“You two should be on good terms now, right?”
On the drive back, Chen Wenran finally couldn’t hold back her question any longer.
Ran Yan was behind the wheel. At Chen Wenran’s words, she glanced back through the rearview mirror.
Cui Qijin and Chi Buyu had fallen into the water. Even after drying off a bit in the sun, they were now huddled in the back seat, wrapped in dry towels. They weren’t dripping anymore, but their clothes were still sodden and clinging uncomfortably.
At the question, Cui Qijin lifted her chin, feeling inexplicably awkward as she glanced at Chi Buyu.
Chi Buyu looked her way at the same moment.
Their gazes lingered for a second before colliding anyway.
Cui Qijin turned away first. She heard Chi Buyu let out a soft hum beside her, clearly displeased by the dodge. Cui Qijin paused for a beat, then twisted her head back. But now Chi Buyu wasn’t looking at her anymore.
“We weren’t fighting in the first place,” Chi Buyu said. She rolled down the window as she spoke, leaning her face into the sunlight streaming into the car. The wind tousled her damp hair, making the tips of her pointed ears flush a little red. From the back, her head looked a bit like…
A fluffy baby bird facing into the breeze.
“We’re twenty-seven, not seven,” Cui Qijin added, pulling her gaze back. She caught Chen Wenran twisting around from the front passenger seat to look at them.
Chen Wenran narrowed her eyes, as if she’d noticed Cui Qijin had been staring at Chi Buyu the whole time. She clicked her tongue. “I think you two are even younger than seven. Seven’s probably overselling it.”
Ran Yan laughed so hard she smacked the steering wheel, uncharacteristically agreeing with Chen Wenran. “Exactly. Like a pair of little kids—fight, hug it out, have a cry, and boom, all better.”
Hug it out… Cui Qijin’s sharp ears caught the key phrase.
Of course they’d seen it.
Her back stiffened. Her hand slipped into her pocket on instinct, only to find bits of soggy paper pulp amid the damp fabric—remnants from when they’d been clinging together.
She pinched the pulp lightly between her fingers, stressing, “I was choking on lake water.”
Chi Buyu turned at that, squinting at Cui Qijin’s eyes, which still stung a little. She tugged at her own lower lid and mouthed silently, “As… if…”
She looked triumphant, like she’d caught Cui Qijin red-handed.
Cui Qijin played it cool, pretending not to notice.
Chi Buyu pulled a face, letting out a muffled laugh carried away by the wind. But she quickly swallowed it back, turning away again to bask in the breeze, her mood visibly brightening.
A little later, Chen Wenran piped up from the front seat. “If I’d known it’d turn out like this, I should’ve just shoved you both into that pond by Grandma’s door back in Leshan. Would’ve saved Ran Yan and me from walking on eggshells this whole time…”
Halfway through, Ran Yan cranked up the stereo. A rush of warm, vibrant spring air blasted in from outside, perfectly matching the easy melody of Jay Chou’s “Sorry” filling the car.
As the intro faded, they rounded a corner, driving into a stretch of sky bluer than the buildings lining the road. Chen Wenran and Chi Buyu, one after the other and in perfect sync, belted out at the top of their lungs in the forty-kilometer-per-hour breeze—
“A copper coin in the square—”
They only nailed that one line before the rest dissolved into a garbled mess, each singing their own version and drowning out Jay Chou entirely.
Ran Yan grumbled, “They should reboot Fast Girls next year and send you two straight there!”
She said it, but didn’t kill the music. So Chen Wenran clutched her chest, hamming it up with a heartbroken expression as she crooned, “Too many ‘I love you’s leaving it breathless…”
Chi Buyu got swept up in it, her eyes crinkling into upside-down crescents as she laughed herself silly, leaning every which way. She picked up seamlessly right then: “Alreadyyy—”
They were playing their song-relay game again.
Just like in Leshan. Just like before that question had slipped out.
Cui Qijin propped her elbow on the window, the wind lifting the corner of her mouth. Her rigid spine eased a touch, and her left hand rested naturally on the leather back seat.
Suddenly, her pinky finger brushed something soft—cool, then warm.
Just a tap. Then it was gone.
It might’ve been her imagination.
Cui Qijin glanced down to see the culprit yanking her hand back, leaving only a fleeting afterimage amid Jay Chou’s tune.
Chi Buyu even crossed her arms over her shoulders, as if hugging herself in a not-at-all-subtle cover-up.
Catching Cui Qijin’s look, Chi Buyu kept the pose but jutted her chin out fiercely. “What’re you staring at?”
“You’re funny.”
Cui Qijin shot back without missing a beat.
But her palm pressed into the soft leather, her pinky curling unconsciously. It took her a slow second to register what had just happened.
“Yeah, right!”
Chi Buyu huffed, her ear tips even redder than before. After a moment, a light, airy voice floated over. “Little… Cry… baby…”
–
Karma for nicknaming, perhaps. After that park outing, Chi Buyu came down with a cold.
