Noticing her exceptionally pale face, Chi Buyu’s mom patted her shoulder with concern.
“Dear, why do you look so much worse than everyone else?”
“Here, drink this. It’s soothing for the stomach. Shuishui always begs me to make it for her whenever her tummy’s upset, and it stops her whining right away.”
“Has she had any?”
That was Cui Qijin’s first thought.
“Not yet,” Chi Buyu’s mom replied. “I just finished brewing it and was about to bring it to her.”
So this bowl had been meant for Chi Buyu.
Cui Qijin pursed her lips, about to suggest that Chi Buyu drink it first.
But Chi Buyu’s mom had already pressed it into her hands, patting her shoulder generously. “It’s just a bowl of apple pear water—there’s plenty for everyone. No need to worry about who goes first.”
Before leaving, she added with a warm smile, “Be careful, it’s hot. Take your time drinking. No rush to bring the bowl back.”
Next came the cake-cutting moment that Chi Buyu had been looking forward to for so long.
Cui Qijin wasn’t sure if it was because she hadn’t fully recovered yet, or because even cutting the cake meant she couldn’t eat any, but Chi Buyu’s face remained pallid under the sunlight, starkly white. She hadn’t had time to put on full makeup either—just a touch of lipstick.
When she blew out the candles, the smile at the corners of her mouth seemed a bit forced.
Maybe it was just Cui Qijin’s imagination.
She had rarely, if ever, seen Chi Buyu put on a brave face. In fact, she wasn’t even sure what that would look like on her.
Cui Qijin herself never bothered with forced smiles. She laughed when she felt like it, and when she didn’t, she couldn’t be bothered to fake it. No wonder so many people called her harsh.
Holding the now-cooled bowl of apple pear water, Cui Qijin stood on the periphery of the group, her gaze calm but not entirely at ease as she watched Chi Buyu.
Still, her stomach felt unsettled, as if someone were squeezing droplets of acid into the wound, one by one.
Chen Wenran stood beside her, speaking softly into the phone to her own mom. “It’s nothing serious. Just got an IV drip and it’ll be fine. I’m not a kid anymore—what’s there to worry about coming over for?”
Cui Qijin thought for a moment.
She turned around and ran into You Ying, who had just finished her call. Cui Qijin placed the birthday gift she’d prepared for Chi Buyu in You Ying’s car first. It was already filled with packages of all sizes, piled high with gifts—a car trunk brimming full of affection.
For a moment, Cui Qijin wasn’t sure where to put her own record. When You Ying heard it was a delicate vinyl, she exclaimed in surprise, “Shuishui will definitely love this gift.” Then she thoughtfully cleared out a spot for it.
By the time Cui Qijin returned, a strong gust swept through the courtyard. Chi Buyu blew out the candles with a “whoosh,” her neatly tied hair scattering into a mess.
Ran Yan stepped forward, gently smoothing it down for her, murmuring a few words too quiet and indistinct for Cui Qijin to catch. Then she handed Chi Buyu the three greeting cards they’d all written.
Chi Buyu glanced outward in a daze, her eyes skimming quickly over the crowd until they met Cui Qijin’s returning gaze. She quickly lowered her lashes.
She took the cards.
Clutching them in her hand for a long moment, she opened the first one and stared at it. She seemed to relax a little, then curved her lips in amusement at whatever was inside.
From the card’s design, Cui Qijin guessed it was the one Chen Wenran had written. She was glad for Chen Wenran’s presence. Maybe she should learn from her—next time, toss in a joke on the card to cheer Chi Buyu up.
It might have been deliberate, but Cui Qijin’s card seemed to be placed at the bottom by Ran Yan. The second one Chi Buyu opened made her pout, then lift her chin stubbornly, as if coquettishly protesting to Ran Yan.
Then came Cui Qijin’s card.
She had picked it out while shopping, with very little time to spare. It had to be chosen in secret, without Chi Buyu spotting it—something perfect for both of them. To her, it felt like a spy mission, a thoroughly boring one.
In the end…
While Chi Buyu was munching on crackers, cheeks puffed out, Cui Qijin had urgently selected a pop-up greeting card from a craft shop. She’d hesitated between this one and a plain card; it was the kind of flashy design she personally disliked but suspected Chi Buyu would adore.
When opened, a paper firework popped out, accompanied by a tiny, obnoxiously loud rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
The afternoon breeze carried Chi Buyu’s breath toward her amid the tinny song. There, she must have seen the words Cui Qijin had written:
【Once we’re back in Chengdu, let’s meet up.】
—All this after Cui Qijin had already decided to lay everything bare at that meeting.
Amid the noisy crowd, the wind lifted Chi Buyu’s hair. She clutched the card, peering at Cui Qijin through the dappled tree shadows.
From this angle, Cui Qijin could see flecks of golden sunlight dancing around Chi Buyu’s eyes.
