Chapter 6: Twenty-Seven

Her eighteen-year-old self was at it again—saying things like “I really like you.”

Cen Mingchan had long since grown immune to all of it.

She knew herself too well. To put it bluntly, in matters of love she was a pathetic, love-starved little liar.

In every relationship she’d ever had, what she was really after was novelty—like standing in a pile of sugarcane, forever hunting for the sweetest stalk. She searched hard. She peeled the skin off with care. She chewed and drew out the sugar with deep satisfaction.

So she never stinted on time, money, praise, or affection.

Three parts genuine feeling, and by the time it left her mouth it sounded like eight or nine—enough to coax her lovers into drinking themselves drunk on the dream with her.

But soon enough, all that was left of the sweet sugarcane was flavorless pulp. She’d toss it into the trash without a flicker of hesitation, then go hunting for the next stalk.

She was a monstrous little parasite, feeding on that hazy thing called “love,” draining it dry to fill the vast emptiness inside her.

She remembered: back then, the Department of Economics and Management’s fourth debater had been a delicate, bookish girl—frail and soft-spoken, radiating the air of a scholar.

Love and hate both burn hotter when you’re young, and a heart can be moved in an instant. The moment she laid eyes on the other girl, she liked her. She was too shy to even mention her name, too embarrassed to exchange a single word—her heart raced every time she saw her.

But the trouble with falling for someone so easily is that it rarely lasts.

At the finals of the debate tournament, the girl performed terribly. In the free debate round, Cen Mingchan grilled her until she was speechless; in the closing statements, she was so dreadful she didn’t even measure up to half of what Cen Mingchan managed.

Disappointment crashed over her in an instant.

When the match ended and the two sides shook hands, Cen Mingchan shook the girl’s hand—graciously, normally, politely.

And she realized: she no longer liked that girl from Economics and Management.

That was what her eighteen-year-old self had done.

And so Cen Mingchan never took those sugar-coated words seriously.

She thought: anyone who actually believed them would have to be a fool.

So she slipped her phone into the pocket of her nightgown, put in her earbuds, and went to the kitchen. She opened the fridge, took out the box of strawberries, and answered distractedly, “Mingchan needs to behave.”

The eighteen-year-old on the other end of the line sounded utterly docile: “Sister, I’m behaving. I’m the best behaved.”

Her voice was soaked in tears—it sounded pitiful.

Cen Mingchan tipped the strawberries gently into a colander and rinsed them, her brow furrowing slightly. “Don’t cry.”

The girl on the other end was clearly choking up, yet still stubborn: “Sister, I’m not crying.”

Cen Mingchan couldn’t be bothered to argue the point, so she changed the subject. She looked down at the fresh strawberries in the basket. “The strawberries are really sweet right now. Have you bought any?”

Her eighteen-year-old self always answered every question: “I bought some a few days ago! But the annoying thing is, I think I got cheated.”

“Why do you think you got cheated?” Cen Mingchan drained the water from the colander and tipped the strawberries onto a plate.

There was a note of indignation in the girl’s voice, as though she’d been deceived: “I think their scale was off!”

Cen Mingchan remembered.

Her first year at school, she hadn’t yet learned how treacherous people could be. There were always street vendors selling fruit by the main gate.

Once, on a whim, she’d had a sudden idea.

She bought mangoes from the first vendor, then asked a second vendor to weigh them for her. The vendor didn’t refuse.

The result: the second scale showed the mangoes weighed half a catty less than the first had said.

From then on, whenever Cen Mingchan bought fruit, she only went to the fruit shops on the street across from the school. At least those shops had been open for years—relatively speaking, they probably wouldn’t tamper with their scales.

Lost in the memory, Cen Mingchan absentmindedly popped a strawberry into her mouth.

When she came back to herself, she realized—the strawberries really were sweet.

So sweet she wanted to share them with the girl on the phone.

But then she looked down at the plate piled high with strawberries and felt a pang of dismay. There was no way the other girl could have any.

Fate had turned its gears, and she had stumbled upon her eighteen-year-old self.

Like the protagonist of Ready Player One, she’d been handed an “extra life” coin.

One more life.

They existed in two parallel universes, able to communicate only through their phones.

Her eighteen-year-old self couldn’t change the course of her current life—but she could change the girl’s, and catch a glimpse of what her life might have been.

Cen Mingchan carried the strawberries back to the living room, her tone calm. “Isn’t there a fruit shop near the school? Just buy from the shop next time.”

“That’s what I was thinking too. Sister, we really are on the same wavelength.”

Cen Mingchan felt they’d covered everything worth covering, so she prepared to end the call. “You’ve been out for a while now. Time to head back, or your friends will worry.”

The other end went silent for a moment. Then: “Sister, will you always respond to me the way you do now?”

Cen Mingchan thought this was a thoroughly pointless question—the kind only a child would fret over.

Like in a relationship, when someone always asks their partner, “Will you always love me?” “Will you like me forever?” It’s genuinely stupid, and genuinely boring.

No one can guarantee the future. The shelf life of any sweet reply expires the very second it leaves your mouth.

