lifted the pink pineapple’s tail.

She glanced at the snowflakes on the coat, then at the snowman gradually taking shape.

For some reason, her attention was all too easily led astray by Chi Buyu. She had stayed because she felt they needed to talk about what happened last night. They should both be feeling awkward right now, the atmosphere thick and strange.

She should just say coolly, We didn’t do anything.

And Chi Buyu would reply, Okay, okay, perfect.

Then they could silently agree to let it drop and go back to how things were before—never alone in a room together.

But right now…

They were crouched together by the roadside, patching up a snowman that was doomed to melt by tomorrow. No one mentioned the awkwardness, and the vibe wasn’t as weird as she’d imagined.

Cui Qijin just kept thinking how silly Chi Buyu was, and how silly they both looked squatting there by the road.

It was probably some lingering side effect from the movie shoot. Love Adrift Street still held echoes of that tropical film—the roadside stalls slicing huge chunks of fruit, the red and yellow headlights with fluffy edges weaving through, the damp and misty road, the shifting bright lights…

There was one beautifully framed shot in the movie she still remembered vividly. The perspective was from above, looking down.

In that moment, the whole street looked like a crystal-clear, vibrant aquarium, filled with tropical fish of all kinds swimming about.

Tropical fish living in Chengdu. Cui Qijin gazed at Chi Buyu’s full, youthful profile.

She watched as Chi Buyu scrunched up her face. After a good while rummaging in her pocket, she pulled out a tube of lipstick, took off her glove, and carefully dabbed some on her finger. Then she smeared it onto the snowman’s ears, which were shaped like Loopy.

And just like that, the white snowman gained a touch of pink.

Suddenly, Cui Qijin saw that movie frame again. She had always thought the young director was inexplicable—why build an entire street set in Chengdu to film something tropical?

Just like Chi Buyu right now.

Stubbornly piecing together a snowman that was already on the verge of melting, as if making it whole before it dissolved would turn its inevitable fate into something more romantic.

So she thought, if this really were an aquarium, there’d probably be one tropical fish in there that was pink pineapple-colored.

Clumsily out of place.

Half an hour later, she and this pink pineapple tropical fish stood up at the same time, only to discover their legs had gone numb.

Right then, a gust of wind blew from behind them, followed by a “ding-ling” from a bicycle bell.

She didn’t even have time to react before her body spun around. Her legs were still numb, and she couldn’t steady herself, pitching forward.

In the flash of an instant, she first heard Chi Buyu cry out in panic, “Careful!”

Her vision abruptly filled with that “heart-shaped” taillight again. A stronger gust whipped at her throat, and she caught the terrified expression on the bicyclist’s face. Something tightened around her neck.

In her line of sight, a bun hairstyle bobbed.

The next second.

Just before she hit the ground, she saw a thick arm shoot out decisively.

In her daze, it felt like a guillotine blade falling at noon, slicing straight across her throat with perfect precision.

Rigid. Straight.

It blocked her firmly, the force neither too light nor too heavy.

Until the wind battering her neck suddenly halted.

The frames perched on her nose bridge jolted downward from the impact. A cool sensation touched her chin—the snow that had clung to Chi Buyu’s coat.

Cui Qijin coughed several times in a row.

Pale-faced, she looked down to see Chi Buyu’s five fingers clenched into a loose fist inside the Loopy glove.

She felt like she’d taken an elbow to the face. Even if this pink pineapple tropical fish had done it to save her.

“Chi Buyu…”

She closed her eyes wearily.

She couldn’t help thinking that she and Chi Buyu really were like oil and water, South Pole and North Pole, repelling each other whenever they were together. Otherwise, why would doing one simple good deed without fanfare lead to an accident just from standing up?

“Huh?” Chi Buyu responded blankly.

Suddenly, Cui Qijin’s mouth hurt even more.

Gritting through the pain, she opened her eyes. She wanted to push away the arm barring her path, but when she looked closely, she froze for no reason—

The glasses lenses that had slipped to the tip of her nose were fogged up. Everything in her sight was blurry and damp.

Across the street, red and yellow lights melted slowly, like fresh-squeezed fruit juice splattered on the lenses—chaotic, hazy, splashing onto the hand extended slightly before her.

It was still that not-so-smart-looking Loopy five-fingered glove, but now the arm had pulled back a little. Then the palm slowly opened.

Nestled inside the glove was a box of blue-and-pink packaged external gel.

It had probably been carried around for a while, as the box was somewhat squished, deformed into odd shapes.

She couldn’t even bring herself to push it away.

“It’s not bitter.”

Honking horns blared past one after another, but Chi Buyu kept steadying her like that, her voice bright and soft.

“It’s what my older cousin brought back from Britain last time to treat mouth ulcers. I haven’t used it yet. If… your mouth keeps hurting, you could try putting some on.”

She tentatively extended the fluffy glove a bit more, then added, “Even if it’s not mango-flavored.”

The highway bike that caused the mishap wobbled by, its heart-shaped taillight flickering faintly as it turned right—like some kind of error signal.

How could medicine not be bitter? Cui Qijin wondered.

The fog on her lenses gradually cleared, her vision sharpening. She saw the Loopy round face on the glove twitch a little, and on the squished gel box packaging, there was a string of English letters:

6+ Months.

“What’s this?” she asked, even though she could already see.

In her peripheral vision, she saw Chi Buyu, her nose tip reddened by the cold wind, squinting with a grin just like that pink beaver. She explained word by word,

“Little~ doll~ spe~cial~ sweet~ sweet~ one~ oh~”

So even in Chengdu, 6+ Months got explained like this.