Chapter 32: “Big Cleaning Day”

Behavioral psychology teaches that it takes twenty-one days to form a habit.

Cui Qijin had suffered her waist injury for thirteen days.

This timeframe fell in the second stage of a cycle. That meant as long as she exercised a bit of control, she could cast aside all the habits she had picked up during her injury.

Habits that included—but were not limited to—her reliance on the wheelchair; the candies she pocketed absentmindedly after ordering takeout and strolling through the supermarket; and the way she subconsciously scanned her home for signs of a second presence upon waking. It wasn’t about seeking some sense of security. No, it was to warn a certain woman against wandering so freely through her house.

Yet this woman seemed utterly disobedient.

She kept roaming the house anyway, even handling Cui Qijin’s belongings with casual familiarity. By the time Cui Qijin snapped to awareness, it felt like she’d lost chunks of her memory. Every time, the woman would blink with wide, innocent eyes and declare righteously that she’d asked permission beforehand. But Cui Qijin had no recollection of agreeing.

Once her waist fully healed, Cui Qijin returned to her pre-injury routine. Every day, she commuted back and forth along Love Adrift Street. Then, one weekend, she steeled herself for a thorough big cleaning.

Even with several friends taking turns to care for her during that period, the apartment’s furnishings had shifted somehow. New items had appeared too—things that had no business being in her home.

She resolved to clear it all out.

It was a bright, sunny day, with sunlight spilling through the windows. Dressed neatly, Cui Qijin paused at the balcony to admire the colorful leaf taro thriving there. She recalled that the last spring rain had fallen long ago, on some distant night. Chengdu truly hadn’t seen a drop lately.

She wheeled the freshly washed wheelchair out onto the balcony. A transparent umbrella, equally clean, basked in the sun beside it. The mango-colored paint on the umbrella had mostly washed away in that downpour. On the evening she returned home, the water dripping from it had still run semi-transparent yellow. Cui Qijin had scrubbed it twice already, but plain water seemed powerless. Stubborn yellow stains lingered, unyielding no matter the method. They clung like cracks in an ancient bronze relic, resolute and uneraseable…

Buyu.

Cui Qijin’s face remained impassive as she removed her mask. She headed to the bathroom, wiped the steam from the mirror, and opened the cabinet door. Inside sat the hairdryer, its black cord bound with an ice-pink ribbon tied into a bow.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

She washed her hands, untied the ribbon, and balled it up, ready to toss it into the trash bin. The next instant, the black cord slipped free under gravity’s pull, dangling awkwardly.

She didn’t throw the ribbon away.

Instead, she tied it back on.

Once, and the bow looked uneven. Twice, and it still wasn’t pretty enough. Three times, and she remembered someone shaking the bow clipped in her own hair—tying it while tilting up her chin to explain that bows came in many styles, and this one needed to be a single-ear bow to look truly cute.

Cui Qijin tied it over and over, obsessively, back and forth, until it matched the version etched in her memory. She fussed over the curve, adjusting it meticulously, then finally let her hands drop in defeat.

With a resounding “Bang!”, she slammed the mirror cabinet shut.

She stepped out of the bathroom.

The Brazilian turtle floated contentedly in its glass tank. Cui Qijin realized she hadn’t fed it yet today. She prepared some turtle food and approached, only for the turtle to show no concern whatsoever about going hungry.

It must have eaten its fill in recent days.

She dropped in the food and glanced at the little snail-shell decoration propped inside the tank—like a miniature turtle shell.

The Brazilian turtle appeared delighted by it. It often clambered atop the ornament to catch its breath and even seemed to respond to the nickname “Little Snail.” Thirteen days, and she’d conditioned even her pet turtle into the habit.

That was thanks to how often the namer called it. Cui Qijin couldn’t help wondering just how much this person loved SpongeBob SquarePants. Of course, two other idle friends had played along too.

Cui Qijin still hadn’t acknowledged that her longtime Brazilian turtle had acquired this ridiculous name.

The very next day, Chen Wenran burst in and demanded eagerly, “I heard you have a Little Snail at home now?”

Even Ran Yan, on her next visit, asked out of habit, “Where’s Little Snail? Have you fed it today?”

Cui Qijin’s phone buzzed.

She finished feeding the turtle and checked her phone. Her thumb slipped, landing on the calendar. Today marked the vernal equinox.

Folks said spring kicked off after the Awakening of Insects, with plenty of rain and the occasional wintry chill. But come the equinox, the temperatures climbed steadily.

Winter was finally over.

Winter bred a peculiar craving for human company—the warmth of another body being the closest match. Yet Cui Qijin had always believed that such unnatural fixation faded once the cold season passed.