Not the “always” and “forever” in the question.

“Probably,” Cen Mingchan gave an ambiguous answer.

“Sister, why ‘probably’…”

Her eighteen-year-old self sounded a little sulky now. Cen Mingchan didn’t mind—soothing her was child’s play. In her eyes, the girl was nothing more than a minor demon with only a few years of cultivation to her name.

Cen Mingchan answered softly, gently, “Because I have to work. When work gets busy, I can’t respond to you. So—probably.”

Sure enough.

When the girl spoke again, all the sulkiness was gone—sweet and obedient: “You’re right, sister.”

Then she took a deep breath and asked, “Sister, I’m going to hang up and head back now. Will you miss me?”

Cen Mingchan frowned. One pointless question after another—her eighteen-year-old self was growing more unreasonable by the minute.

Fortunately, she still had some patience left.

She turned the question back on her: “Do you want me to miss you?”

“I…” The girl paused, then answered in a very small voice, “I do.”

“As you wish, Mingchan,” Cen Mingchan replied.

The girl’s voice turned sweet and soft again: “Sister…”

Fearing she might burst into tears the next second, Cen Mingchan cut in just in time. “A sober Mingchan is a good Mingchan—she deserves a reward. There are twelve of you in the private room right now, aren’t there?”

The moment the words left her mouth, Cen Mingchan suddenly remembered—over all these days together, the girl had never told her how many people were in her dorm. But thankfully, her eighteen-year-old self didn’t suspect a thing and answered obediently, “Yes.”

Cen Mingchan opened her phone and transferred four hundred yuan. “Go order milk tea in a bit—one cup for everyone.”

“Huh?” The girl seemed stunned. She must have glanced at the chat before replying, “Milk tea doesn’t cost that much.”

Only then did Cen Mingchan remember—over these nine years, prices had been climbing the whole time.

She remembered that back in her senior year of high school, a certain budget brand’s iced coffee with cream had cost only five yuan a cup. Now it was up to fifteen.

“Keep the rest and buy yourself some fruit.”

“No need, sister.”

The words had barely landed when the transfer was returned.

“Sister, I appreciate the thought. But I can’t keep taking your money. You’ve already given me so many skins—I don’t even know how to repay you. From now on, I’ll get you to Apex tier and the emblem every season. And if you have requirements for your score, I can boost your account up the Golden Leaderboard too.”

Cen Mingchan understood. The girl wanted to pay her back through account boosting—but the truth was, she didn’t need it.

When Cen Mingchan was little, she’d never had a Barbie doll to play with. But her cousin at her uncle’s house had dolls of every kind—exquisite clothes, a full set of jewelry, even hair she could restyle.

Cen Mingchan could only play with them briefly whenever she visited her uncle’s house. She treasured every second.

She was a sensible child, too.

Back then, the family had been in financial trouble, living from hand to mouth, and she never once asked for something as expensive as a doll.

Later, when she was a bit older and the family business had recovered, she still never brought it up.

It wasn’t until she was a working adult that she bought herself an exquisitely crafted traditional-style doll. She hadn’t even opened the packaging—it sat on her desk, box and all.

Sometimes, when she zoned out, she’d imagine that her childhood self had owned this doll. And just like that, her life felt a little less full of things she’d wanted and never had.

Now it was the same principle. Giving her eighteen-year-old self a few skins was nothing but self-compensation. She’d never once thought about being repaid.

If she gave it, the girl should just take it.

Cen Mingchan didn’t want to belabor the point, and her interest was waning. “Whatever. Suit yourself.”

“Sister.” The girl spoke up cautiously. “Are you unhappy?”

Unhappy?

Cen Mingchan considered it. She supposed she was a little unhappy.

These past days, she’d been caught in a constant state of contradiction, of internal churn.

She was the only one who knew fate had handed her an “extra life” coin. She’d even wondered whether she was hallucinating.

She didn’t know how to face her eighteen-year-old self, yet she couldn’t stop herself from deliberately approaching her out of sheer curiosity.

She didn’t even really like her eighteen-year-old self—and yet she instinctively did things for her, wanting to make up for her, to make her a little happier.

She knew full well the girl had developed feelings for her without knowing the truth, and yet she still couldn’t resist playing her little games with her younger self, trading move for move.

She didn’t want “extra life” to just mean living her life over again. She wanted to see a different storyline.

But she didn’t know how to change herself.

She lacked confidence, lacked patience, and lacked any kind of plan.

She didn’t know how long this connection would last, or what kind of butterfly effect any change might set off. She didn’t know what kind of colossal responsibility she’d be taking on once she, as a “prophet,” meddled in the other girl’s life.

Every last bit of it was an unknown—for her, and for her eighteen-year-old self alike.

Like a Sword of Damocles hanging overhead, suspended by a single horsehair.

Cen Mingchan felt restless and on edge.

Maybe she really should tell her eighteen-year-old self the secret—let the girl share it with her, shoulder the responsibility and the pressure together.

She thought: I really am vicious.

In the end—

“I’m not unhappy,” Cen Mingchan said into the phone. “I’m just a little tired, Mingchan.”