Wen Zhao blended into the crowd. Even as the bustling flow of people threatened to pull them apart, Qin Zhuyu held tightly to her sleeve.
Qin Zhuyu rarely walked this fast. Wen Zhao knew she was upset, but she said nothing, simply following behind her. At the school gate, Wen Zhao spotted several cars and a few young foreign faces conversing with the college leadership. Before she could give it much thought, Qin Zhuyu tugged her back in the opposite direction.
Eventually, Wen Zhao followed Qin Zhuyu into the cafeteria.
Wen Zhao had no requirements for food and didn’t care what she ate. However, Qin Zhuyu, who had stormed into the cafeteria with such momentum, lost her appetite after only two bites. Wen Zhao’s chopsticks slowed down.
Was she dissatisfied with the food, or something else?
“Don’t like the food?” Wen Zhao asked.
“I have no appetite,” Qin Zhuyu replied.
It was the latter, then.
Wen Zhao nodded understandingly. “Okay, then I’ll eat faster so we can head back early.”
“Mm.” Qin Zhuyu tossed her chopsticks aside.
Neither was in the mood for conversation. Wen Zhao kept her head down, focusing on her meal, when the light in front of her suddenly dimmed. Looking up, she saw someone standing beside Qin Zhuyu.
Zheng Miaoning set down her meal tray and looked at Wen Zhao. “You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?”
“What do you think?” Wen Zhao didn’t answer directly, turning instead to Qin Zhuyu.
Wen Zhao could endure anything, but the key was whether Qin Zhuyu could. If she was unwilling, Wen Zhao wouldn’t force her to endure it together.
Qin Zhuyu pursed her lips, taking a few breaths before saying, “It’s fine.”
Wen Zhao nodded and continued eating, but the food had become tasteless. She mechanically chewed, her mind constantly drifting toward the person sitting diagonally across from her. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed celery on Zheng Miaoning’s tray.
Subconsciously, Wen Zhao reached out with her chopsticks.
It was only when she was pulling back a heap of celery that she realized what she was doing. Her hand trembled. Zheng Miaoning’s chopsticks quickly moved to support Wen Zhao’s from beneath, preventing the food from falling.
Coming to her senses, Wen Zhao placed the celery into a small pit in her rice. She felt awkward and wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened.
She blamed it on Zheng Miaoning’s pickiness. Zheng had always expressed such resentment toward celery in front of her that, over time, Wen Zhao had developed the habit of clearing the celery from Zheng’s bowl first.
Habit truly is a terrifying thing.
Zheng Miaoning’s almond-shaped eyes brightened significantly. She pushed the rest of her celery toward Wen Zhao and, in exchange, took the tomatoes from Wen Zhao’s tray.
Wen Zhao remained silent with her head bowed, quickly finishing the rest of her food before pulling Qin Zhuyu away.
Surprisingly, Zheng Miaoning hadn’t caused any trouble during the entire meal. It wasn’t until they left the school gates that Wen Zhao felt a sense of relief. Today’s “Bitchy” Miaoning was exceptionally kind—a rare sight.
Initially, Wen Zhao thought she had come to provoke them, but Zheng had made no move against Qin Zhuyu throughout the entire class. During lunch, Wen Zhao had worried she might drop some snide remarks, but she didn’t.
A person like Zheng Miaoning wouldn’t attend an exchange seminar unless she wanted to; no one would dare force her. There was only one reason they met today: Zheng Miaoning wanted to be there.
So, did she specifically come to substitute for a class just to see me?
Wen Zhao pondered this as she walked. Beside her, Qin Zhuyu’s expression was complex. She opened her mouth several times but ultimately said nothing. She knew that all Wen Zhao wanted was to pass this week peacefully—and then leave her.
And Qin Zhuyu couldn’t bring herself to ask her to stay. It wasn’t that she couldn’t say the words; she had said them too many times, and Wen Zhao had never wavered.
Qin Zhuyu bit her lower lip, pretending not to notice Wen Zhao’s distraction.
Zheng Miaoning did not appear in the following days.
Instead, it was Wen Qian who constantly popped up in various places on campus, creating “accidental” encounters. This angered Qin Zhuyu so much that she began skipping classes.
It was the final day. She didn’t want Wen Zhao’s eyes on anyone else but her.
