Chapter 13: “Crackle-Pop”

Q: What do you think Cui Muhuo’s first impression of you was?

A: A big beauty with a very kind heart.

–

“That youthful stunner—tall with long legs and killer proportions—what are you still fussing over?”

Chen Wenran had just finished her yoga routine and was sprawled across the mat like a ragdoll octopus that had come apart at the seams.

She watched Cui Qijin, lazily bundled in a thick fluffy blanket, gloves and mask in place, gently brushing the back of her chubby Brazilian turtle.

She just couldn’t wrap her head around it. Cui Qijin was so picky and short on patience—how was it that she poured all her affection into caring for this turtle?

“Cut it out.”

Cui Qijin’s throat was sore from the cold, leaving her voice raspy. “I’m a lady ghost, not some beauty.”

“You’re more grudge-holding than me, and I’m an Aquarius too?”

“You tell me?”

“Fine then. This humble servant admits her error. Please, Princess, name the villain behind your troubled heart so I can grovel and chase away your woes…”

Cui Qijin wasn’t in the mood. “You doing a chengyu chain game or something?”

Chen Wenran sauntered over. “Nah, I’m just stoking the fire.”

Cui Qijin set down the brush. “You’re surprisingly earnest about it.”

Chen Wenran flashed a cheeky grin. “Mainly because I want to help you sort it out.”

Cui Qijin had no energy to keep bantering. “Well… there is one thing…”

“What? What?”

“I…”

This was incredibly awkward to bring up.

Especially with Chen Wenran, who thrived on drama. As the Brazilian turtle latched onto her finger with its palm, Cui Qijin’s thoughts drifted for a split second. Finally, she let it slip.

“That camisole of Chi Buyu’s… the one she said went missing…”

She caught herself midway but noticed Chen Wenran’s gobsmacked expression.

With deliberate casualness, she returned the freshly brushed turtle to its glass tank and stressed, “It’s not what you’re imagining.”

“Phew, good, that’s a relief.” Chen Wenran patted her chest.

“Though yeah, it is here with me.” Cui Qijin dropped the bombshell out of nowhere.

“What?!”

Chen Wenran let out a sharp yelp before clamping a hand over her mouth. Her face twisted into something profoundly odd.

“You… stole Shuishui’s camisole?”

“You think that’s what I meant?”

Cui Qijin utterly rejected the idea.

Sometimes flipping the subject and object could warp a sentence’s meaning entirely.

She’d simply bolted in too much of a rush that day.

Waking up, she’d found the fabric draped over her face to block the light: a camisole. Then there was Chi Buyu, clinging to her, murmuring something about “loving me for a hundred centuries,” which had terrified her half to death. Add in a hand cramp, tumbling out of bed, and the hangover hitting full force—her normally lightning reflexes had lagged by several beats.

So she’d scooped up an armful of clothes and fled, barely managing to shrug on her outer coat. The rest, in her flustered state, she couldn’t be bothered to sort; she’d just balled them up and stuffed them inside her hoodie.

It was the most chaotic, disorderly morning of her twenty-six years.

Even after piecing together the fragmented memories later on.

She’d pinned the blame squarely on the Irish Mist and that record store boss.

She and Chi Buyu had simply lost it in a drunken frenzy.

Love Adrift Street had seen its share of heartbroken souls that night—one poor fool even buried themselves in the snow, sobbing their heart out. Amid the wail of ambulance sirens, they’d dashed toward a flickering streetlamp. Head to head, they’d swayed through tear-jerking ballads and fresh, romantic tunes in that jelly-like tropical aquarium of a snowfall… their First Snow.

Until they were rolling in it, covered head to toe, stumbling home in a daze. Freezing cold, they’d stripped off their snow-soaked clothes and curled up together on a single bed for the night.

But once sober, she’d discovered an extra item amid the bundled clothes in her hoodie: a Deadly Doll camisole that wasn’t hers.

That was why facing Chi Buyu about that night felt even more impossible.

