Ding Ya had long since created a new account. She had always thought she’d long forgotten that string of numbers from the past.
But she discovered that typing in just two digits allowed the rest to flow automatically.
It was as if her fingers had long memorized the positions on the numeric keypad, easily stirring the excitement of old memories, taking her back to those years, filled with a strange sense of anticipation.
Ever since she was young, Ding Ya’s grades were average. She couldn’t be counted as top-tier, nor bottom-rung. She forever floated somewhere in the middle.
It was as if she was innately talented at cutting corners in her studies. Compared to her brother’s headstrong, restless personality, she never did her homework with the mindset of “I’ll go play once I finish writing.” It was always “There’s still time to play first, then write.”
Ding Shuqing was seven years older than Ding Ya. When Ding Ya was in elementary school, he was a brother with a voice cracking through puberty.
His voice and his rapidly growing body were equally lacking in aesthetic appeal during his teens. Dealing with a cute little sister gave him a massive headache. His parents were too busy to supervise the children’s studies, so overseeing Ding Ya’s learning fell to Ding Shuqing whenever he had time.
Their family’s situation was considered prefecture-level city status within the province. Although the region’s development was average, Ding Ya’s family conditions were decent.
In the early 2000s, they already had a computer at home. At the time, Ding Ya was still young, only feeling that this thing was so huge and clunky.
When their mom wasn’t home, Ding Shuqing taught her typing. Later, finding it troublesome, he just opened a whack-a-mole game for Ding Ya to play.
ICQ had already risen during Ding Shuqing’s adolescence. Ding Ya had her own account by elementary school.
But elementary schoolers back then weren’t that interested in going online. She preferred flying kites in the park, or going to the zoo to see the monkeys after dance class.
Initially, Ding Ya didn’t pay much attention to that string of account numbers, even though classmates she added later said it was a remarkably old account.
What could a kid’s account have? At most, Ding Ya changed her avatar to a blue girl avatar, declared herself an angel. Life didn’t change much just because she gained an online account.
Not until Ding Shuqing went to university. Her brother went north for college, and the computer at home was replaced with a thin LCD screen.
Her parents were still very busy. Ding Ya didn’t board at school, taking the bus home every day.
On weekends, occasionally, her parents would take turns picking her up. Whatever she wanted, her parents would fulfill.
If she really couldn’t get it, a bit of coquettish pleading with Ding Shuqing, and her brother would give it to her too.
In his junior year, Ding Shuqing started dating. Their parents didn’t know. Ding Ya found out during winter break when she was playing on his phone and saw the texts—he’d met his girlfriend in a game, and they had a daily appointment to steal vegetables in FarmVille.
Ding Ya’s grades weren’t good. The senior high school she got into wasn’t a key school. Her parents didn’t scold her much about it either.
That winter break, Ding Shuqing lived a very hard life, even getting up in the middle of the night to steal vegetables. Watching her brother play, Ding Ya opened her own farm too.
Pop-up ads were incredibly annoying. Sometimes, trying to click the X mark would open a new page instead.
That was exactly how she clicked into that dress-up web game called 7466.
By Ding Ya’s aesthetic standards today, those clothes were simply horrifically ugly.
But the era was different. At that time, that web game, with its viral-level promotion, had gained the attention of many.
Ding Ya randomly registered an account and began dressing up her online “self.”
This kind of game had a precise grasp of user psychology. Ding Ya’s vanity, progressing from idle-ambient skirts to paid-skirt desires, took only a single week.
By the time Ding Shuqing finished winter break and was about to return to school, he finally discovered his younger sister was obsessed with beautiful online skirts. Tearfully, she cried out “Brother,” saying she wanted a limited-edition one.
Ding Shuqing felt it was unnecessary. Even if that skirt were made into a real object for Ding Ya to wear, he’d feel it wasn’t worthy of his sister.
Having urgent matters to meet his girlfriend upon returning to school, he refused Ding Ya.
Ding Ya’s pocket money was nowhere near enough to buy that skirt. Initially, she wanted to save up.
