Soon, the midterm exams were approaching. At times like this, the whole school’s study atmosphere always rose to a new level.
We usually call this level—“cramming at the last minute.”
No matter what, during this period, even the laziest students suddenly became energetic. They paid attention in class, stopped rushing to the bathroom between periods, and the hallways grew quieter.
But inside the classrooms, it was lively.
Students paced while reciting, sought help from top scorers, or buried themselves in endless practice problems—left‑hand rules, magnetic field lines through palms—looking like they were performing rituals.
In short, there was nothing you couldn’t imagine and nothing you wouldn’t see—it actually made the teachers rather pleased.
Why did a midterm exam stir up so much anxiety? Answer: because after the exam came the parent‑teacher conference.
On the day of the midterm, it rained.
The rain had started the night before. Autumn‑winter rain wasn’t heavy, but it was steady, fine, and cold.
In Li City, a single shower of early‑winter rain brought the damp chill of another layer, and the temperature fell visibly.
Winter arrived quietly at everyone’s side.
In the dim morning, the streetlights were still on, rain threads weaving through their halos. Cars moved with headlights on, stopping and starting. Pedestrians on the sidewalks grew from scattered to crowded. They carried umbrellas, waited for buses, fought for taxis, or hurried along.
Breakfast shops were already bright, steam rising lazily from bamboo baskets at the door.
Lu Yun and Shan Jiqiu ate breakfast at their usual rice‑noodle shop across from the alley of Courtyard No. 6. The small shop was always packed, business thriving.
Shan Jiqiu glanced at Lu Yun’s open school jacket—inside, still just a thin T‑shirt—and her eyes drifted down to his pant legs. They sat at the table by the wall near the entrance, facing each other.
Lu Yun’s long legs stretched—one under the table, the other angled out. His uniform pants couldn’t hide the skin; his strong ankle showed a sliver of pale, cold flesh.
A gust of wind carried rain inside. The boy sat unmoved, but the girl shivered uncontrollably.
Shan Jiqiu was naturally cold‑bodied and sensitive to the chill. The night before, Shen Suyue had reminded her again and again about the drop in temperature, telling her to wear thermal pants.
And this boy—she realized—was the type who never wore them all winter.
Not just him, really. Most boys in school, and the girls who cared about fashion, were the same. They united against the “ugly” existence of thermal wear, refusing to wear it even when shivering in the depths of winter.
At that age, we didn’t know what “chronic cold legs” meant. We chose style over warmth, unwavering.
Lu Yun was hunched over his bowl, eating noodles, but he felt her gaze lingering. He lifted his eyelids and saw the girl biting her chopsticks, staring blankly downward. Following her gaze, he found nothing on the floor—only a stray dog at the next table, scavenging. He picked a piece of beef from his bowl and tossed it over. The little dog tucked its tail and happily ate.
“Still staring.” Lu Yun tapped the rim of Shan Jiqiu’s bowl with his chopsticks. “Keep it up and Director Zhao will invite you to the office after the midterm.”
Shan Jiqiu pulled back her gaze, scooping up steaming noodles. “Perfect. Saves me from a certain eternal runner‑up kicking my chair all the time.”
Lu Yun laughed in disbelief: “Autumn God, you’re getting cocky!”
Shan Jiqiu bit into her noodles, mumbling back: “Average, average—third in the world.”
Lu Yun finished his last bite, set down his chopsticks, wiped his mouth, and slowly drawled three words: “Little cub.”
Shan Jiqiu shot back: “Lu Second.”
Lu Yun suddenly chuckled, casually: “Normally, I wouldn’t explain this kind of thing to girls. But you keep calling me ‘runner‑up.’ I don’t mind, but if other guys hear it, they’ll think you’re being indecent. Get it?”
At first, Shan Jiqiu didn’t understand. She lifted her eyes to meet his teasing peach‑blossom gaze—still no reaction. Then, following his glance downward, she realized instantly. Her throat caught on a noodle, choking her into a fit of coughing, face flushed red.
The culprit only grinned, handing her a tissue.