Aside from Qin Zhuyu’s teachers and the class monitor, no one objected—including Wen Zhao, who usually liked to keep her in line. Upon receiving the “notice,” Wen Zhao only froze for a second before smiling. “Have you thought about what to wear tomorrow? We can wear matching ‘best friend’ outfits.”
Qin Zhuyu shook her head blankly. In truth, as the day of parting arrived, she didn’t even know how to spend the tomorrow. No way of spending it felt worthy of the weight of a “last day.”
The only words that escaped her were, “Can you please not leave?”
This time, Wen Zhao paused for several seconds instead of refusing immediately. That brief silence almost sparked hope in Qin Zhuyu’s heart, but a moment later, she heard Wen Zhao say:
“If you haven’t decided, let’s wear tracksuits. I’ll wear one too.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Get some rest. We both need to be happy tomorrow.”
The string of sentences left Qin Zhuyu at a loss. “Okay… okay,” she stammered, nodding along.
Wen Zhao closed the bedroom door with a soft thud.
Since Qin Zhuyu hadn’t decided what to do, Wen Zhao took it upon herself to choose.
The system had gone silent after leaving. Wen Zhao knew that no matter where she went, the system could find her, so she had already bought a plane ticket to another city. Although Zheng Miaoning had seemed stable during their last meeting, Wen Zhao felt it was better to stay far away from her. She didn’t dare gamble on anything that might compromise Zheng Miaoning’s happiness.
As for Qin Zhuyu’s repeated pleas, Wen Zhao could never agree. If she hadn’t softened her heart two years ago, the contract wouldn’t have lasted this long. Wen Zhao’s positive influence on Qin Zhuyu had been so great that it was beginning to turn into a negative dependency.
Wen Zhao had always been soft-hearted. Every seemingly “cold” decision she made was the result of her first carving out her own heart and putting it through a thousand cuts. She pre-visualized all the pain those around her might experience and chose the path where that pain was lightest.
As for whether she herself felt the pain, Wen Zhao didn’t care.
The next day was a bright, sunny day. The soft morning light filtered through the gap in the curtains, waking Wen Zhao. For four years, Wen Zhao had been surprised every morning that she was still alive to see the sun.
The sun was so beautiful. It was a perfect day for a goodbye.
Qin Zhuyu’s bedroom door was open. She was sitting on the edge of her bed in a bright orange tracksuit, her hair messy, lost in thought. Wen Zhao knocked twice and walked in. She didn’t go to Qin Zhuyu’s side immediately; instead, she went to the bathroom, grabbed a paddle brush, and looped a hair tie around her wrist.
Sitting beside Qin Zhuyu, Wen Zhao brushed out the tangles from the ends upward, then skillfully tied Qin Zhuyu’s hair into a high ponytail.
Stuffing a tube of sunscreen into Qin Zhuyu’s hand, Wen Zhao said, “Apply this yourself. I’m going downstairs first.”
“Okay.”
Breakfast was incredibly quiet. Uncle Liu was in his elegant, well-tailored tailcoat, standing by the table with an empty tray. Several times he looked at Wen Zhao as if he wanted to say something, but she pretended not to notice.
There were too many good people in the Qin household. Every time she met their eyes, she could see gratitude and… a desire for her to stay.
Wen Zhao’s rational decisions rarely wavered. Communicating further would only increase the pain.
Not just Uncle Liu—even the driver, Xiao Wang, couldn’t help but lower the window and call out to them after dropping them at their destination. Wen Zhao watched her patiently. Wrapped in that gaze, Xiao Wang gritted her teeth, abandoning the task her big boss had given her. The words at the tip of her tongue were swallowed back down and replaced with: “Miss, Miss Wen, have a good time.”
“Mm, I hope you have a happy day too,” Wen Zhao smiled, waving her hand.
Qin Zhuyu surveyed the building in front of them and muttered, “Why did you bring me here?”
An abandoned primary school?
Wen Zhao gave a mysterious smile. “To run.”
“Huh?” Before Qin Zhuyu could react, she was pulled inside.
The school had moved to a new, larger campus, and since the old site was surrounded by residential areas, the two playgrounds were convenient for locals to exercise. The school had turned the old campus into an open “sports field,” with an old security guard at the gate to open and close it on schedule.
It was morning; most people were either at work or at home preparing lunch. There were very few people on the track. Wen Zhao did a quick count—fewer than ten. She was satisfied.
