Chapter 65

Lou Yixuan wasn’t lying. Breaking the camellia hadn’t been intentional.

She remembered the WeChat message Lu Lingxuan had sent her that day: the camellia had a poignantly beautiful yet ominous nickname—”Severed Head Flower.”

So it really was a Severed Head Flower.

“Teacher Lin wouldn’t think I broke it on purpose, would she? It really wasn’t. I’m not that childish.”

Lou Yixuan tilted her head and smiled at Lin Huayan. “See? My face isn’t red, my heart isn’t racing. I’m completely honest—no lies at all. Don’t get the wrong idea.”

“I didn’t.”

Lin Huayan turned, pulled over a chair, and sat down. “Tell me about these paintings.”

It was the same kind of interaction they’d had twice before, during last semester’s midterm and final art assessments.

So even though today marked their reunion after a month’s separation, Lou Yixuan wasn’t rusty when it came to business.

If anything, she was even more professional than those previous times.

After more than half an hour, they’d gone through all the paintings and gotten a general sense of the works. Lin Huayan had no more reason to linger.

She’d wanted to ask Lou Yixuan outright: Have you thought it over? After finishing this semester with them, you’ll head back to Australia. But that question died under the wilted Severed Head Flower.

Severed, then severed it was. Lou Yixuan had already given her the answer.

The flower is severed.

The love is severed.

Severed flower. Severed love.

“Three color pieces per student, and they all turned out pretty well. I can’t vouch for the other two subjects, but for mine, you can tell they put real effort into it.”

“Mm.”

“Sorry, it’s been over half an hour, and I haven’t even asked if you wanted water.”

Lou Yixuan checked the time, stood, and walked toward the wall. “I bought this before canceling the card. These cases should last the three of us a month or two.”

Bucketed water was a hassle to have delivered, so hot water came from the dispenser, and cold from the bottles—simpler that way.

After all that talk, when she reached the water station by the wall, Lou Yixuan still opted for paper cups of hot water: one for Lin Huayan, and a fresh one for herself.

“Here, not too hot.”

Lou Yixuan set the paper cup on the desk. Lin Huayan stared at it for a moment, then picked it up and drained it in one go.

So thirsty?

Lou Yixuan had only poured half a cup. She glanced at her own untouched one and tentatively asked, “More?”

“No thanks.” Lin Huayan stood with the empty cup in hand. “Thank you, Teacher Lou.”

“You’re too polite, Teacher Lin.”

Lin Huayan left through the open door, leaving it ajar behind her.

If someone asked her right then, Do you understand what love is now?

She still might not know how to answer. But she knew this: if Lou Yixuan asked her again, Why can’t we be together? she would reply—We can.

No matter the difficulties, she was willing.

Every second just now, her heart had throbbed with excruciating pain, telling her she didn’t want to be mere open colleagues or friends with Lou Yixuan. She wanted to be clean lovers with Lou Yixuan.

But it was too late.

Lou Yixuan was listening to her words, heading off to broader horizons, a more brilliant future, better people.

And that was all they could be.

After Lin Huayan left, Lou Yixuan stared blankly at the doorway, lost in a daze for a long while.

During those ten days in Australia, she’d once asked an AI: What do you do when you can’t stop missing someone?

The AI had replied: Missing someone is itself a moment of self-awareness. It reminds you what kind of connection your heart craves. Ultimately, all relationships help us understand ourselves better. Transform that emotion into fuel for self-growth, and one day, looking back, you’ll find it’s quietly carried you far, far away.

So she’d counseled herself, comforted herself: Look, this is just an ordinary day.

Ordinary work, ordinary chats with colleagues.

Back to how things should be. They’d always been meant for this. Though reluctant, it was time to end it, to give Lin Huayan her peace.

Lou Yixuan had dinner plans with just Du Heming, off-campus.

They met at the South Gate at 5:30, avoiding the after-school rush.