Shan Jiqiu remembered Yu Kexia saying other girls had talked about how boys their age watched “those little films,” collected magazines of “Teacher Cang” and others.
Most girls thought “Teacher Cang” was a female celebrity. Of course, boys also told dirty jokes—about how girls looked, their figures, and so on.
Apparently, even the most proper boys discussed these things with friends.
So it was true.
After all, Lu Yun wasn’t nearly as proper as he looked. His handsome face was deceiving. But really, it was understandable. Girls had their own chatter too—who was handsome, who was tall, who played basketball well. They compared which girl was curvy and which was flat. They talked about celebrities, who was dating, who broke up.
Shan Jiqiu held her umbrella, privately comparing the differences between boys’ and girls’ conversations, so distracted she nearly stepped off the sidewalk.
A car sped past, tires splashing water from the roadside puddles. Suddenly, she was yanked back hard. Water slapped against fabric with a loud splash. She looked up—Lu Yun had pulled her behind him, his left arm half‑wrapped around her side. His right hand tilted the umbrella outward, shielding them from the spray. He shook the umbrella, raised it overhead again, then flicked her forehead: “What were you thinking? Trying to get hit by a car?”
Shan Jiqiu thought: *I can’t exactly say I was wondering if you’ve ever done that.*
She shook her head. “I was thinking about what today’s essay topic will be.”
Lu Yun: “You’re Autumn God, and that’s what you’re thinking?”
Shan Jiqiu: “Just making predictions.”
Lu Yun: “Go on then.”
“…”
So the two of them kept guessing essay topics while waiting for the bus.
On a rainy morning, rush hour packed the bus full. Lu Yun and Shan Jiqiu stood near the back door, each holding a strap and still chatting.
A man sitting in front of them lifted his eyes from his phone, glanced at the two, then at their uniforms and badges. He gave them a thumbs‑up before returning to his screen.
As they chatted, Shan Jiqiu overheard two girls nearby discussing the annual ranking of China’s most popular female celebrities. So she leaned toward Lu Yun and whispered: “Hey, do you like Teacher Cang?”
Lu Yun looked puzzled: “Teacher Cang? That’s a rare surname. A teacher at our school? What does she teach?” His voice was noticeably louder than hers, and several people nearby turned to look.
Different kinds of smiles spread across their faces—subtle, muffled, suppressed, sly.
Lu Yun was baffled. “Are they laughing at me?” he tilted his head toward Shan Jiqiu.
“Seems like it,” she said, realizing their laughter was triggered by his words, though she didn’t understand why.
At that moment, the man who had earlier given them a thumbs‑up stifled his laughter and said to Lu Yun: “Young man, just Baidu it.”
Lu Yun handed his umbrella to Shan Jiqiu, pulled out his phone, and started searching. His dark eyes sank into the screen in silence. After a while, he looked up, lips curved, gaze sharp with hidden meaning, staring at Shan Jiqiu. In his eyes, she saw four words—*a smile hiding a knife.*
“Classmate Shan Jiqiu,” Lu Yun asked through gritted teeth, “who told you about this ‘teacher’?”
“Yu Kexia!” Shan Jiqiu answered honestly.
The bus happened to stop. As they turned toward the back door to get off, the fellow passengers who had been listening in perked their ears.
“You know who this teacher is?”
“I do.”
“You do?”
“Of course!” Shan Jiqiu said, thinking Lu Yun was making a fuss. “She’s just a female celebrity.”
“Shan Jiqiu, stop listening to Yu Kexia’s nonsense,” Lu Yun said, half amused, half exasperated. “She’s not surnamed Cang. It’s *Aoi.* Got it?”
“Huh? Then who is she? What does she do? Show me.”
“No.”
“I’ll look it up myself.”
“…”
“Lu Yun, give me back my phone.”
“…”
The bus doors closed, and the people who had been watching the whole scene now smiled more openly, with a touch of envy. Their smiles seemed to say: *Youth is wonderful.*
The midterm exams lasted two days, just like the monthly tests.
But since half the semester had already passed, the difficulty was naturally much higher than the monthly exams. As a result, many students who crammed at the last minute ended up in two obvious states afterward.