Leaving a dazed Qin Zhuyu behind, Wen Zhao walked to the stone steps across the track to stretch. It seemed she really was there to run. Qin Zhuyu had no choice but to follow.
After warming up, Wen Zhao opened the timer on her phone and stood at the starting line, waiting for Qin Zhuyu to join her. Qin Zhuyu’s expression was incredibly complex, but Wen Zhao didn’t mind, urging her to get ready.
“And—go!”
There was laughter in Wen Zhao’s voice. Despite her confusion, Qin Zhuyu’s body instinctively lunged forward.
Pressing the start button, Wen Zhao was inevitably a step behind.
Qin Zhuyu ran the first half-lap very quickly, her high ponytail swaying in the air, even the tips of her hair seeming light and airy. Wen Zhao wasn’t good at running and didn’t enjoy it; she stopped at the starting line after one lap, focusing on watching Qin Zhuyu finish the rest.
As she entered the second half, the flaws in Qin Zhuyu’s strategy became apparent. She had sprinted too hard at the start, and after 400 meters, her stamina was gone. She had to walk a step for every two she ran just to catch her breath.
Wen Zhao stood silently in place, her body turning to follow Qin Zhuyu’s position on the track. From the moment she dashed off the starting line, Qin Zhuyu’s gaze never left the faded red track beneath her feet. Even in the last hundred meters, when she was gasping for air, she remained focused on the ground and the path ahead.
“Very good.”
Wen Zhao stood just past the finish line, reaching out to catch Qin Zhuyu and helping her over to the stone steps to rest. Once Qin Zhuyu’s breathing slowed, Wen Zhao asked, “How do you feel?”
The flush on Qin Zhuyu’s face hadn’t faded, and beads of sweat covered her forehead. Hearing the question, she blinked. “It… it was okay.”
“Actually, you’re very happy, aren’t you?” Wen Zhao’s voice was certain. She used a wet wipe to clean the sweat from Qin Zhuyu’s neck, while simultaneously stopping her from trying to take off her jacket. It was only early spring; stripping off clothes right after exercise made it too easy to catch a cold.
The cool sensation on her neck made Qin Zhuyu squint comfortably. She huffed, “Hmph, how do you know if I’m happy or not?”
“Because you like running.”
Qin Zhuyu immediately changed the subject. “What was my time?”
“Four minutes and fifty-eight seconds,” Wen Zhao said, checking her phone.
Qin Zhuyu: “…”
The disappointment was visible. Wen Zhao tilted her head to look into her eyes, catching the embarrassment in Qin Zhuyu’s gaze. She gently tucked a stray, damp hair behind Qin Zhuyu’s ear.
“What’s wrong? Are you sad because of a number? But Zhuyu, don’t forget—you were truly happy on that track just now.”
“It’s just a hobby. Hobbies are meant to bring joy and satisfaction. To achieve those two things, ‘being great at it’ is not a requirement.”
Wen Zhao’s soft, inclusive gaze easily drew people in. Anyone held in that gaze would stop thinking of anything else and simply follow her words and thoughts. Qin Zhuyu was no exception.
With a little thought, Qin Zhuyu’s heart felt swollen and sour, as if filled with spilled lemon juice. Her hand, holding the damp wipe, paused before she dropped it onto the rough stone step. Suddenly, she lunged into Wen Zhao’s arms, suppressing her sobs.
Wen Zhao sighed, wiped away the moisture from the corner of her own eye, and focused on comforting her.
Qin Zhuyu’s school, B University, was one of the best in the country. She had worked incredibly hard to get in after enduring six years of isolation in middle and high school. That was why she insisted on attending—refusing her parents’ plans to send her abroad.
All her persistence was just to prove that she was truly “great.” She hid everything she wasn’t good at, unwilling to show anyone—even her own hobbies. She didn’t want anyone to use her performance as a reason to criticize her parents, adding more shadows to their already controversial lives.
This was a sharp pain born of deep love, separate from the love of her family, a pain she could never voice to her closest relatives.
Only the observant Wen Zhao had noticed. It turned out that the isolation hadn’t just given Qin Zhuyu the thorns she used against strangers and endless loneliness; it had also brought a desperate need to suppress herself.
Wen Zhao felt sorry for her. She thought that words were hollow. If Qin Zhuyu was willing to stand on a track in front of her and accept a less-than-perfect result, perhaps things would get better.
She hoped the result would be so.