Chapter 74

*Campus IF Line — “Secret”*
“Shh. This is a secret that can’t be spoken.”
—
Qin Sang began to secretly pay attention to everything about him. It turned out he was that model student—Xie Yuncheng—the one who didn’t show up for military training, and who openly stood everyone up at the opening ceremony, forcing the homeroom teacher and the school leadership to pull the student committee member, Tong Junjie—the second-place scorer on the middle-school entrance exam—up onto the stage at the last minute to fill in.
They said his grades were very good—the kind of crushing, life-questioning good. A god-tier student. They said his family background was well-off, and that good family upbringing left him, in his bones, with a kind of casually noble young-master air that ordinary people simply couldn’t imitate.
That Tuesday, after morning exercises, that classmate Jiang Mingyi and he were called by name by the disciplinary dean and made to go up on stage one after the other, in front of the entire school’s teachers and students, to read their self-criticisms.
At that time, the boy’s brows and eyes were loose and unrestrained; the careless tone made it sound as if he wasn’t doing a self-criticism at all, but standing at some commendation ceremony.
Jiang Mingyi’s ridiculous, half-baked self-criticism made the whole school want to laugh but not dare. And his self-criticism was even worse.
He drawled lazily, “I have no organization, no discipline; the order is chaotic, the conduct is vile. I have made my elders worry for me, shamed my parents, and made my classmates ashamed of me.”
They said they were there to reflect on themselves, yet you couldn’t see much sincerity in that attitude. Instead, there was a relaxed, idle bearing to him. Even when “self-criticizing,” he somehow struck a downright righteous pose.
He said, “I should not have meddled. I should not have helped an old granny cross the street. Here, I reflect deeply. I apologize to all teachers and students in the school for my actions, and I also hope all classmates will take me as a warning, to serve as an example.”
“Pff.”
Someone in the crowd couldn’t hold it and laughed. The suppressed laughter gradually spread, until in the end the whole place was full of cheerful laughter. Qin Sang couldn’t help secretly laughing twice as well.
When she smiled, her brows and eyes naturally curved into crescent moons.
But she didn’t know if it was her imagination. The crowd was packed and chaotic, yet the boy on stage had clear, open features—wild and unrestrained. He was looking at her. Through the shifting sea of people, his gaze landed on her with flawless precision. In those lazy eyes, there seemed to be a trace of a smile—half there, half not.
Qin Sang paused. Her gaze shifted away slightly, and she lowered her head quickly, flustered, as if picking any road to escape.
She thought: this Classmate Xie didn’t seem as well-behaved as the rumors said. Was he really a “three-good” student?
Qin Sang wrinkled the bridge of her nose. She thought: he was different from them.
Different how?
Qin Sang couldn’t help observing him. He seemed to like biting mint candies. The sound of candy being crunched was crisp. He also liked the sweet-and-sour spare ribs at the second cafeteria. So every Wednesday, when she lined up for food, if she looked up occasionally, she could always spot him at a glance in the busy, ordinary crowd.
He was too tall. Boys in adolescence were like slender, straight young bamboo, shooting up fast. Even standing in a crowded line, he looked outstanding.
He stood there lazily. The boys beside him had arms slung over shoulders. Maybe they’d said something funny; a rare, faint smile surfaced in his eyes.
He was actually very good-looking when he smiled. The curve of his mouth was shallow. When his brows and eyes relaxed and opened, it was like frost and snow melting, like warm sunlight brushing past—warm as spring.
It seemed few people noticed that he was actually left-handed. Most of the time, he was like other classmates and used his right hand out of habit. But when catching a ball instinctively, he would always catch with his left. Sometimes when taking notes, he would use his left hand too.
He could write very beautifully. Whether with his right hand or his left, his writing was upright, vigorous, and strong, with force that seemed to pierce through the paper.
If Dad—that fanatic calligraphy lover—saw it, he would definitely like his handwriting.
Sometimes when Qin Sang walked around the basketball court, she could also catch glimpses of him there. But he’d been dragged over to make up the numbers, and he rarely played. Most of the time, he just sat to the side to rest and bask in the sun. When he narrowed his eyes slightly, the shifting light and shadow fell on the short tips of his black hair; his expression looked relaxed and content—like the little dog Yan-yan once kept, fluffy and looking very easy to pet.
At times like that, Qin Sang would stand quietly by the fence and watch. Her fingers would always curl unconsciously, an inexplicable itch in her heart—really wanting to reach out and test the feel.
But he was very popular. There were always people chasing after his figure. He was like the unique protagonist in this small world. No matter which corner she walked to, she could always hear someone mention his name.
Xie Yuncheng.
“Green hills, layered and layered like Yun; blue sky, lit by worry-free light.”
Qin Sang propped her chin and let her pen fall unconsciously on the paper. When she came back to herself, she had already written his name on the title page.
