By the age of twenty-seven, Cui Qijin had always believed she held no interest in snow or the sea.
It wasn’t as if she had never visited cities blanketed in heavy snow or lined with vast oceans.
As a child, she had gone to Harbin once, and over the years, Chengdu had seen snow several times too. But she had never played in it—like she had been born a full-grown adult, her personal cosmic dictionary stocked only with “not allowed,” leaving no space for “I like.”
Chi Buyu had coaxed her into playing.
That winter of 2023, amid a light snowfall in Chengdu, they lay drunk in the snow as pedestrians fell madly in love around them during the season’s first flakes. They tasted the snow and declared it faintly sweet. Later, they squatted by the roadside like a pair of fools, piecing together a snowman that some passerby had kicked apart, nearly taking an elbow to the face when they stood up. The six-year-old Cui Qijin who walked past had thought these two grown-ups were awfully childish.
After growing up, Cui Qijin had visited plenty of coastal cities too—Sanya, Bangkok, Dalian… Each trip had been for work or some unavoidable necessity. She had never once felt the urge to head to the beach or “play in the sea.”
Chi Buyu invited her to see the ocean.
But Chi Buyu was the quintessential type with no extraneous thoughts—once an idea bubbled up, it was straightforward, like a cartoon lightbulb popping up with a “ding” above her head…
And for Chi Buyu, that was the end of it.
It fell to Cui Qijin to handle everything that came after.
The idea took full shape in Cui Qijin’s hands. She drew up plans. And that very night, after the suggestion had been made, she used a single video call to outline every scrap of known information about the trip.
First things first: the dates.
Fresh from a shower, she grabbed her laptop, slipped on her high-prescription glasses, and propped herself against the bed. “When are you free?” she asked Chi Buyu.
On the video feed, Chi Buyu had a white clay mask slathered on her face and a Strawberry Bear headband perched atop her head. She stared for a moment before declaring, with sudden dissatisfaction, “Cui Qijin, you look like you’re in a client meeting right now.”
Cui Qijin glanced down at her plaid pajamas and replied dryly, “I wouldn’t hold client meetings in my bedroom dressed like this.”
“Fair enough.”
Chi Buyu pouted, effectively silenced by the retort. “I’m free all of June and the first half of July.”
Cui Qijin jotted down the keywords in OneNote, planning to cross-check her own schedule once the call ended.
“And the location?” Cui Qijin asked, eyes fixed on her laptop screen.
But Chi Buyu on the video went abruptly silent.
“Chi Buyu,” Cui Qijin called.
No response.
Finding it strange, Cui Qijin dragged her gaze away from the densely packed OneNote page and over to the video window, shrunken into the top-left corner—
Where she discovered Chi Buyu making figure-eights under her chin with her fingers, eyes narrowed in mock menace as she stared.
“Cui Muhuo, you’re on a video call and you won’t even look at me.”
For Chi Buyu, whether this beach plan actually happened mattered less than whether Cui Qijin was looking at her in that precise moment. Cui Qijin, however, cared more about making the beach trip a reality.
“I’m taking notes,” Cui Qijin explained.
“Are notes more important than me?” Chi Buyu demanded, utterly serious.
“Just for this stage…”
Cui Qijin pondered briefly. “I think getting this plan done is pretty important for both of us.”
Chi Buyu scrunched up her face, rubbed her chin in thought, and conceded—albeit reluctantly—”All right, then.”
Reassured, Cui Qijin refocused on the plan.
“So, the location?”
She pulled up her phone for a quick search, correctly assuming Chi Buyu had no preferences in mind. She prepared a shortlist of options, typed them into her notebook, and sent them over as text—far clearer than spoken words in a moment like this.
Once sent, she glanced back at Chi Buyu.
Who was pulling a ghastly face right at the camera: teeth gleaming white in a wide grin, white clay mask giving her the look of a Halloween specter, “ooh-ooh-ooh” sound effects implied. And just like that, a train seemed to chug from Chi Buyu’s side straight to Love Adrift Street.
The ghost face didn’t faze Cui Qijin.
Chi Buyu released the grip on her eyelids, grimacing as she rubbed her stiff, numb cheeks. She crossed her arms tightly under her chest, elbows jutting high.
“I want to see exactly when you’ll finally bother to look at me!”
Her tone was fierce, but her face had gone rigid from the effort.