Her phone held a fresh WeChat notification.

Chen Wenran had created a three-person group chat and posted an emoji pack inside. The group was named 【Crazy Chi Buyu】—no telling what it had to do with that comedy flick.

Ran Yan typed simply: 【Shuishui’s birthday is this Sunday】

Chen Wenran chimed in: 【We need to figure out a way to celebrate with her】

Cui Qijin stared at “Chi Buyu” in the group name.

Chi Buyu.

Chi Buyu, Chi Buyu.

Once the name surfaced in her mind, it refused to leave. It buzzed endlessly, like a persistent bee.

Perched on the sofa, she sat in a daze. It felt like ages since she’d last seen this name—or this person.

Life in the modern world moved at a blistering pace. Even with Chi Buyu’s studio on the same street, even as Cui Qijin passed its building twice a day, she rarely caught more than a glimpse. The other woman was just… a shadow.

From what she recalled, Chi Buyu really had been swamped lately.

It made Cui Qijin realize, time and again—

—that Chi Buyu had grown into a full-fledged adult, complete with changes all her own. Subtle shifts that slipped past if Cui Qijin wasn’t paying attention.

She often spotted the studio’s lights on late, shadowy figures drifting in and out. Who knew if Chi Buyu was among them? Sometimes, she’d see Chi Buyu popping up in the still-active 【Save Cui Muhuo】 group, bantering with Chen Wenran and Ran Yan down south about nothing in particular. Chi Buyu complained about being too buried in work to check her phone; about buying a high-speed rail ticket only to reach the station and realize she’d forgotten her ID, forcing her to turn back. Then Chen Wenran reminded her that these days, you could just scan a QR code on 12306 to board.

Chi Buyu blew up in the group.

She unleashed a barrage of Double-Chin Bear Lying Crying stickers, then typed: Weather’s so nice, but my heart’s ice cold. A while later, she abruptly @’d Cui Qijin:

【@Cui Qijin Is your back better yet?】

Chen Wenran beat Cui Qijin to the punch:

【She’s been fine for ages】

【Let me see】

【Mm, thirteen forty-two】

【She’s deep in work mode right now】

【Basically in seclusion—deaf, blind, won’t respond to anyone】

Cui Qijin only spotted it after clocking out that day. She didn’t bother correcting Chen Wenran’s teasing dig, just replied curtly that nothing was up.

Chi Buyu didn’t respond until evening—with a Dancing Black Cat sticker. A new one; Cui Qijin had never seen her use it before.

Cui Qijin saved the sticker to her own collection but hadn’t sent it out even once.

Too casual for clients.

Chen Wenran would make a huge fuss; Yu Chenxing would grill her endlessly…

In short, she couldn’t bring herself to use it.

Yet Chi Buyu projected the exact opposite vibe.

Even if she dropped a brand-new sticker out of nowhere, no one batted an eye. They all found it adorable and saved it immediately.

A quiet consensus had formed:

Chi Buyu’s stickers brimmed with life and infectious charm.

Just like her.

“Bzzz—”

Her phone vibrated again.

Cui Qijin came back to herself.

Somehow, she’d wandered into the four-person group chat. The messages had scrolled down to the Double-Chin Bear Lying Crying spam.

She scrolled back up.

Chen Wenran had @’d her in 【Crazy Chi Buyu】: 【@Cui Qijin Where are you? Aren’t you off today?】

Cui Qijin replied: 【What are you all planning?】

Chen Wenran: 【Good point—ask me! @Aurara, your thoughts?】

Ran Yan, pinged: 【Shuishui’s probably celebrating with family. We could just meet up for dinner?】

Did inviting someone to dinner really warrant a special three-person group? Cui Qijin wondered silently.

Chen Wenran: 【Doing it Cui Qijin style? Like a birthday cake?】

Ran Yan: 【Nah, she’ll expect cake. How about each of us writes her a little card?】

A little card?

Cui Qijin frowned. She’d never done anything like that. She was about to object when her phone erupted in a frenzy of buzzes—the telltale racket of a certain someone’s arrival.

She backed out of the chat window.

Sure enough.

Chi Buyu had posted in the four-person group:

【Ta-da!】

She even supplied her own fanfare sound effect. Cui Qijin knew only one person who pulled stunts like that.

Then came the message:

【How bold! No welcome committee?】

【Little Yellow Cat Hammer Head.gif】

Another fresh animated sticker. Cui Qijin saved it. Seconds later, Chen Wenran fired back:

【Flowery Cat Begging.gif】

【What are your royal commands, Princess?】

Chi Buyu hammed it up:

【Where is everyone?】

【Waiting till we’re all here to spill!】

【Dirt Dog Pointing Fingers.jpg】

Ran Yan dropped a 【Flowery Cat Begging.gif】. Cui Qijin followed with a low-key “1”.

