A week before the third mock exam, the school sealed off the exam venues, leaving no place to study.
Mianmian hugged her backpack and thought, maybe she should go home? That peacock, as she called him, was reportedly holed up in the lab these days, racing against time to finish an important SCI paper, working day and night. At least home would offer some peace and quiet.
But Teacher Zhao had said that studying required the right atmosphere—at home, it was easy to get lazy, and efficiency would suffer.
After some thought, she boarded a bus to the city library.
The self-study room at the city library was known as the second battleground for exam candidates across the city. When Mianmian pushed the door open, she was nearly overwhelmed by the crowd inside—rows upon rows of heads, packed tightly together.
She circled the room three times before finally finding an empty seat in a corner against the wall.
Only after sitting down did she notice the person in the seat next to hers.
It was a young woman who looked only a few years older than her.
She wore a simple white cotton dress, with neatly trimmed ear-length hair and a pair of thin silver-framed glasses.
Her features were gentle—a small face, fair skin, and long eyelashes as she lowered her gaze to the book in her hands.
But what caught Mianmian’s attention most was her prominently rounded belly.
The white cotton dress stretched taut from just below her chest, forming a smooth, seamless arc over her abdomen, with no wrinkles in the fabric.
Mianmian could even faintly see a small, rounded bulge where the fabric was pushed outward at her navel.
Beneath the hem of the dress, her slender legs were neatly pressed together, and she wore a pair of clean white canvas shoes.
She looked very far along in her pregnancy.
Ready to give birth at any moment, yet here she was, studying in such a crowded place like the library. Wasn’t she tired? Wasn’t she worried about something happening?
Mianmian couldn’t help but steal a few more glances.
Spread out in front of the sister were Quick Memorization of Postgraduate English Vocabulary, Analysis of the Political Syllabus, and a thick professional book titled Cell Biology.
In her right hand, she held a black pen, occasionally jotting down neat, meticulous notes in the margins of the pages. Her left hand, however, remained pressed against her hip.
She pressed down hard, her fingers sinking deep into the soft fabric of her dress and the flesh beneath.
She didn’t sit comfortably, either. Every few minutes, she would subtly adjust her posture, leaning slightly to the left to let her right side hang free, while her left hand pressed and rubbed firmly against her hip before she resumed writing.
Her brows were slightly furrowed, so faintly that it was barely noticeable unless one looked closely.
Mianmian thought to herself: This sister is really pretty. Not in a flashy way, but quietly, gently, like a well-tended asparagus fern in the library, exuding a scholarly kind of beauty.
Pregnancy hadn’t diminished that beauty at all. Instead, it seemed to cast a soft, hazy glow around her, adding a serene and full-bodied grace.
Mianmian turned her attention back to her own test papers. She had only solved two problems when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the person beside her move.
Mianmian glanced over. The bespectacled sister had laid her head on the desk, burying it in her arms, her shoulders rising and falling slightly.
Her hand hung down, resting beneath the table.
From her seat, Mianmian could see that hand clearly.
It was stroking her belly.
From the side to the front, from the top to the bottom, slowly, one stroke at a time.
When her fingers reached the very bottom of her belly, they paused, and the heel of her palm pressed inward, as if pushing toward the center.
After a while, the older sister raised her head.
Her face was covered in sweat. Her forehead glistened, beads of sweat dotted the tip of her nose, and the stray hairs at her temples were damp, clinging to her cheeks. She took out a tissue to wipe her face, took a deep breath, and lowered her head again to continue reading.
Mianmian wondered curiously, is pregnancy always this uncomfortable for pregnant women?
She lowered her head and continued working on her problems.
The library was very quiet. Only the sound of pages turning, the soft rustle of pen tips moving across paper, and occasionally the footsteps of someone getting up and walking around.
Mianmian quickly entered a state of flow, focusing intently and finishing two test papers in one go before finally looking up to stretch her neck.
The bespectacled older sister next to her had changed her posture.
She was lying on the table, her forehead pressed against the open postgraduate exam materials. That huge, round belly was now firmly pressed against the hard edge of the table, making its shape appear somewhat unnatural, as if flattened.
Her back, beneath the thin dress, was heaving violently.
Not the ordinary rise and fall of breathing, but intense, rhythmic heaves, as if panting. The back of her dress, between her shoulder blades, was already soaked through.
The older sister’s two legs, in the narrow space under the table, were spread wide apart, almost to their maximum extent.
Mianmian hesitated for a moment, leaning slightly toward her, and asked in a whisper, very softly:
“Sister, are you okay?”
The older sister slowly, laboriously raised her head.
That originally fair, delicate face was now drained of color, a weak, almost translucent pallor. Her elegant forehead, petite nose tip, and even her chin were covered in fine, glistening beads of sweat.
“I’m fine,” she also replied in a whisper, her voice thin and soft. “Just a bit tired from reading, resting for a bit lying down. Sorry, little sister, for disturbing you.”
Mianmian quickly shook her head, her voice even softer. “No, you didn’t disturb me.”