“Classmate Qin.”
A shadow fell from behind, just enough to cover the characters she had accidentally written.
Qin Sang fumbled, closing the notebook. But before she could find a reasonable explanation for her obvious attempt to cover it up, a very light laugh came from above.
The boy’s voice was lazy, smiling. “Why did you write my name?”
Qin Sang froze. In the thin light, a flush quietly rose on the edge of her ear. Her fingers nervously picked at the book cover, but she couldn’t open her mouth.
It was noon break. Most of the class had gone to the cafeteria and hadn’t returned yet. The classroom only had a few scattered people, and no one really noticed them.
Qin Sang’s thoughts tangled into a mess. Suddenly, he bent his finger and tapped the tabletop. A moment later, a mint candy appeared on top of the closed book. He said, “See you later.”
Later, classmates gradually returned, and he also went back to his seat. Qin Sang peeled open the glassy candy wrapper. The edible rice paper melted the moment it hit her tongue. The sharp, spicy mint rushed in, almost aggressively taking over her taste buds. She still couldn’t get used to that flavor, and she lowered her head and coughed softly twice.
When she finally eased up, she subconsciously lifted her eyes to sneak a look at him, only for her gaze to bump straight into his eyes. Across the crowd, their eyes met. In his eyes, there seemed to be a very faint trace of a smile—like a thin strand of dust-lit shimmer—gone in an instant.
Qin Sang’s face turned red. Liu Chengcheng, who had just come back from the cafeteria, leaned over and touched her forehead. “You don’t have a fever. Sang-sang, are you still very uncomfortable?”
Qin Sang shook her head. “No. I’m much better now.”
She had just washed with cold water and caught a small cold. She had no appetite, so she hadn’t gone to the cafeteria to eat.
Liu Chengcheng looked worried. “Do you want to tell the teacher and change dorms? They’re going too far.”
Liu Chengcheng was the first friend Qin Sang made in Class One, and also the only person she could really talk to.
Liu Chengcheng was a local in Jingcheng, but she hadn’t advanced directly from the junior-high division. She had come in from another school in Jingcheng. Like Qin Sang, she was also an outsider.
Even so, Liu Chengcheng’s situation was much better than Qin Sang’s. Qin Sang’s dorm had a troublemaker: Tang Minmin. Tang Minmin seemed to look down on Qin Sang and targeted her everywhere.
Liu Chengcheng whispered, “I bet it’s because last time someone reported her for slacking off when she was on duty. She holds a grudge, so she deliberately took your hot-water card off the meter while you were showering, just to mess with you.”
Qin Sang pressed her lips together, her brows knitting slightly. Actually, she hadn’t told the teacher about Tang Minmin slacking off last time. She had even thought Tang Minmin had really asked for leave.
So it turned out Tang Minmin was just finding an excuse to make things hard for her. But for some reason, the homeroom teacher found out and suddenly went after Tang Minmin after school, keeping her behind and making her responsible for cleaning the class’s public area for the next week. If the sanitation department deducted points, those points would be deducted from Tang Minmin’s conduct score. And for every point deducted, her duty time would be extended by one more day.
That whole week, it was basically Tang Minmin on duty. Every time she got back to the dorm and saw Qin Sang, Tang Minmin seethed with resentment, as if she hated Qin Sang to the bone.
“Achoo—”
Qin Sang’s nose was stuffed and blocked. Suddenly the tip of her nose itched, and she couldn’t help sneezing.
Her cold symptoms weren’t severe at first, but in afternoon classes her eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and her nose got even more blocked.
She rarely got sick. This time, she didn’t know why, but it felt like the cold was serious.
After school that afternoon, Qin Sang went to the payment office and got a new water card.
Liu Chengcheng asked, “Sang-sang, do you want me to go with you to the infirmary? Can you manage alone?”
“I can.”
Qin Sang’s voice was thick with nasal tone. “You hurry back. I asked for leave so I can skip evening self-study, but you can’t. If you waste time, later you still won’t make it to wash your hair.”
The girls’ dorm at No. 1 was an old building. Hot water wasn’t available 24 hours; it was only supplied for a limited two hours after school. So they usually hurried back after school to shower and wash their hair, then went to the cafeteria to eat, saving time.
Liu Chengcheng: “Alright then. I’ll go back to the dorm first.”
Qin Sang replied softly, “Mm.”
It was her first time lying.
She was so nervous she didn’t even notice how unnatural her hand looked, gripping the hem of her clothes. Fortunately, Liu Chengcheng didn’t notice any of those details. After they parted, she turned and left.
Qin Sang secretly let out a breath, then turned and walked in the opposite direction.