With everyone assembled, Chi Buyu seemed pleased at last:

【Do you know what HUGE day this Sunday is?!】

【Little Yellow Cat Hammer Head.gif】

Cui Qijin abandoned her prim posture, slouching lazily against the sofa. An unbidden smile tugged at her lips.

Chi Buyu truly lived without restraint. She could brazenly declare her own birthday a “huge day,” and no one would mind—in fact, plenty of people adored her for it.

Take Ran Yan and Chen Wenran, for instance.

Ran Yan teased on purpose: 【No clue】

Chen Wenran: 【Enlighten us, Princess!】

Only Cui Qijin was left.

After a moment’s thought, she tapped out a 【Flowery Cat Begging.gif】.

Chen Wenran sent a thumbs-up emoji, signaling her approval.

Having built up enough anticipation, Chi Buyu tossed a voice message into the group chat. Cui Qijin hadn’t even had a chance to play it when another vibration sounded. A little “1” appeared in the upper left corner.

She instinctively backed out.

It was a private voice message from Chi Buyu.

Cui Qijin tapped it open. The audio was a bit distorted, and suddenly she realized how long it had been since she’d heard Chi Buyu’s voice.

Chi Buyu seemed to be walking somewhere noisy, but her voice still rang bright and clear. She called out to her as Cui Muhuo, then cleared her throat and paused for a few seconds before speaking in an especially formal tone.

“This Friday, we’re going to Leshan. Wanna eat sweet-skin duck?”

It sounded sort of like Leshan dialect, but not quite.

Coming out in Chi Buyu’s slightly slurred accent, it was downright weird.

Cui Qijin burst out laughing. Even the Little Snail in its glass tank curiously did a little spin, turning its head to look at her.

She instantly reined in her laughter.

The white voice bubble still sat there on her phone screen, five seconds long, while the unread count ticked up in the corner. On a whim, instead of swiping left, she tapped the bubble again and replayed it.

Only on the second listen did she register what Chi Buyu had actually said.

This Friday to Leshan? Was Chi Buyu planning to spend her birthday there?

Cui Qijin switched back to the group chat.

Chen Wenran and Ran Yan had already replied yes. The conversation had racked up thirty-three new messages already, with everyone debating whether to take the high-speed rail or drive, and what to do with their two days and nights. Chen Wenran had even tagged her multiple times, asking where she’d gone off to.

She couldn’t exactly say—

I was just listening to the private voice message Chi Buyu sent me. I didn’t get it the first time, so I listened twice. Did she send private invites to all of you too? Or just to me? Why’d she private-message me after posting in the group?

So she typed into the chat box:

—Just went to feed Little Snail

She deleted “Little Snail.”

—Just went to feed the turtle, what’s this about hot springs

She deleted the second half.

—Just went to feed the turtle.

She hadn’t hit send yet.

The screen suddenly lit up with an incoming WeChat call. Right in the center was Chi Buyu’s profile picture—a plastic bag puffed up by the wind, so goofy, so very Chi Buyu.

The vibration made her palm go numb, and her heart jolted.

Cui Qijin had no idea if she’d sent that message or not.

Snapping to, she jumped up quickly, clutching the still-buzzing phone. She positioned herself by the glass tank and stared calmly at the Little Snail, who had just eaten.

With practiced composure, she propped the phone upright nearby and tapped accept. The interface didn’t change, just added a timer—turns out it wasn’t a video call.

She paused for a beat, then hit speakerphone.

Regret washed over her instantly for the mistake she’d just made, but her face remained perfectly serene as she took out the turtle food. Her hand shook, accidentally dumping in a bit too much shrimp. She ignored it and heard Chi Buyu go quiet on the other end, like she was walking. After a few steps, she asked softly,

“What are you doing?”

Cui Qijin calmly poured in the prepared turtle food. “Feeding the turtle.”

Chi Buyu let out an “oh” and fell silent again.

For a moment, there was only the sound of Little Snail swimming and the timer ticking on the screen.

“You—”

“You—”

They spoke at the same time, voices overlapping, then scattering like spilled beads.

Cui Qijin cleared her throat first. “Why the sudden call?”

Chi Buyu cleared hers too. “You weren’t replying on WeChat. I thought you’d fallen again.”

“…”

Cui Qijin reined in her patience. “I’m not that fragile.”

Chi Buyu let out another “oh.” “Still, anything can happen.”

“Now you can be sure nothing happened.”

“Sort of.”

