Chapter 34

Whether she wanted to make up or not, the answer was obvious—she did. If Wen Zhixu hadn’t appeared, she might have been able to forget with the passage of time. Put another way, five years ago, she hadn’t wanted to break up in the first place.

After entering the mall and finishing their meal, Song Yanling didn’t want to go home, so Jian Shichu took her to a bookstore and found a quiet spot for her to do her homework.

Everyone instinctively lightened their steps upon entering a bookstore. While Jian Shichu waited for their hot drinks, a message came in from Song Yi.

[Song Yi: Doudou, where’s Song Yanling? Have her pick up the phone.]

Jian Shichu tilted her head back and peered through the bookshelves at the corner spot. Song Yanling was twirling a pen in her hand, another tucked behind her ear, head down focused on her workbook, seriously doing her homework.

[She’s doing homework. I’ll tell her later.]

[Song Yi: This is too much. Fighting at school.]

Jian Shichu glanced up—the drinks weren’t ready yet—so she lowered her head to reply.

[How did you find out?]

[The homeroom teacher called me. I’ll deal with her when I get back.]

Jian Shichu sent back an emoji. By then, the hot drinks were ready. She locked her phone, picked up the two cups, and walked over.

As she gently set the cups on the table, Song Yanling looked up too, still twirling her pen. She twisted her body and said in an exaggerated, cutesy voice, “Thanks, Doudou-jiejie.”

Jian Shichu was amused. “Let me show you something.”

As she sat down, she hooked her heel on the high stool’s footrest, her body casually leaning against the edge of the chair.

She swiped open the screen and pulled up the chat with Song Yi, turning her wrist to angle the phone right at Song Yanling.

Song Yanling stopped twirling her pen and leaned in to look. Her smile froze the moment her eyes hit the screen. She muttered a soft “damn,” not too loud, but it instantly shattered her image.

Jian Shichu heard it and her tone grew stern. “Song Yanling.”

She was reminding Song Yanling to watch her language, but Song Yanling didn’t care and snatched the phone.

Her gaze fixed on the conversation. “No way, she doesn’t even ask why and wants to deal with me the second she gets back? That’s too much.”

“So why did you get into a fight?” Jian Shichu didn’t rush to take her phone back. She sipped her hot drink and asked slowly.

Song Yanling grit her teeth. “I didn’t fight. The school kids were spreading rumors about me, always gossiping behind my back. When I confronted them, none of them dared make a peep.”

“Then what happened to your chin?” Jian Shichu tilted her head to check—the mark had improved.

Song Yanling hemmed and hawed. “When you go confront people, don’t you gotta bring some tools for courage? I was carrying a chair and scraped it.”

Her momentum had softened a bit just then, but she was a completely different type from Song Yi—nothing in common except their faces.

Jian Shichu suddenly looked up at her, mildly surprised. After composing herself, she couldn’t help thinking that if Song Yi heard this, they’d probably throw down right then and there.

“I mean, next time…”

Song Yanling cut her off with a wave. “Doudou-jie, don’t say it. I know—you want me to tell the teacher, tell my sister. But what’s the point? It won’t work. The rumormongers will just keep going. I won’t hit anyone, but no one can bully me either!”

The little girl’s sharp tongue lived up to her name, leaving Jian Shichu at a loss for words.

She set down her cup and thought for a moment before saying slowly, “Right, you get your quick thrill. You carry the chair over, don’t lay a hand on them, they swing at you and ‘accidentally’ hit. Song Yi cries for life, or you win and go to jail. Either way, you’re not coming out ahead.”

Song Yanling was stubborn with her mouth but could take the words to heart. She sat there silently, and Jian Shichu could see her weighing them.

“Seems kinda right.” Song Yanling nodded slowly, still clutching Jian Shichu’s phone tightly.

Suddenly, the phone vibrated. The page was still on Song Yi’s chat, but a message from Wen Zhixu popped up at the top. Song Yanling spotted it instantly.

[Wen Zhixu: Happy Mid-Autumn Festival]

This was the first message since Jian Shichu’s poke, bland and official, not even an emoji.

“Happy Mid-Autumn.” Song Yanling handed the phone back, eyes glued to Jian Shichu’s face.

Jian Shichu took it with her free hand, turned it upright, and when she saw it was from Wen Zhixu, her brows twitched slightly—an instinctive reaction.

What did this message mean? It couldn’t be a mass send. Wen Zhixu never got involved in social media, so this was just for her.

—

After sending the message, Wen Zhixu didn’t exit the app. She propped her phone against the desk, one hand holding a ballpoint pen, adjusting the arm pressing down her notebook.

Her focus was on the notebook, but her eyes flicked to the phone now and then. She waited about three minutes.

The phone buzzed and slid across the desk with a clack.

Wen Zhixu set down her pen and picked it up. Jian Shichu’s reply:

[Happy Mid-Autumn Festival]

The four words were so flat, yet painfully poignant, making everything feel dull, but stirring her senses all the same, hitting her with a wave of bittersweet emotion.