Including military training, school had probably been in session for almost a month. Qin Sang had only heard that the back hill had a wisteria waterfall, but normally the school wasn’t open to outsiders, and even students of the school weren’t allowed in.
Right now it was after school. Most day students had already left campus. The security guards were all at the front gate maintaining order. The back hill, instead, had no one watching it.
She followed the path upward and climbed for a short distance. She had been dizzy and muddled before, but after sweating a bit, she actually felt much better. Her heavy body seemed lighter as well.
Golden autumn, September. The back hill was quiet. Only the sound of wind blew past; branches swayed and rubbed together, making a soft rustling sound.
Only after climbing to mid-mountain could you see clearly: the wisteria blossoms covered the whole mountain, richly fragrant and stretching on and on, like a boundless purple sea.
But higher up, the cold bit harder. When the sharp autumn wind brushed past, she shivered and unconsciously shrank her neck. Suddenly, a faint sound came from above.
She looked up and saw, among the tangled, shifting shadows of the trees, a familiar figure. Petals scattered and fell, swept down by the wind. Just then, the boy lowered his eyes to look at her, his gaze clear as glass.
Qin Sang held her breath. Even her words stuttered. “X-Xie… Classmate Xie.”
So he had arrived long ago.
Qin Sang was curious. “How did you… get up in the tree?”
“The view is good.”
When the boy looked down at her, a few gorgeous colors hooked into the depths of his eyes. His voice, casual, offered an invitation: “Want to come up and have a look?”
Qin Sang paused. She didn’t hesitate much. She nodded. “Okay.”
That hand reaching out from the rain of petals had long, lean knuckles. Qin Sang only hesitated for an instant before taking it. Using his strength, she climbed up onto the branch.
When you climb high and look far, the world looks different. The sun was setting in the west. The horizon had been dyed into a gorgeous pink-purple. The clouds were vast and surging, like torn cotton—fluffy and soft.
Sitting on the branch, she couldn’t help exclaiming, “So beautiful.”
She was looking at the scenery in the distance and didn’t notice: the boy’s gaze was clean and clear. It roamed and then landed on her delicate face, now stained with bright colors. The curve of his lips was shallow, but in his eyes, a gentle smile rippled open.
“Mm,” he said. “Very beautiful.”
Someone is like a rainbow; only after you meet them do you know they exist.①
The scene before her was like a painting—far surpassing all the splendid wonders she had ever seen.
“How did you find this place?” Qin Sang asked.
Qin Sang had never noticed: from this angle, the world could look so different. What she used to see had been extremely narrow; what was before her now was breathtaking.
Xie Yuncheng replied lightly, “Coincidence.”
Qin Sang remembered. “Right—how is An’an?”
An’an was the nursing kitten she had picked up. She couldn’t raise it at school at all.
That day after school, Xie Yuncheng had called out to her. She had been surprised that he knew her name.
She didn’t know if it was her imagination. Bathed in the sunset glow, the boy’s quiet, calm eyes seemed to reveal a trace of a thin smile.
“Your student ID.”
Qin Sang subconsciously touched the ID hanging on her neck, a bit embarrassed. So back then he had seen her name and class number on her badge.
Qin Sang was flustered. “Were you looking for me for something? Your jacket got a little dirty. Can I wash it and return it to you?”
The boy chuckled softly, seeming not to care about the jacket at all. He only said, “Give the cat to me. You can’t keep it alive at school. Just treat it as…”
He paused, his gaze heavy as it settled on her. “Our shared secret.”
Under the gaze of those eyes, Qin Sang’s heartbeat went off-balance. Her eyes darted away in panic. She lowered her head and answered softly, “Okay.”
When she handed the cat to him, he asked, “What name do you want to give it?”
Qin Sang thought for a moment. “An’an. I hope it stays safe and sound, and makes it through this ordeal.”
…
And now, a week had already passed.
Xie Yuncheng said calmly, “It has good luck. The rescue shelter happened to have a mother cat that had just given birth and could nurse it. Now it can open its eyes and stand up.”
Hearing that, Qin Sang smiled happily. “That’s great. Turning misfortune into blessing, after extreme bad comes extreme good. From now on it can live without illness or disaster, safe and sound.”
“On holidays, can I go with you to see it?”
Qin Sang turned her head and asked him. Unexpectedly, the boy’s gaze remained the same. His irises were very light, like transparent glass beads, clearly imprinting her figure.
He curled his lips, watching her gently. “Yes.”
The evening wind was light; the clouds were quiet. Pink-purple flames lit the horizon, and that gorgeous vivid color now seemed to fall into his eyes—like it could burn her to ash as well.
Again.
That feeling of a weightless heartbeat.
Thump, thump—again and again.
As if even her soul was trembling and ringing.
When petals fell, it was like a clasp being unfastened with a click.
It seemed that from this moment on, she had one more secret that couldn’t be spoken.