Cui Qijin laughed until she thought she’d lose her mind.
Chi Buyu glowered from her tiny top-left-square prison, thoroughly unamused.
“Okay,” said Cui Qijin.
She expanded the WeChat video window to its maximum size—still only about a third of her screen—and suggested, “Let’s switch to a Tencent Meeting.”
Chi Buyu hemmed and hawed. “You don’t have to make it so complicated.”
Cui Qijin checked the time in the top-right corner. “Your mask is about due to come off anyway.”
“Oh crap—”
Halfway through her protest, Chi Buyu lurched unsteadily toward the bathroom, phone clutched in hand.
She propped the phone on the sink, aimed at the warm overhead light. Water splashed noisily from within. For some reason, Cui Qijin waited without glancing at her plans. Instead, she found herself staring down that pool of warm yellow light.
Some thirty seconds later, Chi Buyu reemerged with only half her face washed—splotches of white clay still clinging here and there, her dark-grape eyes brimming with mischief. Seeing Cui Qijin still watching her, she beamed in satisfaction before ducking back in to finish up. Her smug voice cut through the splashing: “See? You love me half to death.”
Cui Qijin laughed so hard she nearly snapped her laptop shut.
Chi Shuishui always had a way of reminding herself—over and over, through the tiniest details—just how deeply she was loved. She was like some brave soul venturing into a barren wasteland to plant a forest. If Cui Qijin wouldn’t say the word “love,” no problem. Chi Shuishui would grab a little shovel and dig through the ruins, double-checking every nook and cranny until she unearthed that buried affection. Then she’d plant her hands on her hips, cackle like a cartoon villain, and holler—Cui Qijin, you love me to pieces!
Chi Buyu returned after washing up, towel in hand as she scanned Cui Qijin’s proposed options. Suddenly, her eyes lit up with a “ding.”
“How about Samui Island?”
“Sure.”
Cui Qijin dove into searches on Samui Island’s weather, cuisine, transportation, and hotels.
Midway through, Chi Buyu actually sent over a Tencent Meeting invite code.
The video window expanded dramatically.
Chi Buyu clutched a plush bear, hiked up her pajama sleeve, and extended her hand solemnly into the air before the camera.
Cui Qijin reached out in kind.
Chi Buyu wiggled her hand as if clasping and shaking Cui Qijin’s. “Hello, Cui Qijin. Wishing you a pleasant trip.”
Cui Qijin shook her own hand cooperatively, grinning. “Right back at you, Chi Buyu. I hope yours starts pleasant right now.”
They grinned at each other through the screen for a good three minutes straight, neither able to stop.
Finally, Chi Buyu clutched her stomach and bolted from view. “I can’t look at you anymore, Cui Qijin, or my sides are going to split!”
Their laughter floated through the feed like the colorful bubbles from SpongeBob SquarePants that so many kids kept as pets back in the day. Cui Qijin hadn’t had one as a child, but at twenty-seven, she had acquired one. Perhaps more than one.
Once her laughter subsided, Chi Buyu wandered back, rubbing her aching cheeks. “Okay, business time, Cui Qijin!”
Cui Qijin maximized Chi Buyu’s face and minimized the OneNote window, settling in to do her homework.
Chi Buyu propped her chin on her hand, scrolling through social media and piping up with ideas whenever one struck her. Cui Qijin took diligent notes, playing the role of Chi Shuishui’s personal assistant.
All in all—aside from a few wild detours into irrelevant territory—Chi Buyu’s engagement was impressively high.
At last, they reached the hotel booking step. Cui Qijin hesitated, propping her fist under her chin. Her tone wavered. “Should we get two rooms, or…?”
Chi Buyu said nothing.
“Chi Buyu?”
Cui Qijin called out.
She instinctively wanted to look, but her eyes flicked to the booking screen on her phone instead, forcing herself to hold steady.
Still no answer.
“I’ll book one room if you don’t say anything?” Cui Qijin pressed.
Chi Buyu might as well have vanished entirely.
Not a peep.
Cui Qijin agonized solo for a solid two minutes before finally glancing over. There was Chi Buyu on the video feed, fast asleep, her breaths coming in long, even draws.
Cui Qijin let out a soft chuckle.
