Chapter 2

To avoid the lipstick looking out of place in her trouser pocket, Lin Huayan specially placed it together with her phone.

She hadn’t expected to use it just a few minutes later.

After applying it in front of the mirror, her complexion improved greatly, and her mood brightened a bit.

She slipped the lipstick back into her pocket, then reached behind her neck to untie her hair tie. She ruffled her hair and undid one more button at her shirt collar.

But just a few seconds later, she lowered her head again, closing her eyes in a self-mocking, bittersweet smile.

Why do I even care?

She could face her colleagues, parents, and students with the image of a steady, stern teacher. So why couldn’t she face Lou Yixuan?

From now on, she and Lou Yixuan were colleagues, after all. Lou Yixuan meant nothing special to her.

She wiped off the freshly applied lipstick, turned on the faucet to wash her hands, then buttoned up the third button and casually tied her hair back.

Lin Huayan thought she’d hidden this momentary lapse in the restroom well, where no one could see. But after they regrouped and descended just one floor, Lou Yixuan behind her noticed something amiss.

The black hair tie wasn’t pulled as tightly as before she went in, and her hair was looser overall.

Most notably, a few strands framing her cheeks made her look much more approachable—it was almost magical.

But Lou Yixuan didn’t dare assume this subtle change before and after was because of her.

Lin Huayan’s steps quickened as she went downstairs, showing no intention of waiting for Lou Yixuan, not even glancing back once.

Lou Yixuan followed at a leisurely pace, the distance between them gradually widening until her view shifted from the back of Lin Huayan’s head to just the top of it.

“Teacher Lin…”

Lin Huayan could tell this urgent “Teacher Lin” was different from all the previous ones.

She paused for two seconds before turning around. “What’s wrong?”

This time, it was Lou Yixuan who averted her gaze.

Lou Yixuan’s right hand gripped the handrail, her eyes unfocused, staring blankly at the pristine white wall of the stairwell.

She forced a few words through gritted teeth. “It’s nothing. Be careful going downstairs in those high heels. If you’re in a hurry, I can go by myself.”

“No hurry.” Lin Huayan took a step. “It won’t take long to show you around.”

Walking along the playground, weaving between buildings, Lin Huayan dutifully gave the new teacher a general introduction to the area.

Occasionally, a breeze rustled the leaves, sounding like sand falling through an hourglass, dredging up old memories bit by bit and replaying them over and over.

How close and intimate she and her had once been—even if they tried hard to forget, the spring flowers, summer storms, autumn leaves, winter sun, and winds of all four seasons would remember for them.

Such beautiful memories shouldn’t be forgotten.

They reached the second floor of another building and stopped in front of a closed door. Lin Huayan asked, “Do you have the keycard?”

“Yes.”

Lou Yixuan pulled out a keycard from her bag, emblazoned with Tianmu Middle School’s logo and campus map. “They gave me the one for the professional homeroom teacher for now. I can get my own if needed.”

The art classes for sketching, color, and quick sketching were separate, and teachers didn’t usually come on the same day. The card included a monthly meal allowance for one person, enough for each to eat once or twice a week.

They saw each other every day at Haifan anyway, so sharing a Tianmu keycard wasn’t inconvenient.

Lin Huayan didn’t respond, silently pondering that phrase “if needed.”

Was it necessary?

Apparently not.

The door opened, and Lou Yixuan pushed it wide, stepping in first before turning back, as if welcoming Lin Huayan inside. She looked exceptionally well-behaved.

“Haifan’s original color teacher had a sudden issue, so the school made adjustments. I’m new to teaching and might lack some experience, but my professional skills are solid. Teacher Lin, you should know that.”

Lin Huayan’s tongue pressed against her teeth outside the door. She didn’t speak, just murmured an “Mm.”

She… of course knew.

Lou Yixuan had been the top scorer in Huai’an City’s unified art exam that year.