From the start of the semester to midterms, having bought a few comic books here and there in between, it wasn’t enough again.
Coincidentally, that web game transitioned from single-player to multiplayer, even opening up a Friends feature.
After evening self-study, Ding Ya came home, logged in before her parents returned, and saw tons of friend requests, mostly low-level new users.
The new feature automatically prompted new users to send friend requests. Anyway, it could earn some affection points to exchange for new skirts. Ding Ya hit Accept on a whole string of them.
While her peers were all playing various racing or dancing games, Ding Ya’s persistence with this dress-up web game seemed particularly fresh and unconventional.
Her deskmate was shocked for a while upon learning Ding Ya was actually saving money for web game clothes.
“Too expensive. It’s clearly a money trap. Ding Ya, you better stop playing.”
“Play a dance game with me, or kart racing. So easy to pick up.”
Ding Ya had a bit of a rebellious streak in these matters. She became stubborn right then, scrimping and saving on food for a week. But tragically, she encountered the spring social practice trip, and her money was spent at the supermarket.
Filled with grief and indignation, she posted a status on her web game social feed: “I feel like dying.”
That day, her father happened to be on a business trip, and her mother was accompanying her hospitalized maternal grandmother. Ding Ya was home alone, not watching the time either.
Anyway, the next day was the weekend. She could sleep through the morning, then go to the library in the afternoon to do homework with classmates.
After posting, Ding Ya put it aside. She was also copying a composition.
Before she could finish the last paragraph, the webpage notified her of a new message.
Among her hundreds of new friends, someone with a garbled, random-character-like ID had sent her a private message—
Greetings. You must live well.
At the time, Ding Ya found it quite strange. Only after a few minutes did she realize this person was referring to that status she had posted.
“I’m just joking! Who would do a public post to warm up for dying?”
Ding Ya replied bluntly, “I was just kidding.”
The other side seemed silent for a long time before replying with an “Oh.”
Ding Ya looked at the other’s ID, so starkly contrasted against her own, which resembled every color of Mary Sue stacked together. Curious, she asked, “What if I really wanted to die?”
The webgame dialogue boxes were quite crude. Their respective wardrobes were displayed in the chat window.
Compared to Ding Ya’s gaudy mess, the other person’s wardrobe… only held that one single skirt—the most expensive one in the entire game that Ding Ya had wanted.
Curiosity piqued, she clicked into this person’s profile card. Everything was starkly blank.
The gender field was set to Male.
Maybe they hadn’t changed it? She felt no man would play this kind of game.
After a long while, the other side finally sent back—
I don’t know either. I’m very far from you.
The other person seemed to type very slow. However, Ding Ya hadn’t known what to reply anyway. Minutes later, the person asked her—
“Why do you want to die?”
Ding Ya sprawled over her desk, a pen still clamped behind her ear. Her typing speed was very fast, all thanks to Ding Shuqing’s whack-a-mole training on that clunky old computer.
“Because I can’t get your skirt.”
Ding Ya said it casually at the time. After all, the skirt was very expensive. The education she received since childhood was not to accept gifts from strangers.
Begging from her brother was another matter.
In this night past midnight, already past normal sleeping hours for a high school student…
Ding Ya, originally feeling a bit awkward because of no reply and about to close the webpage, suddenly saw a system notification.
【User sccsyd1111 has gifted you “Pure White Heart”】
That skirt couldn’t be associated with pure white at all. To describe it using a straight guy like Ding Shuqing’s words: it looked like chicken feather clothes on a cheap plastic figurine.
But Ding Ya loved that puffy, flared hem, like a cake.
In that moment, her mind went completely blank.
[sccsyd1111] If you like it, I’ll give it to you.
[sccsyd1111] I can’t use it anyway.
This was the skirt Ding Ya hadn’t been able to buy after saving her pocket money for half a year.
For a high schooler of that era just paying for a membership, it was a genuine fortune. Even someone from a family like Ding Ya’s, with an allowance, would have to think it over repeatedly.
She hadn’t expected this person to be so generous.
[Bean Sprout] Ah? This is really expensive!