Hours had passed since the incident.
Yet confusion and desolation still lingered thickly in Chi Buyu’s gaze, blurred by the light but impossible to ignore now. It gripped Cui Qijin tightly from several meters away, across the throng of people.
Chi Buyu’s family, Ran Yan, Chen Wenran’s phone call murmuring in her ear, the lukewarm apple pear water in her hand… all faded into irrelevant shadows.
Perhaps that confusion and desolation had burrowed into her mind long ago, blurring everything in sight.
A bead of sweat slid slowly from her eyelid.
In a daze, Cui Qijin finally understood the sensation of a triangle collapsing.
It wasn’t as agonizing as she’d imagined—just a touch sour, a touch bitter, a touch salty. Wet and sticky, fresh like sweat… or tears.
Their eyes met again and again in the air, yet no one stepped forward to say the right words, to make this moment less disastrous for Chi Buyu’s birthday.
Should she declare in front of everyone, “Chi Buyu, forgive me”? Or “Chi Buyu, hear me out”? Or “Chi Buyu, it’s not what you think”? Or “Chi Buyu, skip the birthday stuff, don’t stay with your family—come talk to me alone”? Or “Chi Buyu, I’m sorry, it’s all my fault”?
Or ask, “Chi Buyu, do you still hate me?” “Chi Buyu, what are you thinking right now?” “Chi Buyu, what do you plan to do?”
She didn’t know.
But she was grateful for one thing.
Grateful that she’d already fed Chi Buyu some birthday cake, that she hadn’t skimped on the kind words beforehand—plenty of “happy birthdays.” Grateful for that one sentence in the card.
At the same time, a flicker of resentment stirred.
Resentment that despite all her scheming, her deceptions everywhere, holding back countless times with promises of “just get through today”… she still couldn’t give Chi Buyu a proper birthday.
So close, yet she’d fallen just short.
–
The high-speed train plunged through a long tunnel, the noise still clamorously loud as the attendant pushed her cart, calling out if anyone wanted dinner. In the pitch-black window, Cui Qijin saw her own pale reflection swallowed by the light one second, reappearing the next, over and over.
Chen Wenran, seated behind her, hadn’t spoken. She just watched Cui Qijin through the window, her expression complicated.
Cui Qijin had no mind to talk to Chen Wenran.
The churning in her stomach made her desperately queasy. Clutching it tightly that instant, she was grateful when Chen Wenran swiftly handed her a motion sickness bag.
She took it in silence, gripping the table as she vomited a bit of pale brownish, clear liquid amid the rumbling and swaying of the train. In her haze, she realized people really could get motion sick on high-speed rail—and since she hadn’t eaten anything today, it was just the apple pear water coming back up.
The apple pear water Chi Buyu’s mom had brewed for them.
She remembered that afternoon, the three of them had felt much better after drinking it. Only Cui Qijin’s stomach hadn’t agreed, rebelling after a few sips.
But she’d forced it down sip by sip, earning another “Stubborn Breed” from Chen Wenran.
Chen Wenran handed her some tissues.
Cui Qijin took them blankly, wiped her mouth, retched into the bag again, and finally expelled all the apple pear water—and some bitter bile besides.
She felt like a machine rusted and neglected for years, struggling to process something so profound, so equal, so overflowing…
“Love.”
What even was being lovable?
Why could some people express it so effortlessly with a word or a gesture, to anyone at all—as if it were an innate instinct?
Why, oh why, did it feel like it was forcibly wrung from her chest in meager drops, so stingy that she clenched her teeth to keep from voicing it?
But wasn’t love supposed to be equal for everyone?
Then why, for her, was it so unequal?
Her phone buzzed. Cui Qijin didn’t react at first, until Chen Wenran whispered, “Cui Qijin, your phone’s ringing.”
After a beat,
she murmured a soft “Mm.”
Dodging Chen Wenran’s offer to take it, she smiled faintly, gripped the bag tightly to seal away the filth no one should see, and double-bagged it.
She pulled out a wet wipe.
Obsessively, she wiped her mouth over and over, then her pallid hand—veins starkly blue—again and again.
Finally, she reached for her phone.
First, an old Samsung with no new messages.
Then, the new one, showing a notification.
She paused for two seconds.
Swiping the screen, she tapped the WeChat alert and opened the chat. There, unmistakably, were several messages.
18:23
Green bubble【Once we’re back in Chengdu, if you have time, would you meet me again?】
19:14
A white speech bubble appeared: 【My head’s a total mess right now. Give me some time to sort through it all, okay?】
The high-speed train plunged through another tunnel. Cui Qijin gazed out at the impenetrable darkness beyond the window, everything feeling like a hazy dream. She tapped furiously at her screen, typing and erasing over and over. The signal was spotty, but at last she hit send, and the screen now read:
19:18
A green speech bubble: 【Okay.】