In the clear sunset, orange-red hues faded at the horizon.

Endless scales of clouds wove a vast net, locking her memories, her greed, her love for Lin Huayan—all into Huai’an City’s blooming spring.

“What are you looking at?” Du Heming asked.

“The clouds.”

“Yeah, the clouds at dusk today are stunning.” Du Heming looked up too. “I’ll stand here with you for one more minute.”

Some people were like this scenery—destined only for admiration. You couldn’t grasp them or hold them. No matter how obsessed, how relentlessly you pursued, you could never be the one they pillow with.

The only person I’ve ever loved.

Fortunate to have met, regrettable that it ended there.

The two stood fixed at the roadside beyond the South Gate, waiting through another cycle of the traffic light.

…

Since Chen Qingli was an “insert student,” her cultural subjects were fine—the progress across same-year classes didn’t differ much, no risk of falling behind. But the three art majors? That was trickier.

Having the three professional teachers tutor her for free wasn’t realistic; they charged by the hour at Haifan, and wouldn’t comp for Tianmu Middle School’s special case.

Luckily, Chen Qingli’s family had money, and she had the “awareness.” After sitting in on one class with her classmates that first week, she proactively approached each art teacher, offering to pay Haifan rates for makeup foundation lessons.

Of the three, only one said “Sure.” Teacher Liu and Lou Yixuan declined.

Upon learning of the extra student at the start of term, they’d agreed: dig out copies of last semester’s lesson videos for her weekend self-study. After all, with Chen Qingli’s rock-bottom academics, why make extra work?

If she was serious about art, suggest weekend cram classes for basics.

Being turned down by the professional homeroom teacher was one thing—that one was clearly swamped and senior. But what gave Lou Yixuan the right to refuse outright?

Chen Qingli stewed in resentment. Right after evening self-study bell, she headed to the Teaching Building to get Lin Huayan to “back her up,” playing the aggrieved card: the art teachers weren’t responsible for her as a student and looked down on her.

She figured Lin Huayan would ask: How were they irresponsible? How did they look down on you?

Instead, the response was terrifyingly blunt: “No more Art Classroom for you. Stay here and do a math practice set. I’ll tell Teacher Lou.”

She’d hoisted herself with her own petard.

Now Chen Qingli couldn’t even cry.

She dragged a stool to Director Li’s side; Lin Huayan had the paper and pen ready: “Finish it, then we’ll talk art lessons.”

Math… practice set…

Chen Qingli picked up the pen and nearly blacked out—not just wanting to cry, but to die.

Lin Huayan rapped the desk: “One wrong? Copy it ten times. Don’t know how? Copy ten times anyway.”

“…”

She finally got why they called her “Lin Menopause, the ruthless flower destroyer.”

“Teacher Lin, can I hit the bathroom first?”

“Sure. Hand over the phone, leave it on the desk.”

“…Never mind!”

“No bathroom? Phone out anyway, on my desk.”

“…”

With Chen Qingli tamed and phone confiscated, Lin Huayan stepped into the hall and messaged Lou Yixuan: [I’ll convince Chen Qingli to sign up for Haifan’s weekend class. Which one do you teach there?]

[Lou Yixuan: The year-long intensive. Have her do the short-term one instead—better fit.]

[Lin Huayan: Got it.]

She typed, She didn’t cause you trouble, right? then deleted it.

Even if Chen Qingli made trouble, Lou Yixuan could handle it.

Lou Yixuan wasn’t that 16- or 17-year-old girl anymore, bouncing under her umbrella to escape the rain. No more walking to or from school together, no more shared meals.

After this semester, no more weekly meetings. A month’s “long time no see” would stretch to eight years, then eight more.

But this time, she hadn’t said it outright—Lou Yixuan, I don’t want to see you again.

More cruel still: she’d convinced herself to fight for her beloved, but couldn’t convince herself to steal a daughter from her mother.

