Everyone knows: a buried mine is called a landmine. And Tan Junhao was the one who stepped on it.
One step, and boom. Wasn’t this just pouring oil on the fire?
Shan Jiqiu looked at the two pairs of eyes fixed on her, both waiting for an answer. Especially Lu Yun’s dark, deep peach‑blossom eyes—cold, detached. She found it absurd. Duan Boyi likes her? Where did that come from? Whose illusion was that? Yet lately, people kept bringing him up—Yu Kexia, Tan Junhao, even Lu Yun himself had mentioned it.
“How could that be? I’m not close to him. What are you thinking?” Shan Jiqiu said.
“Then why did he come looking for you just now?” Tan Junhao paused, meaningfully. “He even came all the way to our math competition class.”
Shan Jiqiu glanced again at Lu Yun, only to see that at some point he had already pulled out his phone, head lowered, absorbed in play. The faint glow of the screen lit his face, reflecting a calm, indifferent expression. She bit her lip, determined not to look at him again. Turning her gaze squarely back to Tan Junhao, she said evenly, “He just came over to return my school badge.”
Lu Yun’s hand stilled, his fingers tightening unconsciously, his lips pressed into a thin line. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the slight upward curve of Shan Jiqiu’s lips.
Hmph. So happy, are you? Don’t bother pretending. Anyone can see it. He personally returned your badge—your heart must be blooming. And yet you sit there, forcing calm, feigning indifference. Heh. Women.
Lu Yun shot another glance at Tan Junhao. Don’t ask pointless questions. If you want to ask, ask the real one—why did she use my water to wash Duan Boyi’s hand? The badge ended up in his possession. That’s pretty intense.
As if summoned by Lu Yun’s thoughts, Tan Junhao really did ask something close: “Then how did your badge end up with him?”
On Lu Yun’s phone, the game character went from start to Game Over in seconds—obvious self‑sabotage. The screen went dark; he lit it again. Dark, then lit again. He wasn’t really playing at all. The game was just a cover; in truth, he was straining to eavesdrop.
Shan Jiqiu never looked at him again, nor noticed his odd behavior, let alone guessed at the little schemes in his heart. She simply answered Tan Junhao’s question honestly: “This afternoon, I accidentally bumped into him and spilled water all over him. I noticed he had a wound on his hand. Since it was my fault, I offered the leftover bottled water to rinse it, so it wouldn’t get infected. But I accidentally dropped my badge there, and he saw it. Just now, he was only returning it. Don’t overthink.”
Of course, courtesy demanded reciprocity, so Shan Jiqiu politely asked about Duan Boyi’s injury. Then the preparatory bell rang.
Tan Junhao had taken leave that afternoon to go home, and when he returned to school, he came straight to the competition class. So he had no idea what had happened earlier on the basketball court. Now, hearing Shan Jiqiu’s explanation, he didn’t press for details, just nodded lightly: “Oh, I see.”
Lu Yun slipped his phone into his pocket, looking down at Shan Jiqiu from above. The classroom light spilling out behind him softened his figure in an instant. After a pause, he spoke: “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
Shan Jiqiu hadn’t expected Lu Yun to speak first. His attitude was still rough, his face still sour, but his tone was noticeably gentler. It was his way of making peace. Thinking back, it seemed that every quarrel—no matter who was right or wrong—he was always the one to yield first.
Her heart felt padded with cotton, a touch of softness added. Looking at it now, she had only taken advantage of his tolerance, pushing boundaries without restraint. Honestly, what fault was his? Her jealousy was meaningless, her inner chaos self‑inflicted. All these years, she had played a one‑woman drama of joy, anger, sorrow, and delight—unknown to him.
He hadn’t known before, didn’t know now, and would never know. So in the end, he had only accepted someone else’s drink. Maybe, perhaps, probably, possibly—it was just politeness, courtesy, good manners. Not what she imagined. Maybe she had misunderstood. And yet he had suffered her temper for no reason at all. When she was angry, she happened to overhear people talking about it, and instinctively avoided it, refusing to listen to a word. Without knowing the full story, she had judged.
After all these years, she knew Lu Yun’s nature well. How could such a person change overnight? How had she so decisively passed judgment on him? Ah—she really had been blinded by jealousy.
Shan Jiqiu cleared her throat quietly, glanced at Lu Yun, then looked away. Still feeling awkward, her tone came out faint but stubborn: “You didn’t ask either.”
Lu Yun pressed his tongue against his cheek, studying her for a long moment. And that was all she managed to say? Fine. At least she was talking to him. As a man, he should be magnanimous, not quibble with a woman.
That was what he thought—yet when he opened his mouth, he couldn’t resist digging up old grievances: “Didn’t you say there was nothing worth saying?”
Shan Jiqiu: “…” Suddenly at a loss for words.
Seeing her displeased expression, Lu Yun didn’t continue. Forget it. No point asking more—say too much and she’d get upset again. He really couldn’t fathom what girls thought all day. This girl wasn’t like this before. It must be Yu Kexia’s influence.
Near ink, one grows black.
Note: The phrase 近墨者黑 (jìn zhū zhě hēi) translates to “one who gets near ink becomes black” in English. It illustrates the idea that a person’s character and morals are influenced by their environment and the company they keep. In a positive context, it suggests that being close to virtuous people can lead to personal growth and moral improvement. Conversely, being associated with negative influences can lead to negative traits.