[sccsyd1111] I bought it by mistake and can’t refund it anyway, so just take it.
[Bean Sprout] Aren’t you going to wear it yourself for fun?
The other side was silent for another moment.
[sccsyd1111] I thought this game would be fun.
The other person’s avatar was still the default system avatar. Their ID was likely randomly generated by the system. The entire home space was blank. Only this skirt was absolutely unparalleled.
Ding Ya was completely stunned, as if struck dizzy with stars by an unexpected fortune.
She also felt intensely embarrassed. She had initially assumed a boy wouldn’t play this game, but any ordinary girl clicking in would play around a bit, right?
What kind of girl could be so completely unmoved by a beauty—this Pure White Heart—that made one’s vanity skyrocket so intensely?
At the time, Ding Ya thought: Like my brother, they think it’s ugly?
[Bean Sprout] You’re so nice!!
[Bean Sprout] Can I add you on QQ?
That day, after Ding Ya added the other’s QQ, they didn’t chat much, because the person said she was going to sleep and went offline just like that.
But Ding Ya was overjoyed. She dressed her game character in this skirt.
Her first impulse was to send it to Ding Shuqing, but seeing the time at the bottom right corner, knowing her brother wasn’t asleep yet, but fearing a scolding, she had to let it go.
Perhaps because it came too suddenly, all of Ding Ya’s passion for that web game was consumed in that instant. Gradually, she stopped logging in.
She had a new object of attention.
sccsyd1111’s QQ online name was Book Late.
The avatar was still the system default: an inkstone. The level was one sun.
No personal signature. Compared to Ding Ya’s “I am so beautiful,” it was icy to the extreme.
But Ding Ya had been flooded with goodwill by that skirt. She found a new pleasure. Whenever she had time online, she’d go poke that avatar.
Years later, Ding Ya stared at that unchanging ID, looking at that row of greyed-out diamonds on the other’s profile.
Then looked at her own icon row, still terrifyingly colorful, and realized she had missed many things.
Back then, all those family-bucket subscriptions had been paid for by Book Late. Yet Shu Chi’s account was still so plain.
No red name, no virtual avatar, no chat bubbles.
But she had made herself “Visible When Online” to Ding Ya.
Later, Ding Ya had even logged onto the other’s account and discovered how shockingly empty it was. The Recent Contacts list was just herself.
The dedicated list was just herself.
All the rest were in [Others].
Only Ding Ya was in [Mine].
Ding Ya didn’t know how long she sat in front of the computer, staring blankly.
She thought of Shu Chi’s voice on the phone just moments ago, and how the woman remained cool and distant no matter how she advanced.
It was exactly like when they had first started online back then.
The Shu Chi of the past wasn’t a cold person.
So what about now?
Shu Chi couldn’t drive after drinking. She called a designated driver to take her two friends home.
The driver was a university student. He looked a bit terrified seeing these two drunk older sisters.
Xiaohu was placed in the passenger seat by Shu Chi. The kid watched the woman fastening her seatbelt and called out in her milky voice, “Auntie.”
Shu Chi herself smelled of alcohol, but compared to the two beauties slumped and crooked in the back, it was much better.
Xiaohu grabbed Shu Chi’s hand and asked, “Can I not go?”
Shu Chi possessed a natural softness towards children. That was precisely why all the kids loved clinging to her.
Shu Chi considered it, felt the two single drunk women couldn’t take care of the kid after returning home anyway, and again asked the driver to help carry them up.
Jing Yuqi and Mu Ling were thrown into the guest bedroom by her. The kid, having taken a nap earlier, was quite awake. Shu Chi put some hangover soup on the stove and told Xiaohu to go shower. After that, she still had to read her a bedtime story.
After this whole routine, it was already late.
When she habitually checked her messages on her phone before bed, she found a new visitor record in her Qzone.
From: [Wife]
Shu Chi sobered completely in an instant.
Not even caring to put on shoes, she ran to her study and turned on the computer, trying to see on the desktop client if it was a bug.
Then she saw a new message.
There was a comment from that person—
Long time no see.
