For Cui Qijin, writing that greeting card was akin to making a firm resolution.
It was as if the Sword of Damocles hanging over her head had finally had its rope severed by her own hand. In that moment, the stifled tension in her chest suddenly lifted.
Of course, she knew that words on paper could be destroyed, and that she herself was prone to flip-flopping—always making what seemed like the most rational decision in the moment, only to overturn it later as time passed.
So before heading back, she handed the card directly to Ran Yan, hoping to leave herself no chance to change it. Ran Yan gave her an “OK” and promised to pass it to Chi Buyu at the birthday banquet the next day. Chen Wenran, bursting with curiosity, tried to sneak a peek at what was written inside, but Cui Qijin forcibly dragged her away.
Still uneasy about Chen Wenran’s nosiness, Cui Qijin warned Ran Yan not to let anyone see the contents before Chi Buyu did.
Among the three of them, at least Ran Yan seemed reliable.
In other words, in just under nineteen hours, the Sword of Damocles would truly fall.
Assuming no accidents happened—Cui Qijin added this caveat with utmost precision, while mentally designating herself as the biggest potential accident.
She even considered how night was the time when people were most prone to impulses and regrets.
To that end, after returning from the hot spring hotel, she dug the old phone out of her suitcase and kept it on her person—in her pocket, clutched tightly in her fist. She was binding herself firmly beneath the sword, forcing herself not to escape again.
In truth, she didn’t know why she’d brought such a dangerous item on this trip. As early as the previous night, she’d pulled out the old phone but only stared blankly at its dark screen, never turning it on.
Tonight, though, the waters had risen unsteadily to her throat.
After dinner, Chi Buyu lounged in the living room, applying a face mask while keeping Meng Yuhong company as they watched that old-school Taiwanese idol drama. Chen Wenran and Ran Yan were there too. The three younger ones and the one elder chattered noisily amid the TV’s clamor, debating whether friends-with-benefits in real life should take the plunge into full-blown romance.
Chen Wenran crunched on half a cucumber and declared that friends-with-benefits didn’t exist in reality—most people lacked the patience and knew from the first meeting if it was friendship or romance.
Ran Yan, munching on a bag of chips, countered that it wasn’t absolute. How could Chen Wenran know they weren’t the patient type?
Chen Wenran mixed the cucumber with the chips, turning them into cucumber-flavored crisps, and shot back that they were both just cowards then.
The two suddenly started arguing heatedly over the idol drama, then chimed in unison:
“Shuishui’er, what do you think?”
Shuishui’er herself, crunching chips through her face mask, took a while—seemingly tearing open a fresh bag and nibbling a few more—before drawling slowly, “Because having something is the beginning of losing it~”
She mimicked a line from yesterday’s episode, flattening her voice with a spot-on Taiwanese accent.
Chen Wenran and Ran Yan both scoffed under their breath. Meng Yuhong jolted awake from her own snore, startled, and asked, “What happened? What got lost?”
Laughter erupted from the living room.
Cui Qijin hid in her room, where the old black Samsung phone in her hand had charged to ninety-nine percent.
She’d waited from the black screen until ninety-nine percent, like a ritual to rewind her memories.
It hit one hundred percent.
She tapped the 2013 version of the Penguin icon. She hated updating apps, so whatever version she downloaded stayed that way forever.
She entered her nickname and password.
The interface showed it was logging in.
From the living room, Chen Wenran shouted, “Cui Qijin, what are you doing hiding alone in your room?”
Login successful.
She could actually log back in?
Cui Qijin didn’t respond, just pursed her lips and watched the Penguin app load her chat history.
A rustling came from outside the door.
The decade-old phone was sluggish. Security alerts, group assistants, and random chat windows popped up. She stared intently at the messages jumping to the top. Maybe there were too many; “SpongeBob Afraid of Water” still hadn’t appeared.
With a “bang,” the door flew open, followed by footsteps—the slap-slap-slap of slippers on the floor.