“Alright then, if you don’t want to say, I won’t ask. It’s chilly outside—go back into the classroom.” Lu Yun looked at Shan Jiqiu, tilting his chin toward her, his voice gentle.
“Was just about to.” Shan Jiqiu didn’t put on airs, simply stepped down the stairs. She met Lu Yun’s gaze for a brief moment—one glance that dissolved a thousand worries—then turned and walked into the classroom.
Lu Yun watched her slender back, the corners of his lips unconsciously curving into a fine smile. He casually slung an arm around Tan Junhao’s shoulder as they headed toward the classroom door. Tightening his grip around his neck in mock play, he teased: “Why do I feel like when you said ‘Oh, I see,’ it sounded a little regretful?”
Tan Junhao, suddenly pulled in, choked as his neck tightened. He struggled: “Did it? No way. My tone was normal—you must’ve misheard.”
Lu Yun ground his teeth: “Is that… so?”
Tan Junhao: “Hey, hey, let go—you’re killing me here.”
“…”
By the time the dismissal, the rain was pouring hard. In the night, the unexpected downpour looked hazy, and falling against the body, it made everything feel blurred and uncertain.
The competition class had run late, and Teacher Xu had called Shan Jiqiu and Lu Yun into the office to go over the big questions on tonight’s exam paper and mention the upcoming parent meeting.
Back in their first year, Teacher Xu had already visited both of their homes. He knew Lu Yun came from a single‑parent family—his father a martyr, raised by grandparents since childhood. His grandmother had passed years ago, his grandfather just last year. With relatives far away and unwilling to go to them, it was the next‑door neighbor, Shan Jiqiu’s grandmother, who had taken care of him.
Coincidentally, Shan Jiqiu’s grandmother was once Teacher Xu’s own teacher, Teacher Shen. She had mentioned that Shan Jiqiu also came from a broken home—her parents divorced, her mother died young, and she had raised the child herself. As for her father, like Lu Yun’s mother, he was never spoken of.
Both children are from single‑parent families. Such backgrounds often lead to extremes—ruin or resilience. Fortunately, these two belonged to the latter. Upbeat, sensible, hardworking, they rarely gave cause for worry.
After finishing the exam review, Teacher Xu clasped his hands on the desk and smiled at them: “No need to trouble Teacher Shen for the parent meeting. I’ve got nothing to complain about you two anyway.”
Shan Jiqiu smiled and nodded: “Alright, Little Xu.”
Teacher Xu gave her a helpless glance, then turned to lecture Lu Yun: “She’s your neighbor’s granddaughter at least—teach her to respect her teachers.”
Lu Yun answered with a simple “Mm. Okay, Little Xu.”
“You two, thick as thieves,” Teacher Xu sighed, checking the time. “Alright, head home. Did you bring umbrellas?”
Both shook their heads. It hadn’t rained all day, so they hadn’t.
Xu Zhi slid his chair back, pulled open the side drawer, and took out a folding umbrella, handing it to Lu Yun. “Return it tomorrow.”
Lu Yun accepted it. “Thank you, Teacher Xu.”
Xu Zhi clicked his tongue twice. “Practical.”
…
By now, the campus was nearly empty.
The lights glowed dim and soft, mingling with the misty night rain, making the grounds feel quiet and solitary.
Under the blue‑checkered umbrella, the boy and girl stepped through puddles, splashing in the rhythm of “drip‑drop, patter.”
The world suddenly fell silent.
Night, campus, lamplight, rain, umbrella, and the boy she liked—all became catalysts for emotion.
Shan Jiqiu kept reminding herself to stay clear‑headed, deliberately keeping her distance from Lu Yun, edging farther away.
Beneath the small umbrella, their arms were separated by more than a fist’s width—like an unbridgeable gulf.
She looked ahead, but the road stretched into endless yellow mist and rain, with no future in sight.
The atmosphere was strange, words hovering but unsaid.
Lu Yun held the umbrella, but his heartstrings, disturbed tonight, left him unusually speechless in the empty, rain‑soaked campus. He remembered that hot September night in the rain, when he had so firmly dismissed his own illusion. Now, thinking back, perhaps it hadn’t been baseless.
He wanted to say something, but didn’t know where to begin. The silence was pure, yet his heart was noisy and lost. He walked on in silence. He couldn’t believe there would come a day when he and this girl had nothing to say, awkwardly so.
Lu Yun tilted his head slightly, eyes lowered. The girl beside him drifted farther away, half her shoulder exposed to the rain. She stared straight ahead, seemingly unaware.
Lu Yun shifted the umbrella to his left hand, ready to reach out with his right and draw her back under its cover. But just as his hand lifted behind her, it froze mid‑air, hovering at her back. His long fingers clenched and spread, spread and clenched, over and over—hesitant, uncertain.
Why had a gesture once so casual now become so cautious, so timid, that he dared not touch her arm? In the end, he gave up. He withdrew his hand, switched the umbrella back, and quietly tilted it toward Shan Jiqiu until his own left shoulder grew damp, rain soaking through layer by layer. Only when the chill seeped into his bones did it feel real.
“Let’s take a taxi home,” Shan Jiqiu suddenly suggested.
“Alright.” Lu Yun looked at the girl beside him—and finally smiled.