She propped her chin and watched the supposedly sleeping Chi Buyu for a long while. She even saved and closed the shrunken OneNote window. After a moment, she unlocked her phone, hesitated, and posted in the 【Romantic Fools’ Love War】 group chat:
【The two of us decided to go on a trip, but halfway through planning, Chi Buyu conked out. She’s ignoring me now—so, one room or two?】
The Drunk Ghost Couple hadn’t turned in for the night yet—who knew if they were still wrapped around each other with drinks in hand.
Chen Wenran fired back instantly:
【Holy shit】
【Are our pure little ladies finally taking the plunge?】
【Congrats!】
【Cheers!】
【Let’s grab a drink】
…
Ran Yan’s messages squeezed in amid Chen Wenran’s barrage:
【She’s drunk】
【Sorry about that】
【One room】
【Two rooms would】
The instant “Two rooms would” appeared, Cui Qijin instinctively glanced at the screen. Chi Buyu’s eyelashes were quivering.
Had she not been asleep after all?
Cui Qijin sensed something off and stared intently.
It wasn’t long before Chi Buyu cracked, pretending to sleep as she scratched idly at her chin—leaving a patch of skin flushed pink. Cui Qijin realized Chi Buyu was probably testing her initiative. If she’d said “two rooms,” then…
Cui Qijin couldn’t hold back her laughter. It aligned perfectly with Ran Yan’s advice—
“Chi Shuishui’s gonna sulk.”
【Shuishui’er is gonna sulk】
–
Chi Buyu declared that a trip to Samui Island required short-sleeved floral shirts and sunglasses.
Afterward, she bought Cui Qijin a pair of retro triangle cat-eye shades.
Cui Qijin had thought the glasses were ugly right from the start. Later, she grudgingly put them on, wondering if she was starring in The Matrix.
Chi Buyu didn’t agree.
They nearly argued over it.
In the end, Chi Buyu donned a pair of seven-kuai millennium-era filter shades bought from a street stall. With her lips pursed, she pressed her face against Cui Qijin’s—who wore triangular sunglasses with obvious reluctance—and snapped a wind-swept selfie astride a little electric donkey on Samui Island.
They sent it to the Drunk Ghost Couple for judgment.
Chen Wenran dropped a 32-second voice message in the Four-Person Group, her laughter laced with one comment:
“Millennium hacker and millennium sweet girl—a perfect match.”
Chi Buyu wasn’t having it.
Cui Qijin cruised along slowly on the electric scooter, the hot Samui wind whipping past. Chi Buyu rode behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. Her hands reached around to the front, and amid the dancing shadows of the trees, she typed out word by word:
【Clearly Catwoman and Hot Girl】
【Let’s Go!!!】
Cui Qijin caught sight of the lines in her peripheral vision. Her laughter got swallowed up by the island’s wind, the crimson sunset, and the endless coastline.
Chi Buyu sat snug behind her.
Still not convinced, she grumbled, “What’re you laughing at?”
Then she poked Cui Qijin’s waist with a finger, her soft cheek squished against her shoulder as she hissed through gritted teeth in a mock threat:
“Am I hot or not? Am I hot or not?”
Twilight spilled over Samui Island. The summer here felt hotter than anywhere else on earth, palm tree shadows cavorting across their floral shirts printed with pink peonies and seagrass.
Cui Qijin glanced in the rearview mirror at Chi Buyu’s helmeted face, all wrinkled up as she glared at her—like an angry chipmunk.
She kept laughing.
So the hot-girl chipmunk sulked, then suddenly chomped down on her shoulder through the seagrass print on her floral shirt.
A faint tingle of pain shot through.
It didn’t hurt much, but it left a wet, sticky sensation that even the island breeze couldn’t disperse.
Cui Qijin conceded defeat. “Fine, hot girl.”
Chi Buyu let out a tiny “hmph,” then nudged the spot she’d just bitten with her chin. Her soft breaths ghosted over it. She slumped there with a pout for a while, until the beach slipping past caught her eye. Then she blurted out,
“Love is like quicksand~”
Cui Qijin remembered that spring, when they’d ridden a scooter together through Leshan’s river breeze. It felt like ages ago now. Back then, she’d still been keeping plenty of secrets from Chi Buyu, listening to her sing the same lyric into the wind.
She hadn’t understood back then why love was like quicksand. Chi Buyu had asked her what the hell love even was.
Now, her love sat right behind her, arms around her waist, head bobbing as she sang with her eyes hidden behind those shades. She opened her mouth to gulp down gust after gust of wind:
“It’s all real… every bit of it real~”
Cui Qijin heard it from the front and realized the girl had mangled the lyrics entirely.