“SpongeBob Afraid of Water” finally popped up as the chat history restored. Cui Qijin pursed her lips tighter; suddenly, a chat bubble flashed a red “1.”
Her heart jolted. Before she could read what the red “1” said, someone lightly patted her shoulder. In a panic, she powered off the phone and shoved it into her pajama pocket.
She turned to see Chi Buyu, face mask removed, eyes brimming with curiosity.
“Cui Muhuo, aren’t you coming out to watch TV with us?”
Her grip on the phone tightened in her sweaty palm, nearly slipping free.
Cui Qijin swallowed.
“Just now…”
She got only two words out.
“Just now?” Chi Buyu blinked. “What about just now?”
Cui Qijin stared at her damp lashes. After a long moment, she calmed down. Maybe she’d imagined it—logging into an old account was bound to have glitches. She shook her head, easing her hand away from the phone in her pocket, and said,
“Nothing.”
It had been close, though. Too close.
–
Maybe everyone was worn out from work these days, their energy flagging. They dragged through more than half of two episodes of the idol drama before everyone trickled back to their rooms.
This time, Chi Buyu didn’t follow Meng Yuhong.
Instead, she trailed into Cui Qijin’s room with her.
This had originally been Chi Buyu’s own room at her grandmother’s house. The lotus-root-pink bedspread was freshly laundered by the elder, carrying a pleasant scent of soap. The mattress sagged softly, making it feel like both of them were nestled inside a cloud.
When one shifted—even just rolling over—the other, sharing the bed, felt the ripples.
Even though they weren’t under the same quilt.
Each huddled under her own neatly tucked quilt, chins barely peeking out. During this, Ran Yan popped in to borrow a face mask from Chi Buyu; the tagging-along Chen Wenran remarked that they looked weird, like two silver rolls lying stiff in a lotus-root steamer basket.
Cui Qijin didn’t see it that way.
She lay peacefully, palms over her eyes closed, never stirring in her sleep. Barring surprises, she could hold that pose straight through till morning.
Clearly, Chi Buyu wasn’t so still.
One moment she’d stretch out a hand to rub her chin; the next, she’d flail and kick at her quilt; or suddenly raise both arms and blurt:
“Cui Muhuo, do I look like a zombie with a talisman stuck on me right now?”
She’d crack herself up afterward.
Her laughter shook the whole bed.
Cui Qijin stayed serene, eyes shut, silent.
Chi Buyu scooted closer, giggling while mimicking a zombie’s lurching arm-raise and hop.
The bed shook harder.
As the zombie inched nearer, Cui Qijin rolled over, turning her back.
Chi Buyu pressed her advantage, hopping brazenly toward her.
Cui Qijin’s shoulder bumped. She pulled her quilt tighter.
Her back got poked. Quilt tugged again.
A kick to the leg. Quilt yanked once more.
Her patience snapped.
Cui Qijin raised both hands, fumbling laboriously on the nightstand until she found the sticker that came free with the spicy strips they’d bought near the elementary school that day.
Perfectly themed: a hard-card birthday hat, tiny.
She turned over.
Chi Buyu was still bouncing gleefully, bangs flopping loose, her freshly masked face gleaming like a soft-boiled egg.
Without her glasses, Cui Qijin had to squint.
In the blurry mass of colors, she hunted for a spot on her face to stick it.
Just before getting shoved off the bed, she slapped the birthday hat sticker onto Chi Buyu’s cheek and ordered,
“No moving, Chi Zombie. You’re sealed with a talisman now.”
Chi Buyu blew at her bangs and froze obediently.
Cui Qijin exhaled in relief, extending both hands. Her strength too feeble, she enlisted her quilt-bound feet too, feeling like a limbless mermaid as she painstakingly shoved the inexplicably hyped zombie—quilt and all—to the far side.
But the moment she did,
Chi Buyu rolled back over in two half-turns, the sticker already fallen from her face. Her head nearly smashed into Cui Qijin’s chin, only to rear up at the last second with a triumphant grimace.