She really ought to return it sometime.

“I just haven’t found the right moment to give it back to her.”

Cui Qijin stared at the turtle floating in its tank, stressing the point.

Chen Wenran peered at her through the glass. “So you’re still gonna find a chance to return it?”

Cui Qijin held her patience. “Obviously.”

Chen Wenran spoke with conviction. “I’ve got a plan.”

Cui Qijin wiped her hands. “What kind of brilliant scheme could you possibly cook up?”

“Isn’t your birthday coming up soon?” Chen Wenran’s eyes sparkled. “How about I throw you a blowout bash?”

“Birthday?” Cui Qijin wrapped herself tighter in the blanket and slumped onto the sofa, propping her head with zero enthusiasm. “I never celebrate my birthday.”

She even hated it.

Not because it fell on February 14th.

Not because she worried everyone would be too busy with Valentine’s to remember.

But because she didn’t want people jumping to unwarranted romantic conclusions about the date.

Back in college, a roommate’s friend—who was a grad student under Cui He—had spun this oh-so-romantic theory after learning the facts:

That Valentine’s Day in 1998 must’ve been magical. Professor Cui and Professor Yu must’ve been so sweet and lovey-dovey. Oh, and you share Professor Cui’s surname—are you the result of some bet they made that day? Like, whoever published more papers first got naming rights?

It sounded sweet, like she was their life’s greatest masterpiece.

Truth was, they poured their souls into their research papers, but never celebrated Valentine’s.

And her surname? Just because Yu Qijin sounded worse than Cui Qijin—too close to “embers,” an ill omen for a newborn.

People loved slapping romantic what-ifs onto dates, numbers, and names. As if only the schmaltzy stuff was worth hearing.

Cui Qijin had always scoffed at that nonsense.

“I know you don’t do birthdays.” Chen Wenran had followed her to the other end of the sofa.

“But aren’t you looking for a chance to…”

She trailed off under Cui Qijin’s gaze, jerking her chin. “To give that thing back to Chi Buyu?”

“What could be more perfect than a birthday party?”

“You just want an excuse to see Ran Yan? Hoping she’ll cave and take you back?” Cui Qijin dismantled her without mercy.

Chen Wenran gave a thumbs-up. “You’re too sharp.”

“I could call her to come get you right now.”

“No way!” Chen Wenran declared righteously. “If you summon her and she picks me up, versus her seeing me and falling back in love on her own—that’s worlds apart!”

Cui Qijin shot her a wordless glance.

In a way, she didn’t get their dynamic at all.

Bickering over trivialities, tempers flaring from careless words, breaking up, dissecting the breakup—yet still too stubborn to yield. Missing each other when apart, annoyed when together, lives tangled, souls shackled. Like Cupid’s arrow lodged deep in the wound—a weapon, really—yet they hailed it as love. The everyday dance of lovers, apparently.

Cui Qijin vowed she’d never hand over her weapons to anyone, never catch that virus.

But if it meant returning Chi Buyu’s camisole, drawing a clean line under that boozy, hazy night—and banishing the nagging irritation forever…

“It’s not out of the question.” Cui Qijin closed her eyes, her tone flat. “Getting Ran Yan to take you off my hands sooner works for me too.”

–

“You’re really waiting until then to pick up Chen Wenran?”

Chi Buyu lounged on the beanbag chair, chin nestled on the Banana Bear’s head, legs kicked up high behind her. She frowned as she scrolled her phone screen.

“Isn’t that a bit too long?”

“Nah…” Ran Yan propped her chin thoughtfully. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder. I’ve got it under control.”

A beat later, she added airily, “New Year’s almost here anyway. She’ll head back to Chongqing, we’ll patch things up, then split again—and she’ll yap about her mom setting her up on dates. Recipe for a fight. Better to reconcile after the holidays.”

“What if she actually goes on one of those blind dates?”

Chi Buyu grumbled, swiping away the aromatherapy diffuser ad on her phone. “Half a month? That’s forever.”