Wen Zhixu thought for a moment, then tapped her index finger on the screen and slowly typed:

[I’m very sorry about what happened that day.]

She was tense as she hit send—like sitting on pins and needles, anxious, scared, guilty. Every human emotion played across her face.

Just then, the phone rang—Jian Shichu calling directly. Wen Zhixu was thrilled yet flustered. It felt like ever since their argument, after calming down, she realized she was the same—unable to let go.

The moment the call connected, Wen Zhixu stayed silent. It was noisy on Jian Shichu’s end, but audible.

This time, Jian Shichu spoke first. “Are you home?”

“I came back to Suzhou. Something wrong?”

Silence stretched for a few seconds.

“I want to see you.”

When Jian Shichu said those words, Wen Zhixu’s heart skipped a beat, leaving her breathless, like the air around her had thinned.

The words carried warmth, like a release valve in her stifled world, painting color over the gray and telling her she belonged.

They crushed her. In seconds, her eyes reddened, tears splashing onto her face.

Suppressing her trembling voice, she replied, “I want to see you too.”

She wiped the tears from her face with her fingers, trying to steady her breathing so the other side wouldn’t hear.

But how could Jian Shichu not notice? She stood outside the bookstore, her shadow shifting. At Wen Zhixu’s words, she instinctively looked up at the sky, holding back her own tears.

Wen Zhixu didn’t hear a response and murmured with her head slightly lowered, “I’ll come back the day after tomorrow. I’ll come find you then.”

Her slightly hunched posture straightened with her breaths. The reply came quickly from the other end, laced with pleasure.

Even over the phone, she could sense the mood. When they spoke without barbs, both felt better.

They hadn’t been like this while dating—it only changed after the breakup. Time had layered protective shells over them both.

If Jian Shichu’s thorns stemmed from being dumped back then, Wen Zhixu’s was that hurdle of cowardice she couldn’t cross.

After hanging up, Jian Shichu sent a photo—the moon over Chongqing tonight, freshly snapped.

Wen Zhixu glanced out the balcony at the sky, clouds blanketing it. She snapped a pic of her desk lamp and sent it back. In that moment, her heart was like it had been drizzled with honey, washing away the sourness.

At the same time, in the lamp’s glow, she noticed the stack of magazines beneath, ones she’d kept for years and couldn’t bear to toss.

The Jiuqu magazine logo was neatly printed—this was her first step into writing. She remembered every “first” over these decades.

Of course, including her first short story, about dealing with campus verbal bullying.

Seeing no reply from Jian Shichu, Wen Zhixu pulled down a magazine casually, flipping through it to pass the time waiting for a message.

She and the author Peanut were separated by some pages. Without the pen name, she might not have recalled her.

Wen Zhixu set the magazine back on the shelf with one hand and turned off the desk lamp. Only the soft yellow ceiling light remained.

As she went out to get water, Wen Ru was still on the sofa watching the news. She glanced over. “Xiao Xu, the milk’s warmed up in the kitchen.”

“Okay.” Wen Zhixu responded, flicking on the switch. She spotted a delivery box on the wall cabinet.

It was taped all around, sealed tight—not like something to send out.

Wen Zhixu took a sip of water. “Mom, what’s this?”

Wen Ru didn’t look up. “From the Tang Family. A heirloom bracelet.”

The Tang Family—her dad’s side. Wen Ru never used names or direct relations, just simple, detached terms, as if they were merely blood ties.

When her parents divorced as a kid, the Tang Family had fought for custody, making a huge ugly scene. Later, somehow, her dad gave up.

But the Tang Family had only one heir. The kid went with Wen Ru, yet the elders still prepped red envelopes for Wen Zhixu every holiday, sending treats to school every few days.

Wen Ru found her annoying, so she transferred her to another school and moved to a new place to live. But the necessary support and pampering were still provided. Although Dad didn’t interact much with her, that didn’t stop Grandma from liking her.

That continued until her university years, when Wen Zhixu went to Beihai. Wen Ru changed her phone number for her, and their contact dwindled. Later on, they basically stopped contacting each other altogether.

In her impression, the word “Dad” was impossible to describe—it had no real image, just a title maintained out of blood ties, nothing more.

“Why is the family heirloom bracelet just stored like this?” Wen Zhixu reached out to touch it.

Wen Ru kept her gaze on the TV and said, “The person passed away. Before her death, she said to pass it on to you. Don’t touch it—I’ll send it back in a few days.”

Wen Zhixu froze in place, thinking she’d misheard. She turned her head and asked uncertainly, “Who passed away?”

“Your grandma got sick and passed away half a month ago.” Wen Ru’s reply was flat, as if it wasn’t a big deal at all—like watching a stranger’s funeral, without even a sigh about the fragility of life. So why on earth was Wen Ru like this?