First overall, first in color.

She’d then secured qualifying exam passes from all three top domestic art academies. Lin Huayan had seen screenshots of every one.

Unfortunately, she never saw Lou Yixuan’s college entrance exam scores—didn’t know if she’d done well, or if she’d met Jinghua Academy of Fine Arts’ cultural score line that year.

What difference did it make whether she passed or not?

It didn’t matter anymore.

What mattered now was that Lou Yixuan had clearly known before coming that she worked at this school—and that she was Class 9’s homeroom teacher.

So…

Was this “replacement” a pure coincidence, or had Lou Yixuan come here specifically for her?

Lin Huayan’s silence struck Lou Yixuan as deep reluctance to revisit the past.

Fine. She hadn’t planned to “reunite” with Lin Huayan anyway.

Those few sentences just now were merely a probe.

Now she understood perfectly—understood exactly where she should position herself.

Lou Yixuan pocketed the keycard and walked further in casually, opening one of the windows to look outside.

Unlike Lin Huayan’s office, this one faced away from the playground. From here, she could see the cafeteria and girls’ dormitory building not far off.

It would be noisy only at lunch and dinner; otherwise, pretty quiet.

The art classroom was on the first floor of this building—Lin Huayan had shown it to her before they came up.

It was the size of two cultural class classrooms in the teaching building, specially renovated with extra glass walls, making it spacious and bright.

“I can find the classroom, office, cafeteria, dorms, and restrooms. Thanks, Teacher Lin.”

Lou Yixuan turned, smiling gratefully at Lin Huayan as she entered. “You can go ahead with your work. Thanks for your help today.”

Her intrusion should end here.

Any more would be impolite.

Lin Huayan’s hands clenched tighter at her sides.

Time to say “goodbye”?

No “long time no see,” no “how have you been?”

Was their first meeting after eight years of separation going to end like this?

She was suddenly glad she didn’t have the habit of clipping her nails too short—it let her nails distract from the ache in her heart time and again today.

Lou Yixuan didn’t rush her, just stood quietly with her smile unchanged, waiting for Lin Huayan’s decision.

To part ways now, or to show her around more.

She’d accept either, cooperate fully.

Lin Huayan looked away. “Have you tested the AC? Better turn it on and check the cooling. Report it early if there’s an issue so they can fix it.”

This office building had been renovated without central AC; long-vacant rooms didn’t even have window units.

Theirs had been used before, so it had one—but it was over five years old, untouched for at least a year.

Lin Huayan hadn’t paid attention to such irrelevant details before. As Class 9’s homeroom teacher, she’d learned a bit about her soon-to-be colleagues’ workspace.

Conveniently useful now.

As surprise flickered, a breeze from the window tousled Lou Yixuan’s hair.

Early September was cooler than the scorching July-August heat; otherwise, after twenty or thirty minutes of walking, she’d be drenched in sweat.

Lou Yixuan tucked her dry hair behind her ear, revealing the ear she’d kept hidden beneath it.

Only then did Lin Huayan notice Lou Yixuan had been wearing a Bluetooth earpiece since the class meeting—white, a common model.

“Thanks for the reminder. I’ll look for the remote.”

The office had been cleaned; no dust.

On the desk sat a few Haifan Art School self-published art textbooks—nothing else.

Art classes wouldn’t start until after next week’s military training, so the week after. Sketching, color, quick sketching from Tuesday to Thursday, each taking half an afternoon and one evening self-study period.

They rarely came to Tianmu on non-teaching days, busy with intense gaokao art prep at Haifan.

Tianmu’s art experimental class was just high school first-years, foundational stage—nothing too tough.

“Check the drawers.” Lin Huayan pointed, without touching.

“Okay.”

Three desks, each with a three-tier rolling drawer cabinet underneath. Lou Yixuan bent down, opening the top two in sequence—no remote.

“Not there?”

“Nope.”

