Downstairs, Director Zhao craned his neck toward the rooftop, the veins at his temples throbbing visibly.
Provincial Top Scorer.
Those three words weighed on his shoulders like a mountain.
How many years had it been since their county produced a Provincial Top Scorer?
There hadn’t even been one as far back as he could remember. The closest was a student who later got into Tsinghua University. Back then, congratulatory banners had hung throughout the county for an entire month. The former director who had promoted Zhao never stopped bringing it up. He’d gone drinking with others three separate times, and halfway through every meal, he would slap the table and proudly declare, “I watched that top student grow up!”
But that had been something good.
It was an achievement, something worthy of a photograph on the wall and a glowing mention in the year-end report.
And now?
The Provincial Top Scorer was about to jump off a building.
Director Zhao raised a hand and wiped his face. His palm came away slick with greasy sweat.
His mind had already begun uncontrollably playing out what would happen next. Su Xiaoyue would leap from the seventh-floor rooftop. The rescue cushion wouldn’t be ready in time—or perhaps it would be ready but fail to catch her. She would slam into the ground, leaving a horrifying mess behind.
Then the news would spread.
The Provincial Top Scorer had died by suicide.
What would the online media write?
What would the public accounts post?
How many days would it dominate Weibo’s trending searches?
[Provincial Top Scorer Driven to Suicide by Parental Pressure]
[Who Killed Our Child?]
[Parents of Provincial Top Scorer Tearfully Ask: What Did We Do Wrong?]
…
Then officials from above would arrive.
An investigation team would be formed.
And what would they investigate?
The school. The family. The county’s education system.
And then…
Him.
Those people at the Education Bureau certainly wouldn’t escape scrutiny, but losing his position would already be the best possible outcome for him.
The word Director Zhao feared most was “investigation.”
He hadn’t exactly kept his hands clean while sitting in this position. The money that had passed through his hands over the years, the approvals he’d signed, the favors he’d arranged for others—if someone truly decided to dig through every single one of them, losing his uniform would be the least of his worries.
If he could come out of it in one piece, he would have to thank his ancestors for watching over him.
“How much longer until the rescue cushion is ready?” His voice cracked, his throat feeling as though it were filled with sand.
A young firefighter beside him glanced at him, then lowered his eyes to the radio in his hand. After exchanging a few words through it, he replied, “Director Zhao, two and a half minutes.”
“Two and a half minutes?” Director Zhao’s voice shot up, the veins in his neck bulging. “Didn’t you just say two minutes? How did it become two and a half again? What are you people doing?”
Someone beside him hurriedly explained, “It was two minutes thirty seconds ago. There are only one and a half minutes left now.”
Only then did Director Zhao realize he’d said something ridiculous.
But he had no time to feel embarrassed.
He snatched the phone from his secretary’s hand, found Xia Anmian’s number, and immediately called her.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Every ring felt like a hammer striking his heart. Get faster updates on g.com.
“Hello?” The call connected, and the sound of rushing wind came through along with Xia Anmian’s lowered voice.
“Student Xia! Listen to me!” Director Zhao practically shouted, his voice carrying a desperation he himself hadn’t even noticed. “Keep her talking a little longer! Just another minute and a half! The rescue cushion is almost ready! Talk to her—say anything! Just stall her for another minute! I’m begging you! Please!”
After saying that, he hung up.
Sweat streamed down his neck and disappeared beneath his collar, soaking the back of his shirt into a dark patch.
On the rooftop, Xia Anmian lowered the phone, gripping it so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
She stared at Su Xiaoyue’s back.
The wind pressed Su Xiaoyue’s white T-shirt tightly against her body. Her back looked as thin as paper, the outlines of her shoulder blades clearly visible beneath the fabric.
“Xiaoyue.” Xia Anmian cautiously moved half a step forward, making her voice as soft and gentle as possible. “That was my mom just now. She said she made your favorite pork rib soup. Let’s go downstairs and have some together. Whatever happened, we can talk about it slowly, okay?”
Su Xiaoyue didn’t move.
Her back remained turned toward Xia Anmian. She held the phone in both hands, its glow illuminating her face. Even from behind, Xia Anmian could see the wet trails of tears still running down her cheeks.
“Xiaoyue, can you hear me?”
Su Xiaoyue’s shoulders trembled. A faint voice squeezed out of her throat, “Anmian, stop worrying about me.”
