The moment the words left her mouth, Shi Bei snapped back to reality, filled with so much regret it felt as though she were being pricked all over by needles.
She hurriedly looked down at the words in her textbook, trying to act as if nothing had happened, not daring to look at the expression on Kong Lingrou’s face.
Silence reigned for a long while.
Or perhaps it was just a very brief pause that felt agonizingly prolonged due to psychological suggestion.
“There are several of the most common special verbs that you need to memorize entirely. Leave the rest for later when we encounter them individually.”
Kong Lingrou used a blue mechanical pencil to draw a small triangle in the textbook and continued: “There’s a lot to memorize in the beginner stage; put off the parts that aren’t urgent for later.”
Her voice sounded as it always did—neither particularly gentle nor marked by her usual impatience.
She continued teaching as if she hadn’t heard a thing.
It took a while before Shi Bei managed to pull her thoughts together.
Listlessly, she listened to the person beside her smoothly and systematically tie together all the conjugation rules from start to finish with a clear line of thought.
Not until the sound of rain completely faded did the sky brighten either.
Kong Lingrou glanced at the time on her phone.
“Recite everything I explained today from memory. I’ll come back the day after tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
Shi Bei pressed her face against the desk, turning her head sideways as she quietly watched Kong Lingrou pack her bag. Kong Lingrou suddenly stopped and asked:
“Why did you want me to teach you?”
The question was asked so abruptly, giving her no time to prepare whatsoever.
Drowsy as she was, Shi Bei froze.
“Mm.” She straightened her posture, thinking as she answered, “Because I know your Japanese must be very good… You would definitely never allow yourself to study here and yet be bad at the language.”
Kong Lingrou looked into her eyes, a gentle smile at the corners of her lips, yet her words cut like a thin, sharp blade:
“But Beibei, for a mere language like Japanese, would you really need a teacher?”
A sense of loss—as if wrapped in swirling dust—suddenly filled Shi Bei’s heart once again. Unconsciously lowering her head, she said with lost interest, “I don’t know. If you think I don’t need one, then maybe I don’t.”
Kong Lingrou said nothing more.
Not until the door clicked shut.
With quiet restored to the room, Shi Bei sat for a long while before pressing her face back onto her book. She seemed to be thinking about nothing, yet her pale, weary expression looked as though she had relived the past thousands of times in her dreams.
Granted, her excuse for getting close was quite mediocre.
After all, just like Kong Lingrou, she had disliked listening to teachers’ lectures since childhood, preferring to read and teach herself instead.
Of course, Kong Lingrou could always grasp the required material in the shortest possible time before an exam, efficiently scoring the points she needed.
Shi Bei was much clumsier. Whenever she immersed herself, she often ended up reading books entirely unrelated to the exam just because of some minor confusion; her efficiency was rather poor.
For a long period, her grades weren’t particularly great either.
Now that they were grown up, learning a language with abundant study materials certainly didn’t require a teacher.
Blame it on her blurting out that “Sister” earlier without thinking; she had even frightened herself. It was no wonder Kong Lingrou was on her guard.
Still, it didn’t matter…
Fortunately… she still harbored a secret that could be used to extend a gesture of goodwill.
In the dead of night, Shi Bei shuffled into the kitchen to start cooking instant ramen.
In truth, she had never intentionally cut back on meals to save money; it was simply her habit to drag her feet after waking up, reluctant to go out immediately.
After a while, she wouldn’t feel hungry anymore, and by the time hunger returned, it was usually deep into the night.
Being abroad was different from back home. Late at night, the only available takeout options were a tiny handful of expensive, slow, and unappetizing pre-made dishes—it was better to make do by cooking some instant ramen herself.
Opening the refrigerator, she spotted the stacked high-end bento boxes.
Her hand reaching for an egg paused.
She couldn’t recognize the brand and didn’t know the exact price of each box; she merely guessed that the packaging alone probably cost as much as a convenience store meal.
Closing the fridge to keep it out of sight and out of mind.
She filled a pot with water and set it on the induction stove to boil.
Suddenly, she turned off the induction stove, opened the fridge, and retrieved the top bento box.
If Kong Lingrou opened the fridge the day after tomorrow and saw that not a single bento had been touched, she would definitely be displeased.
Right now, if Shi Bei wanted to get close to her for revenge, she had to first do things that would lower her guard.
Shi Bei had been extremely busy prior to going abroad and had no time to pack; her carry-on luggage held almost nothing but electronics—including a computer she had assembled with her own hands.
She felt that writing code was, in a way, very much like playing a video game.
Filled with equal parts confidence and burning rage, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat.
On countless nights, she worked away on her most familiar device.
When code she had spent days typing out began throwing bizarre errors, and after painstakingly locating and fixing a minor spot, a cascade of errors broke out…
All other worries and anxieties vanished from her mind entirely.
In that sense, writing code was a deeply therapeutic affair.
It was Shi Bei’s habit to stay up until dawn, reluctantly crawling into bed to rest only when her eyes began to sting. Yet her brain passively kept thinking about code.
Not until the crows cawing outside vanished and bright daylight crept onto the floor through the gap in the curtains.
Her exhausted brain—still unable to figure out a solution—finally stopped spinning.
Hazily, she began to dream.
Unusually, her dream returned to when she was very young.
When Shi Bei was little, adults often called her a stupid girl, deaf, mute, a slow-witted child who couldn’t understand adult talk.
In truth, she had always been able to understand their words; she simply couldn’t figure out how to respond, so she always froze on the spot until the adults raised their voices and impatiently pushed and shoved her.
She often felt a sense of haze, like a little bug trapped inside a glass jar; no matter how loud the sounds outside were, they sounded muffled, and no matter how real the world appeared, it was separated by a layer of thick glass.