…

In the season of clashing warm and cold air, strong convective weather hit hard—especially down south.

The last Thursday of March brought a sudden downpour. Even dodging peak hours, Lou Yixuan got stuck at the tunnel entrance.

Road water pooled faster than it drained, rising steadily, nearly submerging half her tires.

And as if that wasn’t enough, a car ahead broke down. Traffic cops redirected vehicles away from the tunnel.

Rain unrelenting, outside noise chaotic—Lou Yixuan feared panic would scatter her focus, or her car might stall midway. Safest bet: she found a parking lot and pulled in.

Rideshares were hell in this weather, no direct subway to Tianmu Middle School. She headed to the bus stop—maybe snag a cab, or take the bus if not.

Main roads had bus lanes; might move faster.

Truth was, she hated buses and subways—the crowds, the smells, the noise.

Lu Lingxuan had teased her for “princess syndrome.”

Only your godmother spoils you like that—no hardships, everything your way. More pampered than rich heiresses.

Lu Lingxuan was right.

Except for love, her mother had never denied her anything.

Except love’s bitterness, she’d tasted no other.

Lou Yixuan hurried through the rain under a reversible umbrella, splashing deep and shallow.

In just ten minutes, her back was soaked, skirt wet below the knees, even water in her Martin boots.

One hand umbrella, one phone for navigation—she finally reached the nearest stop with her line.

Rideshare queue: 100+ ahead. Taxis all occupied. A couple pulled over, but others beat her to them. Twenty minutes later, her bus arrived.

Worse: dozens at the stop, most waiting for this route.

The bus eased in.

Folks folded umbrellas, surged forward to claim seats—lest they miss it and wait ages.

Lou Yixuan wasn’t one to shove. By her eye, it could fit them.

Rain and drips splattered her; not a dry spot left on her body, face, or hair.

She endured.

But as the last to board, fumbling phone payment, impatient passengers shoved from behind, yelling down at stragglers: “Hurry! It’ll fit!”

Her phone smacked the driver’s barrier, finger too—hiss of pain.

Worse: payment failed amid the crush. She lost balance, slammed into a stranger’s back.

A wave of damp, male scent—rain-mingled—hit her, churning her stomach.

Both hands full, no covering her ears.

One earbud dangled loose in her hair. Instinctively: “Sorry,” since she’d bumped him.

Tried freeing a hand, but the man whipped around—off-balance again, she lurched toward a seated passenger’s legs, right hand nearly planting there.

Close call; elbow braced the rail. But umbrella and earbud clattered to the floor.

“Little miss, what’s the holdup? Move in more—squeeze, it’ll fit!”

Impatient voice from behind.

Adding insult to injury.

“Enough! Stop shoving!” Lou Yixuan snapped, twisting to grip the rail, voice icy. “You knocked my stuff down—can’t I even pick it up?”

The bus went dead silent.

For a few seconds.

Then the nonstop nag from boarding—a big auntie—started up: “Oh, little miss has quite the temper! What’re you snarling for? Buses are like this—squeeze city. Ain’t your private ride.”

She eyed the umbrella by her foot, kicked it spitefully: “How pricey can an umbrella be? Wet anyway—dirty? So what, rain’ll rinse it off after…”

“Will you shut up!”

Lou Yixuan had had it with the yapping—itching to snap, Are you nuts? But eyes turned their way, folks urging: “Cut it out, don’t fuss, say less all around—or driver can’t go, and none of us move.”

Outnumbered as she was, with her mood at rock bottom, what else could she do?

She suppressed her anger and said word by word, “Please, would you mind stepping back one step? Don’t step on my earphones.”

…

She left at ten, but didn’t stagger into the school until after twelve, drenched and bedraggled.

It was right at lunchtime dismissal. Exhausted in body and spirit, Lou Yixuan didn’t want the students to see her looking like a drowned rat, so she dragged her weary body around to the South Gate instead.

