Chapter 4: Twenty-Seven Years Old

Not long after Cen Mingchan transferred money to the self on the other side, she regretted it.

Because she knew her eighteen-year-old self would never accept it.

She had grown up in a traditional northern family, taught from childhood to embody every Chinese virtue that spoke of feminine strength.

To be gentle, poised, and self-respecting. To pursue wealth only by honorable means.

She had attended university in a third-tier city in her province. The cost of living there wasn’t high—compared with her hometown, it even seemed a little behind the times.

So her monthly living expenses during college had been around fifteen hundred yuan.

The thousand yuan she had just sent was a small fortune to her college self. And since they weren’t familiar with each other, the transfer came across as presumptuous and abrupt.

It would likely make her eighteen-year-old self wary and drive a wedge between them.

Her only intention had been to make up for her past self. She wanted her eighteen-year-old self to have a proper suit just for debate competitions.

A suit tailored well, with clean lines and a modern cut—something to wear during debates and hang in the closet when not in use.

As long as she had that suit, she wouldn’t have to carefully weigh whether to ask to borrow one. She wouldn’t have to wear it with anxious care or return it with profuse thanks.

But her eighteen-year-old self wouldn’t take the money. She wouldn’t accept kindness from a stranger online.

Sure enough, a message arrived before long.

The other side didn’t accept the transfer. Instead, she sent a cute sticker: a snow-white, beautiful Samoyed with the caption “Champion of the National Acting-Cute Contest.”

“Wow, thank you, Sister—you’re so good to me. I like you so much, Sister!”

Cen Mingchan stared at the message, a flicker of irritation rising.

Her eighteen-year-old self really was a little pest. All honeyed words and hardly a sincere one.

Sister this, Sister that—Sister’s so good, Sister’s so wonderful. Then why don’t you take Sister’s money?

Cen Mingchan was a little unhappy. She decided to give her the silent treatment for a while.

A moment later, another message came.

“Sister, I’m almost done with my speech draft! I’ll have to trouble you to take a look when it’s ready. Thanks for your hard work, Sister!”

Cen Mingchan read the message three times. For the sake of the draft, she deigned to reply.

“It’s no trouble. Send it over. I’ll read it.”

The draft didn’t arrive until evening, by which time Cen Mingchan was already home from work.

The first thing she did when she got home was dig out the notebook she had once used specifically for debate speech drafts.

She remembered her mother had put it away for her.

At graduation, she had planned to sell the notebook—only a few blank pages left—along with her major’s textbooks.

But her parents had come straight to school to take her home. As her mother helped pack, she asked what the notebook was for and whether it should be thrown out. When she learned it was specifically for debates, she brought it home.

Her mother had always liked keeping things connected to her growing up, even if they looked like a pile of junk.

For instance, the family still had photos of her from when she was a few months old. They had moved several times since, but none of it had been lost.

The photos had yellowed, and the camera quality back then had been terrible—she looked awful in them—but her mother treasured them anyway, taking them out to look through from time to time.

Sometimes her mother would pull her over to look too, telling her the story behind a photo and making her guess who was holding her.

At first Cen Mingchan was eager, but after enough repetitions she grew impatient. They were worn-out old stories she could recite backward, yet her mother still liked to bring them up again and again.

Now she wanted to find that notebook.

She searched for a long time and finally found it in a drawer under the bed.

She flipped it open. The first few pages held the speech draft from that time and her notes on the holes in the opposing team’s arguments during the competition.

Then she opened her phone and tapped the image her eighteen-year-old self had sent.

Back then, for debates, she usually wrote a rough draft first, revised and consolidated it, then settled on the real speech. Sometimes she made changes while copying it out, so even the final version bore traces of repeated edits.

But the draft in the image had clear, neat handwriting, with no sign of revision at all.

Cen Mingchan couldn’t help but laugh softly.

No need to guess—this was the third version. The special edition.

When pursuing someone, she always liked to show her best side. So even with something like a speech draft, her eighteen-year-old self strove for perfection—nicer handwriting, neater presentation.

She never let a single chance to score points slip by.

She compared the contents of the two drafts. They were exactly the same.

In the first argument, she mentioned the hottest TV drama at the time—it opened with a brilliant performance by a veteran actor. In a slightly shabby home, he ate noodles with raw garlic. Later, when the truth came out, this seemingly impoverished man had embezzled as much as two hundred million yuan.

She used him as an example to prove that greed is easy to pick up and hard to put down.

College debates weren’t exactly formal, and the adjudicators they found didn’t necessarily understand debate. So back then, moving the adjudicators was mostly about projecting momentum.

Even when Cen Mingchan and her teammates won the Department of Chinese its fourth consecutive championship, they still relied on momentum.

Words had to be sharp, cutting straight to the point, settling the matter with one hammer blow. You had to be overbearing, walk with a breeze at your back, and whether sitting or standing, keep your spine straight as a pine on a cliff.