“No chance.” Ran Yan sounded dead certain. She fiddled with her phone a moment longer, then tacked on, “If it comes to that, I’ll chase her down in Chongqing.”

“Huh?”

Chi Buyu eyed Ran Yan’s awkward expression and suddenly got it. She let out a secret sigh of relief, grateful for her solid single life.

Otherwise, she might end up just as weird:

All hemming and hawing when there was room to maneuver, only to go all-in when it was do-or-die.

Tug-of-war, push-pull—apparently that’s how you unlocked the secrets of love.

“What about you?” Ran Yan asked.

“Me? What?”

“You and Cui Qijin?” Ran Yan said patiently.

“Me and Cui Muhuo? Nothing’s going on.”

The name made Chi Buyu shrink into the Banana Bear’s head. “There’s absolutely nothing.”

Ran Yan’s scrolling paused.

She propped her head on her hand, smiled enigmatically, and nodded at Chi Buyu’s exposed phone screen. Leisurely, she drawled, “What I’m asking is—after browsing forever, have you picked out a birthday gift for her yet?”

Chi Buyu’s chin dug a little deeper into the Banana Bear. She stewed for ages before firing back,

“You’re still picking one too, aren’t you?”

“I already chose Cui Qijin’s.”

Ran Yan gloated. “Right now I’m finalizing Chen Wenran’s Valentine’s gift. Done and dusted.”

Chi Buyu peeked out bashfully. “You’re sending a Valentine’s gift… after breaking up?”

Ran Yan shrugged grandly. “Yup. Promised her one every Valentine’s, no skips.”

Chi Buyu rolled her chin along the toy. “You two are one peculiar pair.”

Ran Yan burst out laughing and left it there.

Chi Buyu sighed gustily. “So what’d you get Cui Qijin?”

“Lipstick, for now.”

Chi Buyu burrowed into the Banana Bear, pondering. “Not bad.”

Ran Yan grinned. “Want me to hand over the lipstick?”

Chi Buyu shook her head. “Nah.”

“Jewelry or something?”

“She hates stuff like that. Says it’s a pain to clean.”

“A Banana Bear like yours?”

“She’d hate how ugly this one’s face is.”

“Perfume?”

“Hard to nail her taste. And anyway…” Chi Buyu thought back.

“I get the feeling she doesn’t like scents that scream ‘artificial.'”

She finished speaking melancholically, but Ran Yan offered no further opinions. Chi Buyu sneaked a glance her way.

She discovered Ran Yan squinting at her.

“This is even more troublesome than when I picked out a Valentine’s Day gift for Chen Wenran.”

Chi Buyu pursed her lips. “It’s different.”

“How so?”

“Because this is…”

Chi Buyu trailed off halfway through, her eyelashes drooping as she clutched the Banana Bear in her hands a little tighter. Only then did she mumble,

“It’s my first time giving her a birthday present.”

–

February 14th fell on the fifth day of the first lunar month.

A precious Spring Festival lay in between—a holiday the Chinese people cherished deeply. Yet Cui He and Yu Hongdong had always followed the tradition of everyone returning to their own homes for the New Year.

Yu Hongdong wrapped up his school affairs and decided to stay in Shanghai for the holiday.

Yu Chenxing packed her bags straight from school and headed to Hong Kong for winter break with her classmates. On WeChat, she asked if Sister Shuishui was still in Hong Kong—she wanted to meet up.

Cui He returned to Chengdu before the New Year and, on Lunar New Year’s Eve, invited several graduate students who had stayed on campus to a Cantonese restaurant near South Gate for their New Year’s Eve dinner.

Shanghai, Hong Kong, Chengdu’s South Gate… Cui Qijin hadn’t gone to any of those places for the Spring Festival.