Chi Buyu wasn’t entirely convinced, even in the face of facts. Then she asked over the line,

“Did Little Snail have its little treat today?”

Cui Qijin glanced at Little Snail, blithely ignoring the shrimp. She replied flatly,

“It did.”

“Show me!”

“What’s to see with one little turtle?”

Cui Qijin said that, but she dutifully snapped a photo of Little Snail and sent it over anyway.

Only after sending did she notice.

In her haste, she’d caught her reflection in the glass tank: flower-gray hoodie. She remembered Chi Buyu had seen her in this one a few times before. It made it seem like she always wore the same jacket at home…

Plus the dusty sweatpants from all the cleaning, her hair clipped up messily with a shark clip, half fallen out…

She swiftly withdrew the message.

“Hey, I didn’t finish looking!”

Chi Buyu yelled indignantly from the other end. “How could you do that, Cui Muhuo!”

“I did.” Cui Qijin was unreasonable about it.

“I didn’t.” Chi Buyu insisted earnestly. “I only saw half.”

“Half of what?”

Cui Qijin asked suspiciously. “It’s so small. You take that long and only see half?”

Chi Buyu went quiet.

After a bit, she huffed through her nose and mumbled, “Just… anyway. Black-hearted Octopus Bro won’t even let me see Little Snail.”

She abruptly brought up that class reunion, still remembering her mask as Octopus Bro. Like some shared memory had bound them, silence fell over both ends for a moment.

Cui Qijin suddenly forgot why this call had even started.

Until Chi Buyu brought it up, hesitant and fidgety. “Did you see what I posted in the group?”

She had. She’d even heard the private voice message you’d sent me.

“What?”

Cui Qijin couldn’t understand why she pretended not to have seen. She wasn’t being honest. She’d lied. She resolved to apologize for that voice message later. Yeah, and also apologize to Little Snail for feeding it two meals.

“You know…”

The phone call made Chi Buyu’s invitation feel even more official, but she clearly didn’t want that, so she steeled herself and blurted it out fast.

“My birthday’s Sunday, so Friday I’m rounding up Chen Wenran and Ranran to go play at my grandma’s in Leshan. We’re gonna soak in hot springs, go shopping, eat sweet-skin duck— you in? Say 1 for yes, 2 for no!”

It came out like a firecracker, popping rapid-fire into her ears and straight into her brain…

Impossible to dodge.

Then, she deliberately growled it out fierce:

“Hanging up! Bye-bye! Reply on WeChat! No reply means we’re done! Tomorrow for real!”

[Call ended by the other party. Chat closed.]

It left no room for response.

In an instant, the phone vibrated again as all sounds cut off. The call screen shrank away, and Chen Wenran’s three messages popped up in a row:

[@Chi Shuishui @Cui Qijin]

[Where are you two?/Angry fire]

[We were chatting fine and you both vanish!!! Don’t tell me you’re secretly private chatting!!!]

Right after, Chi Buyu bounced in cheerfully:

[Just went to eat sweet-skin duck~]

[Pretty Girl Shooting.gif]

Seeing the lively sweet-skin duck reference again snapped Cui Qijin back, and she started laughing at Chi Buyu’s earlier words, half a beat late—doubling over after the call ended.

Through the glass tank.

A shred of shrimp floated on the water’s surface. Little Snail swam over languidly, ignoring the shrimp, ignoring her entirely. It must have had its own rhythm.

She slowly stopped laughing.

She released her hand from her belly, coughed once, and neatly capped all the scattered turtle food containers, putting them back in their spots. She turned back, passing the utterly leisurely Little Snail, walked away unhurriedly, and returned after a dozen seconds. She bent slightly at the waist, eye-level with Little Snail.

“Little Snail.”

It ignored her.

She curled her knuckle and rapped the glass tentatively. “You pick 1, or 2?”

Little Snail ignored her still.

That day, Chengdu’s weather forecast declared winter fully gone. After the spring equinox, the skies would turn brilliantly blue, clouds thinning out—perfect for a trip.

That day was Cui Qijin’s big cleanup day. After finishing, she still had time to kill, so she counted how many shrimp Little Snail ate that day, set an alarm to check at exactly noon, recounted by moonlight and found twenty-three missing, spotted five stubborn yellow stains on the umbrella during the day, blow-dried her hair at night and noted the time at 10:53 p.m., then suddenly got obsessive about practicing a single-ear bow tie, timing herself at seven minutes for seventeen tries…

All odd numbers.

Restless, irregular, never divisible by 2, always 2n+1 odds. So she wrapped up the day at 1:01 a.m., not quite on time, and sent Chi Buyu:

[1]