The first couple days, her voice was a razor blade. Then came the congestion and headaches. At first, she refused to accept it. She stubbornly wore a mask every day, powering through script meetings, proof reviews, fabric runs, and even on-site shoots and model fittings for the new line.
You Ying had wanted her resting at home from day one. But Chi Buyu wouldn’t hear it. Why could everyone else tough out a little cold? She’d grown up realizing now that every time she’d had a minor ache or pain before, she’d whined and cried and begged off work. Where was her grit? Why was she still so fragile? Like she hadn’t grown up at all.
At twenty-seven, Chi Buyu had this late epiphany. She got mad at herself for it, then hugged her Strawberry Bear plush for comfort. She knew she couldn’t keep on like this. Sometimes she wanted others to lean on her too. So she ignored her older cousin’s advice and refused to miss a beat.
She’d always handled her drafts and finals herself before, leaving the rest to her cousin, the brand owner. But this summer collection—two whole lines—was all her from the ground up. She’d never felt such a rush of accomplishment.
Missing even one day felt like a crime.
You Ying didn’t approve of her pushing through while sick and tried talking her out of it several times. In the end, Chi Buyu’s wheedling won out.
But colds don’t care about sweet-talking.
After the model fitting, her symptoms worsened overnight. The next day, she woke groggy to find it was already afternoon. Panicking, she threw off the covers and stumbled out of bed—only for her legs to buckle. She had no strength left. Touching her forehead, she found it scorching…
She’d developed a fever.
Dazed, she fumbled for her phone to check the schedule she’d pre-logged to avoid forgetting amid the chaos. Nothing today.
She exhaled in relief.
WeChat brimmed with messages.
In the [Spring Outing Qing 0.0] group chat, Ran Yan had posted:
[How’s Shuishui doing today? @Chi Shuishui]
Chen Wenran followed up:
[Why hasn’t Shuishui replied so late?]
[You’re usually instant @Chi Shuishui]
[Shuishui, rise and shine! Lunchtime! Sun’s on your butt!]
Lately, they hadn’t been texting privately much—just group chit-chat.
Chi Buyu replied:
[Up now!]
[Took meds last night, slept till now]
The [Happy Planet] family group was full of @ mentions too…
Her cousins, aunts, dad asking if he should stew her some Pork Rib Winter Melon Soup today. Mom wondering if her throat still hurt like the past few days, or if she’d come home for dinner—she’d make that other soup again.
When her throat first got sore, Mom had hauled over a whole bucket of Carrot Arrowroot Pork Bone Soup to the studio. Amid a bunch of colleagues, only Chi Buyu got the special delivery—and Mom waited outside their meeting room.
That day, she’d been distracted the whole meeting. She kept peeking at Mom outside, whose freshly dyed hair had a few more white strands. Mom had gotten up early to simmer a pot of soup, then just… waited. It tugged at Chi Buyu’s heart.
A pang of guilt.
Did growing up mean drifting from your mom bit by bit? She didn’t want that distance with hers, but suddenly all Mom’s love made her feel ashamed. Like she shouldn’t have insisted on moving out to prove her independence, hurting Mom in the process.
So that day, she polished off the whole bucket. Before Mom left satisfied with the empty pot, Chi Buyu hugged her in front of everyone and said, “I love you, Mom.”
Mom was a little embarrassed but patted her back with a laughing scold. “Nearly thirty and still so clingy?”
“Even at forty,” Chi Buyu said, chin high.
Mom patted her back, earnest now. “Just stay healthy—that’s the best way to love Mom.”
Chi Buyu nodded vigorously, promising to take care of herself. After Mom left, she posted in [Happy Planet]—
[Mom, dinner at home tomorrow]
[Wanna drink that soup again]
[Don’t bring it over, too much hassle!]
After that, she went home for dinner almost daily, then back to her place. But today…
Chi Buyu touched her burning forehead, nibbling her finger as she typed in the group:
[Not coming home today]
[Been ages since I rested, hehe, slept in~]
[Tomorrow for sure!]
Tomorrow she’d probably feel better. She realized she was learning to “share the good news, not the bad.”
There was one private message too.
From [Little Crybaby]: A photo from inside toward the balcony, the Colorful Leaf Taro’s leaves stunningly pretty, translucent and iridescent in the sunlight.
Just the picture.
Wonder what Little Crybaby was up to now?
Chi Buyu rolled dizzily back under the covers. Ran Yan had replied in the group, teasing about her late rise and asking if she’d eaten lunch. No sign of Little Crybaby.
She checked the time. Oh, work hours for her. Chen Wenran had a famous saying: Don’t expect to reach her during work unless you’re a client!
And a memorable case to boot—
Back in college, Chen Wenran had gone on her first date with Ran Yan. Suddenly realizing she didn’t have enough money in her WeChat wallet, she’d frantically messaged Cui Qijin to borrow some so she could cover the bill. But it was class time, and Cui Qijin had vanished into thin air, not replying until after ten that night. Ever since, whenever Chen Wenran needed to reach her, she’d bundle all her messages into one go.
Sure enough, there was no response from Cui Qijin this time either.