A while back, a creative Thai restaurant had approached her to design the space with floral and plant arrangements. She’d gone through more than a dozen iterations of the plans, testing micro-landscape models with bird of paradise flowers, king palms, fan palms, bird of paradise plants, and golden cannas. But the client, who had lived in Bangkok for many years, always ended every meeting with the same line:

“Maybe it’s still missing something. It doesn’t have the atmosphere I’m after.”

Tropical plants did carry a fierce, abundant vitality that was hard to fully appreciate in a subtropical city like this one. Coincidentally, a tropical plants exhibition was happening in Bangkok at the time.

Seizing the opportunity, Cui Qijin chose to make a trip to Bangkok to source suitable tropical plants.

She had no desire to sit at the New Year’s Eve dinner table, listening to Professor Cui and her students rattle off obscure jargon.

Things like that had happened before. More than once.

Each time, she felt like an outsider—an unintelligent one, at that.

She hated feeling unintelligent.

On the first day of the lunar new year.

Amid the sweltering heat waves of Bangkok, she found a Cantonese restaurant in Chinatown. She skipped the Cantonese dishes and ordered a bowl of truly awful egg fried rice. When she bit into an overly salty chunk of ham, the streets outside erupted into a parade—everything red and festive.

She set down her spoon and, while chewing her fried rice, sent a message to the four-person WeChat group:

【Happy New Year! Wishing Professor Cui and Professor Yu good health and smooth work ahead.】

Yu Chenxing didn’t reply right away; she was probably off in Yau Tsim Mong with her classmates, checking out filming locations from some Hong Kong drama.

Cui He responded: 【Thanks 😊 Smiling your way. Happy birthday in advance!】

It took Yu Hongdong a long while to reply: 【Got it 😓 Bitter laugh. Busy and forgot—wishing you a bright future in the year ahead.】

She didn’t respond again.

She knew blessings like these would flood Cui He and Yu Hongdong’s student group chats by the dozens. And she knew phrases like “bright future ahead” and “happy birthday” would be sent right back to dozens of students.

She set her phone down.

Outside, the gongs and drums continued amid throngs of people.

Her expression remained blank, her mind empty as she kept eating that awful fried rice. She had no habit of wasting food, but she did have a compulsion to finish what she started.

The next second.

Her phone, resting face-down on the table, vibrated abruptly amid the jubilant clamor outside.

She casually unlocked it, and amid the sound of gongs and drums, a WeChat message jumped onto her screen—

【Ding~ Ready to receive New Year’s blessings from your super beauty? (Friendly reminder: Better pop on headphones in public, just in case!)

First up, fireworks to celebrate the New Year—Pop! Crackle! Bang! Boom! All done!

Next, a reminder to save your precious 2023 save file. We’re entering 2024: Eat all the mangoes you want without worry, fireworks that never fade, no question marks—just exclamation points!

Finally, with the most beautiful voice, I’ll sing you a tune to kick off the New Year. Countdown: 3, 2, 1—】

Rambling on with a bunch of emojis, even in a group message, calling herself a super beauty.

Cui Qijin already found the wall of text noisy.

But the next second, a music sharing link popped up—

/Good Luck Comes by Zu Hai/

Refusing “Good Luck Comes” on the first day of the lunar new year felt a bit rude, even if it was a group blast.

Cui Qijin resignedly fished her Bluetooth earbuds from her pocket and popped them into both ears. The cheerful melody flooded her eardrums amid the bustling Chinatown crowds.

She didn’t like noise, whether from music or surroundings. She frowned involuntarily. Still, she didn’t remove the earbuds. Carelessly, she scooped up a spoonful of fried rice and brought it to her lips.

By now, the female voice in the song had reached “fold a thousand paper cranes.” Outside the restaurant, a dancing dragon head had floated past the window seat. Stranger after stranger streamed by her side. She never understood why people celebrated the Earth’s trip around the sun. Bored, she chewed her rice grains when suddenly a new WeChat message appeared on her screen:

【Happy New Year, Cui Muhuo!】

The hand holding the rice spoon froze in that instant. She dimly recalled something—

In her case, it had never actually been a group message.