One group looked utterly defeated, as if their souls had left them. The other group was unusually excited, as if chosen by destiny.
The first group was represented by Yu Kexia; the second, by Zhou An.
Shan Jiqiu and Yu Kexia leaned against the railing by the outdoor basketball court, watching the boys play. Beside her, Yu Kexia sighed again and again.
“Tell me why our school is so weird. No parent meetings at the start of term, none at the end, but right in the middle—bam, a parent meeting after midterms.” Yu Kexia covered her face, mouth twisted, looking utterly miserable. “I’m doomed. Oh heavens! Why does liberal arts have to include math?”
Shan Jiqiu patted her shoulder, comforting: “The results aren’t out yet. Maybe it’s not as bad as you think.”
Yu Kexia sighed again: “You’re the all‑rounder genius. You don’t understand the pain of us who are hopeless in one subject. It’s torture.”
Shan Jiqiu hit the nail on the head: “You just don’t like math.”
Yu Kexia couldn’t argue: “Exactly. You’re in love with math, enjoying it. I just want to break up with it.”
Shan Jiqiu smiled helplessly, her eyes drifting to the boys in jerseys and shorts on the court, showing no respect for the season, radiating charm. Plenty of girls surrounded them.
Maybe the best cure for a bad exam mood was watching handsome boys play basketball.
“By the way, why is Zhou An so confident this time?”
Shan Jiqiu thought of Zhou An’s post‑exam swagger, acting like he’d be first in the grade, invincible. She almost forgot he was really just middle‑tier.
Yu Kexia followed her gaze. The boy she liked wasn’t the brightest star, but in her heart, he was the one and only moon.
“Him?” Yu Kexia laughed. “He’s always full of confidence, then reality slams him down and rubs him into the ground. He just has a good attitude.”
Shan Jiqiu noticed that whenever Yu Kexia mentioned Zhou An, her face showed disdain, but her eyes were full of the boy she cared about.
They say you can’t hide the look of liking someone.
But when Shan Jiqiu looked at the carefree boy in the white #24 jersey, sinking a perfect three‑point fadeaway, her own feelings were buried deep in her heart, hidden for years.
Halftime came, and it was the girls’ moment to stir.
Yu Kexia grabbed a sports drink and stood: “Come on, let’s give them water.”
Shan Jiqiu murmured “Mm,” picked up a bottle of mineral water, and stood too. But as soon as she lifted her eyes, her steps faltered. A pretty, confident girl walked straight up to Lu Yun and handed him a sports drink.
At the same time, the school beauty Deng Wenwen stepped forward with a bottle of cola, smiling at the girl: “He only drinks cola.”
That display of “claiming sovereignty” instantly turned the noisy, carefree basketball court into a three‑way drama, with cheers and teasing echoing all around.
One would have thought the girl would be embarrassed, but she wasn’t. Instead, she smiled openly: “Nothing in this world is absolute. Tastes aren’t something that never change.”
Deng Wenwen: “Relax. At the very least, he won’t want your sports drink.”
The girl: “And what if he wants your cola?”
Deng Wenwen: “Lu Yun, what do you drink?”
The girl: “Doesn’t matter. Whatever you want, I’ve got it.”
Deng Wenwen: “Pretty face or not, you should have some shame.”
The girl: “Thanks for the compliment.”
“…”
From a distance, Shan Jiqiu stared at the two beauties vying for one handsome boy. She couldn’t hear their words, but their expressions told the story well enough. Inside her, the spring of jealousy bubbled endlessly. Then she saw Lu Yun smiling gently at the two girls—and that spring erupted into a volcano.
You’re actually smiling!
When reason is drowned by anger, logic disappears. Like now—Shan Jiqiu’s slender fingers tightened silently, the mineral water bottle creaking under her grip.
You forbid me from dating, yet here you are choosing concubines? Why?
The more she thought, the angrier she became. She twisted open the bottle, tilted her head back, and gulped, her fiery eyes fixed from afar.
Lu Yun, if you accept, I’ll never like you again.
And then, Shan Jiqiu watched in disbelief as Lu Yun casually took both bottles—one in each hand.