“Doesn’t work if it’s not on the forehead!”
Then she butted Cui Qijin’s shoulder lightly, over and over. She was really into it.
Cui Qijin gave up.
One hand steadied Chi Buyu’s forehead; the other peeled off the sticker and reapplied it squarely on her brow. She said firmly,
“No moving now!”
Chi Buyu stilled, just blinking. But her ear tips flushed pink.
Cui Qijin realized.
Their faces were so close—
Two layers of fluffy spring-and-fall quilts between them, but after all that hopping, heat poured out now, her breath mingling from chin-level.
Both lifted their four hands with effort.
Cui Qijin cradled her forehead, fingertips brushing near her ear. Chi Buyu pressed her pursed lips forward, her messy hair tapping Cui Qijin’s palm—tickling every crease and line, thump-thump, thump-thump…
Something seemed to fill those lines. Her life line? Love line? In this hushed night, it felt like her soul had floated free.
Cui Qijin’s throat itched suddenly.
She coughed.
Chi Buyu rolled away quilt and all, flipping over with a mechanical game-over drone:
“Ka-ka—”
She was imitating a zombie groan—and failing miserably.
Cui Qijin felt weary and called, “Chi Buyu.”
Chi Buyu’s voice stayed robotic: “Ka—I—have—a—talisman—on—”
Cui Qijin cut in bluntly, “You’re so noisy and rowdy tonight.”
“Ka—be—cause—to—mor—”
Her “ka” trailed off midway.
Chi Buyu seemed to choke, coughing fiercely a few times as her back bent, curling her into what looked like a folded silver silkworm.
Cui Qijin burst out laughing, and the quilt shook along with her.
Unwilling to back down, Chi Buyu coughed a few more times and rolled over cautiously. This time, she only turned half a circle before stopping. She stared at the ceiling, blinking, and said with a hint of melancholy, “Tomorrow’s the twenty-sixth.”
“What’s so special about twenty-six?” Cui Qijin asked, staring up at the ceiling alongside her. “I’ve been twenty-six for ages.”
She added, “Ran Yan and Chen Wenran have been twenty-six for ages too.”
“You’re the only baby here.”
“Baby’s the best.”
“What’s so great about being a baby?”
Chi Buyu sighed. “Babies get spoiled, that’s what.”
Cui Qijin shot her a glance. “When have I ever spoiled you?”
Chi Buyu sneaked a peek at her. “Lots of times.”
Cui Qijin fell silent.
Chi Buyu went on, “You just don’t realize it.”
Cui Qijin closed her eyes, neither denying nor admitting it. “You should go to sleep.”
“Oh,” Chi Buyu replied. She lay still for a moment, then rolled toward her again. Wrapped in her silver curls of blanket, she poked out a fluffy head, gazed at her, and called, “Cui Muhuo?”
Cui Qijin half-opened her eyes. “What now?”
Chi Buyu fluttered her fluffy lashes and kicked at the edge of the quilt. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Mm,” Cui Qijin acknowledged. “So what if it’s midnight?”
Chi Buyu had a sudden inspiration. “Do you think Ranran and Chen Wenran might burst in here any minute, carrying a cake with candles and singing happy birthday? Like you did that day?”
“No.”
Cui Qijin was blunt. As far as she knew, the Drunk Ghost Couple had no such plans. Ran Yan had mentioned that back in their sophomore year of college, they’d already thrown Chi Buyu a surprise like that for her birthday—they couldn’t keep pulling the same trick.
“They said they’re turning in early.”
Chi Buyu pouted, looking a little disappointed.
Cui Qijin turned her head to look at her. “Besides, your grandma wouldn’t have the energy for it either. Just think how exhausted she was a minute ago.”
Chi Buyu stared at her without a word.
Maybe it was the dim light, but she looked puffed up with indignation, like a steamed bun that had been poked and prodded.