“If I don’t worry about you, then who will?” Xia Anmian took another step forward, her voice beginning to crack with tears. “We grew up together. We were in the same class in kindergarten, the same class in elementary school, the same class in middle school, and we’re still together in high school. I was even the one who brought you a change of clothes when you got your first period. And now you’re telling me not to worry about you?”
Su Xiaoyue’s shoulders trembled even harder.
“Xiaoyue…” Xia Anmian softened her voice again. “That boy… Even if he doesn’t want you anymore, you still have me. If you’re hurting, I’ll take you somewhere to clear your head. We can go to Chengdu for hot pot, go to Chongqing to see Hongya Cave, or go anywhere else you want. I’ll go with you. Please come down, okay?”
Su Xiaoyue raised her phone toward the night sky.
The battery indicator flickered.
4% became 3%.
“Anmian.” Her voice suddenly became calm.
That calmness was even more frightening than her crying and screaming.
“You don’t understand. He’s my only light.”
“Only him.”
“Only he tells me good night. Only he asks whether I was happy that day. Only he listens when I ramble about all those pointless things. He tells me that his life isn’t going well either, and we keep each other warm.”
Su Xiaoyue paused.
The corner of her mouth twitched into a smile uglier than tears.
“He lied to me. I know that. He doesn’t want me anymore. I know that too. But… but he was the only thing I had left to hold on to.”
The wind swept across the rooftop.
Xia Anmian stood behind her, opening and closing her mouth again and again. She desperately wanted to say something, but not a single word would come out.
She couldn’t refute Su Xiaoyue because she knew every word was true.
Xia Anmian had met Su Xiaoyue’s parents countless times. At every parent-teacher meeting, they would sit in the front row, gripping her report card with brows knotted tightly together.
Even if Su Xiaoyue ranked second in her entire grade, her mother could still stand in the hallway in front of everyone and say, “How did you fall behind again?”
Xia Anmian knew she wouldn’t have survived even a single day living like that.
Su Xiaoyue had endured it for eighteen years.
“Xiaoyue…” Xia Anmian’s voice was so hoarse it was barely audible. “Come down. I’ll take you somewhere fun, okay?”
Su Xiaoyue didn’t answer.
She lowered her head and stared at the gray profile picture on her phone. She stared at the notification telling her that the other person had deleted their account, then at the screen filled with all the green message bubbles she had sent.
Every single one was followed by a red exclamation mark.
She typed another message.
[Brother, please reply to me, okay?]
Send.
Gray text.
Then she typed another.
[Brother, I’m leaving now. Remember to come and pick me up.]
Send.
Gray text.
1%.
The battery indicator in the upper-right corner flickered again. The tiny red battery icon flashed repeatedly, like a heart struggling through its final beats.
Su Xiaoyue stared at that number for several seconds.
Then she did something unexpected.
She turned off the screen.
The instant it went black, the entire world seemed to fall silent.
The wind was still howling.
The police sirens below were still blaring.
The blowers were still humming.
Yet she could no longer hear any of it.
Su Xiaoyue stood on the edge of the building, both feet planted on the narrow concrete ledge. All ten of her toes curled from the force she was exerting. Her slippers had been kicked off at some point without her even noticing, and the rough concrete dug painfully into the soles of her bare feet.
She closed her eyes.
The teardrop clinging to her eyelashes finally grew too heavy to remain there. It fell, only to be scattered by the wind in midair.
“It’s over.”
She heard her own voice.
Then she drew a deep breath and prepared to take that final step—
Her phone suddenly vibrated.
Along with it came the long-awaited notification sound, like rain finally falling upon parched earth.
It was the special ringtone she had personally set for “Brother.”
For more than two years, every time she heard that sound, she would immediately grab her phone. Even if she was taking a shower, she would hurriedly dry her hands and rush out to check his message.
Su Xiaoyue’s entire body froze.
She immediately turned on her phone.
The screen lit up.
A red number appeared over the WeChat icon.
[1]
One unread message.
Su Xiaoyue jolted as though electricity had shot through her body.
She abruptly jumped down from the ledge.
Her knees slammed into the concrete with a dull thud, but she felt no pain.
The contact saved as “Brother” had returned.
His profile picture had returned too—the image she had looked at for more than two years, the one she had personally chosen for him.
A little cat sleeping on the moon.
It was lit up once again.
There were only four words in the message.
[Don’t do anything stupid.]