The one nearest Lin Huayan—she leaned over and pulled open the top drawer before Lou Yixuan could circle around.

The AC remote was right there.

The screen even displayed text, batteries included—someone had tested it beforehand; it was probably working fine.

“Here.” Lin Huayan picked it up, walked over, and handed it to Lou Yixuan. “Take it.”

“Thanks.”

The remote’s length allowed them to pass it without touching hands.

Lou Yixuan took it naturally, aimed at the wall unit, and pressed the orange power button.

Ding.

Then the outdoor unit hummed to life outside.

The room felt stuffy; Lou Yixuan hit the “-” button a few times, cool air blasting her face.

After a few seconds, she turned to Lin Huayan with a smile. “It’s good.”

Lin Huayan’s heart skipped.

How could a girl’s smile be so sweet, so pure, so beautiful?

Even more than when she was a teenager.

Clear features, faint dimples at her lip corners, her open smile like a lake and mountains after rain, or snow-capped purity after a storm—poetic, picturesque.

Just standing beside her felt like stepping into a beautiful painting.

But today’s me, so out of place with this stunning woman before me, is no longer that old scenery that could blend into any canvas.

“Mm.”

Lin Huayan murmured lowly, then threw caution to the wind. “Do you want to stay here longer, or…”

Lou Yixuan caught the vague “or” and jumped in quickly. “If you’re not busy, Teacher Lin, I’ll trouble you a bit more. I’ll probably drive here later—where do I park? What procedures for faculty passes?”

“Not busy, no trouble. I’ll take you to register.”

“Great, thanks.”

Another “thanks.” Lou Yixuan kept saying “thanks,” kept addressing her as “you” with formal respect.

Eight years ago, when she should’ve respected her teacher most, where was this politeness? Always “you” this, “you” that, not treating her like a teacher at all.

Now, every heartfelt “you” from Lou Yixuan only made Lin Huayan feel aged—making young people greet her with deferential formality.

Respecting elders was virtuous; the youth did nothing wrong.

She’d never minded before. But with Lou Yixuan, discomfort hit hard.

That light “you” morphed into a devastating weapon, carving an abyss between them.

Just a glance made her body and mind recoil.

Unknown fear, suppressed anger, and a trace of grievance she refused to admit.

Lou Yixuan turned off the AC, set the remote on the desk, and closed the window.

“Let’s go, Teacher Lin.”

Not far from the office, unlike the aloofness on the way there, Lin Huayan initiated. “Doesn’t it get uncomfortable wearing it so long?”

“Hm?”

“The earpiece.”

“Oh, I’m used to it.”

Lou Yixuan removed the earpiece, slipped it into its case, and into her bag. “Music is magical—often sparks creative inspiration. For us artists, every flash of insight is precious.”

Is that so?

She never mentioned it in those three high school years, rarely listened either.

“What kind of music do you like?”

“All kinds. They’re all good; I like them all.”

All kinds.

Does she really like them all?

Lin Huayan suddenly recalled giving Lou Yixuan a similar answer once.

—Teacher Lin, what flowers do you like?

—All the flowers I’ve seen are beautiful. I like them all.

She had answered Lou Yixuan that way back then because she didn’t have any flowers she particularly loved, nor any she particularly hated.

But Lou Yixuan had taken her words at face value, sending her every kind of flower imaginable—in the form of paintings.

During their last spring together.

After that spring, no flowers ever bloomed again in Lin Huayan’s world.

Noticing the woman beside her seemed lost in thought, Lou Yixuan turned the question back: “And you, Teacher Lin?”

“……?”

Lin Huayan had assumed Lou Yixuan was politely reciprocating, asking about her preferred music style in turn. She wondered how to answer with a bit more honesty this time—when she saw Lou Yixuan lift her right hand and tap her index finger lightly against the corner of her own eye.

It turned out she was asking: “Do your eyes get sore after wearing glasses for so long?”