The older sister gave another weak smile, then slowly stood up, supporting herself on the table. She stood up very slowly, one hand holding the table, the other cradling her belly. She stood for a while, as if waiting for some discomfort within her body to pass, before taking a step.
She walked toward the restroom, her steps clumsy and heavy.
As she passed behind Mianmian, the high, protruding side of her belly lightly brushed against the back of Mianmian’s head.
Through Mianmian’s fine, soft hair came a wave of warmth.
Not a dry heat, but a gentle, substantial warmth, the body temperature of life itself. The sensation was soft and elastic, like a warm, full cloud gently brushing over the top of her head, leaving behind a fleeting, peculiar warmth.
Mianmian lowered her head and continued working on her problems.
Suddenly, someone stood up behind her. It was a careless-looking boy with a backpack. He squeezed past through the aisle, pushing his chair back recklessly.
And bumped into someone.
“Mm—!!”
Mianmian heard a muffled groan and turned to look. The older sister was standing in the aisle, bumped squarely, right on her belly. She leaned back slightly, both hands instinctively protecting her stomach, her mouth open as if about to cry out.
But she covered her mouth.
That cry was forcibly stifled by her.
The boy glanced back, said a rather insincere “Sorry,” and hurried away.
The older sister slowly straightened up, standing in place for a long time.
Mianmian saw that her eyes were red.
A few people nearby glanced over, frowning slightly, perhaps displeased that the sudden disturbance had broken the quiet. But soon, they all lowered their heads again, sinking back into their books.
Mianmian was thirsty, and her thermos was empty, so she went to the water dispenser room.
Passing by the sink, she noticed the bespectacled older girl standing at one of the basins, her back to the doorway.
She was slightly bent over, her head hanging low, her ear-length bob slipping forward to cover the side of her face. The faucet was running, a thin stream of water rushing down. Her hands were scrubbing something vigorously and repeatedly on the back hem of her white skirt.
The spot she was scrubbing was just below her hips, on the back of the skirt.
She held that small piece of fabric under the faucet, letting the water flow directly over it, then rubbed it hard with her hands. After a few scrubs, she would hold it under the water again, then scrub once more. She repeated this over and over.
The older girl looked up and saw her in the mirror. Her face flushed instantly, and she lowered her head, turned off the faucet, and hastily tugged the damp, crumpled hem of her skirt backward, trying to cover it, then attempted to wring it dry.
Mianmian blushed too.
She didn’t know what to say, so she pretended she hadn’t seen anything and turned to leave.
Back at her seat, she felt a little worried.
What was that pink stain?
After a while, the older girl returned as well.
She moved each step slowly, leaning against the wall, then the desks, then the chair backs. When she reached her seat, she didn’t sit down immediately. Instead, she stood holding the back of the chair for a while.
Then, she began to lower herself down, extremely slowly and tentatively.
The moment her bottom touched the hard plastic seat, she sprang back up.
Her brows were tightly furrowed, and a clear flicker of pain crossed her face.
She stood there, took a few breaths, and tried to sit down again.
This time, she was even more cautious, almost hovering, letting her bottom gradually approach the seat.
Just as she was about to settle fully, she stopped, gripping the sides of the chair tightly with both hands, shifting most of her weight onto her arms. Only a tiny fraction of her weight rested lightly on the chair.
She let out a long, trembling sigh and, maintaining this precarious half-squatting, half-sitting posture, turned her gaze back to the book in front of her.
Mianmian tried to work on her problems beside her but couldn’t focus.
Their seats were simply too close together, their arms almost touching.
Mianmian could clearly feel the warmth radiating from the body next to her. The older girl’s heavy, rhythmic breathing sounded right beside her ear, carrying a suppressed tremor.
Her prominent belly rose and fell with each breath. From time to time, its rounded side would lightly, unconsciously brush against Mianmian’s arm.
Warm. Soft. Through the thin fabric of her school uniform sleeve, a distinct, living warmth transmitted itself.
Again and again.
Mianmian caught her scent—fragrant, like laundry detergent, but also a bit salty, hard to describe.
The older girl’s sitting posture grew increasingly unstable.
She began to shift ever so slightly and restlessly in her chair.
Her bottom moved cautiously, inch by inch, half a step to the left, pausing for a moment as if searching for a less painful angle.
Finding none, she shifted just as slowly half a step to the right.
Her legs, pressed together under the desk, would occasionally part, then reluctantly close again out of shyness or discomfort. Her feet rubbed unconsciously against the floor.
Later, the half-squatting posture supported by her hands clearly reached its limit as well. Her arms began to tremble violently. She had to release her grip and attempt to sit down completely.
“Hmm…” A faint, choked sob escaped from between her tightly clenched teeth.
It was as if she had sat on a nail—she abruptly pushed herself up with her hands again, returning to that hovering, half-seated position.
Mianmian saw sweat soaking through her back and underarms once more.
Her breathing grew increasingly rapid and shallow, turning into short, trembling gasps.
Finally, she used her hands to brace against the table and struggled to stand up, heading toward the restroom.