On her first day of kindergarten, her father repeatedly commanded her to be obedient and well-behaved, to speak sweetly and smile.
Shi Bei tried hard to remember. She didn’t dare speak easily to anyone, merely curling up the corners of her mouth and staring at the adults and children around her.
She didn’t understand why, nor did she understand what the people around her were doing.
Young Shi Bei’s smile was stiff and strangely angled, making it almost impossible to tell what expression it was meant to be.
The classroom was bustling, packed tightly with a dark mass of people busy with their own things.
Many children sat on chairs crying, while others gathered in small circles playing games merrily. Some teachers were playing along with them, but most were squatting down to comfort the wailing kids.
Shi Bei stopped as if standing at attention, slowly forgetting the requirement to keep a smile on her face, reverting to her usual expressionlessness.
Not knowing whether she had a chair of her own, she remained standing in place.
As time passed, the light filtering through the glass window began to stagnate, the air wrapping around her motionless body as if it were a physical substance, blurring the boundary between reality and nothingness in her mind once more.
The bright yellow door opened again.
A girl stepped inside, flanked and escorted by two teachers on either side.
She wore a simply tailored yet exquisitely crafted dress, with a delicate, sweet face and bright, clear eyes. Among a group of children dressed up deliberately by their parents, she remained conspicuously beautiful.
The girl’s gaze swept over the crowd, scanned the room, and settled on Shi Bei.
She walked up to Shi Bei and smiled, her eyes crinkling.
That smile abruptly reminded Shi Bei of the adults telling her to smile.
“Can you tell me your name?”
Those bright, large eyes beneath dense, long eyelashes gazed at her.
Seldom approached by peers her age, the illusion of being squeezed by the air suddenly fled, replaced by a surge of tension that boiled over like bubbles in boiling water.
Young Shi Bei lowered her head and remained silent for a long moment.
Two simple words were held in her mouth for half a day, and when she finally spoke them, she stumbled over her tongue:
“Shi… Shi Bei.”
“What a cute name.” The girl’s voice was exceedingly sweet.
Accustomed to feeling at a loss, Shi Bei blushed slightly.
Never in her past dreams had there been such a lovely voice and tone.
“Can I call you Beibei?”
“…”
Tension rippled continuously across her mind like wind over a lake; silently, she found herself unable to speak again. Out of habit, her thoughts froze, her five senses shut off, and she waited quietly like a stone for the tirade from the other side.
Yet the girl before her, only slightly older than herself, possessed an unusual patience for her dullness and silence.
There were no impatient urgings, nor did she walk away out of boredom; she simply kept looking at her with a beaming smile.
Who knew how much time passed.
Until Shi Bei raised her face again and stole a quick glance at her, nodding her head.
The girl smiled again.
The next second, she naturally took her hand.
She said: “Beibei, you’re really cute.”
Before Shi Bei even opened her eyes, she first heard the hysterical cawing of crows outside the window. Closing her eyes, she couldn’t tell reality from dream for a long while, her thoughts entirely immersed in the dark void.
Until the doorbell rang.
Startled awake, she hopped out of bed and ran to open the door.
Her practice over these past few days had brought a massive leap in her single-legged hopping and balance, allowing her to roam freely around the house even without crutches.
Of course, the fact that her place was so small that there was always something to hold onto everywhere she went was also an immensely important factor.
Before the door was completely open, Shi Bei heard Kong Lingrou’s calm, distinct voice outside saying:
“There’s no building access code downstairs, no video intercom at the front door, and you just open the door casually?”
Shi Bei instinctively wanted to argue that she hadn’t opened it casually.
The only person coming to her place would be her.
By now, both the food delivery drivers and the couriers from various companies handling this area knew that this tenant wouldn’t open the door even if she was home, so packages were dropped right at the door without leaving “failed delivery notices” anymore.
The words reached the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them back down.
Instead, she said: “I looked through the peephole before opening the door.”
“No, you didn’t,” Kong Lingrou said. “Someone standing outside can tell.”
Shi Bei fell silent for a few seconds, preparing to pull the door shut, let Kong Lingrou wait outside for a moment, and then open it again.
Just as she made a move to close the door, Kong Lingrou, as if anticipating it, forcefully pulled the door open.
Half-crippled Shi Bei had her body yanked into a violent sway once more.
“Since you already saw it’s me, there’s no need to reopen the door.” The corners of Kong Lingrou’s lips twitched slightly into a superficial, insincere smile.
Shi Bei: “…”
It had been raining continuously in Tokyo over these past few days.
Looking out from the window in front of her desk was the wall of the neighboring building; several wisps of rain drifted into the narrow gap between the two buildings from time to time. The pitter-patter of the rain was particularly hypnotic.
Perhaps because she had just woken up, listening to Kong Lingrou explain grammar made Shi Bei feel a bit drowsy again.
Resting her chin on her hand, she twirled her pen, only for the pen to drop to the floor.
Kong Lingrou’s voice paused.
She moved her chair back, bent down, picked up the pen, and asked:
“Why don’t you go back to sleep for a bit?”
Shi Bei turned her face, gazing at her somewhat hazily.
Her brain couldn’t help reliving the lingering imagery from her dream earlier.
In reality, when she looked at the yearbook later, there were only eleven children in total in that mixed-age class back then; it probably wouldn’t have created a dense, crowded scene indoors. Her childhood memories might not have been all that reliable.
Shi Bei didn’t reach for the pen.
Suddenly, without head or tail, she said in a low voice:
“I remember you used to smile a lot when you were little.”
“Then you remembered wrong.” Kong Lingrou placed the pen beside her hand and said: “I had a terrible temper when I was little, too.”