The South Gate was closer to her office, and there were fewer students.

The downpour hadn’t let up. She swiped her card to enter, and Old Man Zhang poked his head out from the Security Room. “Teacher Lou, no car today?”

Lou Yixuan paused in her steps and turned to him. “Old Man Zhang, could I sit in the Security Room for a bit?”

“Of course! Come on in.”

Old Man Zhang hurried to the door to wait for her. “Your clothes are all soaked through! Your hair too. Sigh, this rotten weather—you brought too small an umbrella. Why not grab a bigger one next time? Come sit down; I’ll pour you some hot water.”

“Thanks, I won’t be long.” She was just too exhausted to keep going, too…

“No rush at all—stay as long as you need.” Old Man Zhang poured her hot water from the thermos into a paper cup.

Seeing her face pale as a ghost, he didn’t say another word.

He turned away and secretly messaged Lin Huayan: [Teacher Lin, come to the South Gate quick. Teacher Lou got caught in the rain—looks real bad, and her condition’s off too.]

The first time he’d met Lou Yixuan, she’d been with Lin Huayan, so naturally, Lin was the first person he thought to call for help.

Lin Huayan replied almost instantly: [On my way.]

Followed by: [Thanks.]

Old Man Zhang reminded her: [Bring a big umbrella!”]

But as he counted the minutes, burning with anxiety, pacing left and right, peering out the door again and again—watching waves of students stream out—he finally spotted a figure sprinting toward the Security Room.

The person held a small umbrella.

And it wasn’t Lin Huayan.

[Lou Yixuan: Teacher Du, I need to borrow clothes again. I’m at the South Gate Security Room.]

Du Heming got Lou Yixuan’s WeChat message, snatched the umbrella from the dorm balcony, and bolted out the door, running flat-out to the South Gate.

That morning, seeing how heavy the rain was, she’d messaged Lou Yixuan to drive carefully.

Lou Yixuan had replied that she always drove slow and cautious, and today she’d leave even earlier—like a little snail inching along.

It was a new semester; each had their own worries, their own hesitations. They weren’t meeting for lunch or dinner at set times anymore. Du Heming didn’t need to wait, and Lou Yixuan didn’t need to rush.

Du Heming didn’t bother closing her umbrella, just stashed it under the rain shelter. “Old Man Zhang, you’ve been holding down the fort for Lou Lou?”

“Oh, Teacher Du—you brought a little umbrella too?”

Old Man Zhang stepped out the door and murmured to Du Heming, “Teacher Lin didn’t come with you? She too slow?”

“…” Teacher Lin?

“Nothing, nothing—get inside quick.”

Full of questions, Du Heming stepped into the Security Room. She’d just gotten the message, so she figured Lou Yixuan’s clothes must be wet, but she had no idea how they’d gotten wet—or that they were soaked this badly.

Lou Yixuan sat facing the wall, back to the window, her right side toward the door. Her right hand rested on the table, clutching the paper cup.

Her deep blue denim jacket had darkened to black with water. The bottom half of her beige long skirt had turned khaki. Her brown Martin boots looked waterlogged.

Even her little waist pouch dripped with droplets.

If not for her hair ends not quite dripping, Du Heming might’ve thought Lou Yixuan was a mermaid who’d just crawled ashore.

Pitiful. Utterly forlorn.

As if waiting for some good Samaritan to rescue her—or perhaps, waiting for her beloved to come fetch her.

But her beloved…

“Lou Lou, you’re soaked to the bone—didn’t drive today?”

Du Heming approached on soft feet and laid a hand on her shoulder. “So this little snail, little mermaid, swam across the sea today?”

She kept her voice light, hoping to ease the tension, distract Lou Yixuan, maybe even coax a smile. But the next instant, Lou Yixuan turned, revealing a tear-streaked face, and Du Heming’s heart clenched in fright.

“Teacher Du.”

“Hug me, please.”