As a result, her speeches were more about pouring her views into the opponent’s brain than calmly speaking them into the opponent’s heart.

Much later, a video app launched a debate reality show. Because she loved debate, she watched every episode.

Her favorite part was that, as the two sides presented their arguments one after another, she recorded her own votes and watched how the audience voted.

She gradually discovered that the highest scorers often weren’t the ones with passionate momentum and earth-shaking voices. They were calm and reasoned, packaging their views with knowledge and clever sophistry.

So she wanted to revise the speech for her past self—make it more emotional, more moving.

She put the draft into Word and revised it sentence by sentence, formatted it, and sent the file to her eighteen-year-old self.

Then she remembered that her past self didn’t have a laptop, so she converted it into images and sent those too.

She checked the time. Her eighteen-year-old self should be in evening self-study.

But the reply came instantly.

“Oh my god, Sister, you worked so hard! Wait a moment—I’m going to read every single word.”

Cen Mingchan rubbed her temples, closed her eyes to rest for a moment, and only then replied.

“I revised it according to my own habits. It may not suit you. If you don’t like it, just use the original.”

“Ahhhhhhh, Sister! I finished reading—oh my god, you revised it so well! I love it! Thank you, Sister!”

Cen Mingchan got up to pour herself a glass of water. As she walked, she sent voice messages explaining her understanding of debate, hoping it might inspire her eighteen-year-old self.

To her surprise, the other side fell silent.

Cen Mingchan began to wonder if she was meddling too much.

Even the original draft—her original way of expressing things—was enough for her to represent the Department of Chinese in the debate.

If she did nothing, the other side would still steadily win the debate championship and bring the trophy back to the department.

But…

Cen Mingchan didn’t know why, but once she knew the person on the other side was her eighteen-year-old self, she couldn’t help wanting to interfere.

Or rather, to prune her.

Like a rose growing right before her eyes: she wanted its branches and leaves to grow according to her mood, its thorns polished to just the right sharpness, the shape of its unfurling petals to her liking.

If parents and teachers can teach me, why can’t I teach myself?

Whether I’m uncut jade or a worthless stone underfoot, I will carve myself into something I’m satisfied with.

To Cen Mingchan, this was only natural.

But she couldn’t help worrying that her eighteen-year-old self might not want another person around to “prune” her.

The other side’s silence seemed to confirm it.

Cen Mingchan decided to take a step back.

If her eighteen-year-old self truly couldn’t accept it, then okay—she could meddle less. Not meddling at all was impossible.

So she added one more message.

“This is just my personal opinion. I may not be right.”

But there was still no reply.

For the second time that day, Cen Mingchan was a little unhappy.

She guessed the other side was unhappy too—perhaps because her need to control was too obvious, or because her urge to “prune” had provoked aversion and resistance.

Or perhaps she needed to learn how to get along with her eighteen-year-old self.

There was a popular saying these days: make peace with yourself. Cen Mingchan stared at the chat window with no reply, and her irritation grew.

Her eighteen-year-old self really was a pain—sensitive, awkward, never communicating negative feelings, always bottling them up.

If you don’t speak, how are we supposed to make peace?

Cen Mingchan waited a while longer, then finally couldn’t stand it. Just as she was about to ask whether the other side was upset, the long-awaited message popped up.

“Waaah, Sister—the homeroom teacher just came by to tell us about the school sports meet. She talked for ages.”

“This is only the second time I’ve seen our homeroom teacher since school started. Last time was during military training.”

“Sister, I listened to your voice messages. I think they make a lot of sense!”

“Sister, you’re so amazing—you’re super awesome!”

And at the very end, that same line.

“I really like you, Sister!”

The stone weighing on Cen Mingchan’s heart finally dropped. All her earlier displeasure vanished like smoke.

“If you don’t mind, when you’re free, we can voice call. I’ll practice the speech with you.”

The reply was another cute Samoyed sticker, captioned: “I don’t know how to do anything; I can only rely on being cute to make a living.” It looked innocent and utterly endearing.

The voice message she sent was so joyful it sounded like New Year was about to arrive.

“Sister, I’m done with evening self-study. If you’re willing to practice with me, that would be wonderful—I’m so happy, Sister.”

“I’m so lucky to have met you.”

“It’s just… I’m worried it might be too much trouble for you, Sister. I’m afraid I’ll delay your rest.”

That last sentence was deliberately pitiful, like a dejected puppy with drooping ears looking up at her with hopeful eyes.

Cen Mingchan chose to call. It was picked up instantly. The background was noisy—it really did sound like freshmen finishing evening self-study.

“You’re asking whether it’s too much trouble for me?”

The voice on the other end was shy and timid.

“Sister…”

Cen Mingchan thought: Her eighteen-year-old self really was too good at playing pitiful.

“It’s no trouble.”

“I’d be happy to do anything for you.”