She frowned without thinking.
Chi Buyu must have spotted it in the rearview mirror. She raised her index finger and waggled it mysteriously in the air, brimming with confidence as she improvised a new song:
“It’s all real. Mine is real. Cui Muhuo is real. Cui Qijin is real~”
Cui Qijin wanted to say, You’re a real singer, aren’t you?
But before she could,
The hyped-up Chi Buyu balled her hand into a mock microphone and thrust the imaginary mic toward her mouth. She even shoved her own sunglasses down her nose bridge, peering at her with mischievous eyes.
Cui Qijin didn’t flinch.
She scanned the ten meters around them. The next second, her gaze returned to find Chi Buyu’s “microphone” inches from her nostrils.
She had no choice.
What could she ever do with Chi Shuishui?
She glanced again in the rearview mirror. Chi Buyu grinned with squinted eyes, clearly knowing she was always powerless against her. Then Chi Buyu swooped in for a quick peck on her ear, hugged her tighter, and gazed at her expectantly.
Through the mirror, Cui Qijin watched the cool Catwoman in triangular shades crack a helpless smile. Under the gaze of that millennium-style hot girl, she sang softly into the wind, barely audible:
“It’s all real.”
–
They rode through the sea breeze for what felt like ages, until the whole world had turned once over. Finally, they pulled up to the beach for seafood barbecue. Their floral shirts were whipped so hard by the wind they looked ready to sail to the other side of the universe.
Chi Buyu still refused to touch anything with a shell.
But she propped her chin on her hand, watching Cui Qijin shell some crab for her. Suddenly, she grabbed a massive lobster, her face set in grave determination.
She was going to try shelling it.
Cui Qijin asked why.
Chi Buyu hemmed and hawed, glancing at the next table. “Anyway, if other girlfriends get it, mine has to have it too.”
She was dead set on producing a full lobster tail for Cui Qijin. Chi Shuishui always had this weird competitive streak in the oddest places.
Cui Qijin tried to warn her kindly. “Better not. You’ll prick your fingers.”
Chi Buyu ignored her.
Probably spurred by the couple at the next table shelling shrimp for each other, she buried her head and went for it.
Cui Qijin watched closely the whole time, ever cautious. Sure enough, two minutes later, Chi Buyu wrinkled her nose, extended her ten reddened fingers, and spread her arms wide in aggrieved surrender. She looked just like a giant mitten crab that had escaped the pot.
Cui Qijin chuckled. “Got pricked?”
Chi Buyu pouted. “Hug.”
The seafood barbecue joint was packed. Everyone crowded the beach, swigging beer and playing volleyball—no one paid them any mind.
Cui Qijin sighed.
She slipped off her gloves, dragged her chair over to Chi Buyu’s side, and pulled her into a hug. It felt a bit stiff under the side-eyes from nearby tables, so she grumbled in a teasing tone, “A hug won’t make it hurt any less, you know.”
Chi Buyu “hmph”ed.
Her ten fingers stayed splayed out. Even so, she held on, powering through to finish the lobster. Then she turned back and stuffed Cui Qijin’s mouth full of the meat.
Cui Qijin couldn’t “chomp” it down like Chi Buyu. She took it slow, laboring through that heaping serving of affection. Afterward, she patted Chi Buyu’s back and decided she had to say it:
“Chi Buyu, even if you didn’t shell shrimp for me, I’d still know you like me a lot.”
Chi Buyu, wary of getting her greasy hands on Cui Qijin’s clothes, patted her back awkwardly with her elbow. With utmost seriousness, she declared,
“Cui Qijin, this is love.”
Cui Qijin fell silent for a moment.
A drop of oil from Chi Buyu’s fingers landed on her back. Being wrapped up together like that somehow made even the breeze feel better. So she held on to Chi Buyu right there in public and said,
“Fine. This is love.”
They clung like conjoined twins—a comparison Cui Qijin had only ever seen in idol dramas.
But that night,
As she watched their shadows, the wind buffeting them yet leaving everything perfectly still, she felt nothing could shatter this embrace. She figured anyone who saw them would be thinking the exact same thing.
Still, she didn’t let go. Holding her Chi Buyu, she remembered what Yu Chenxing had once told her—
If you love someone, let the whole world know.
That had to be real too.
