Chapter 11

If you didn’t count childhood games and little interactions, this was only the second time in Chen Xian’s life she’d held the hand of a “non-relative of the opposite sex”—or been held by one. It all happened naturally. On the way back after leaving the restaurant, they passed an auntie selling balloons: clusters of colorful smiley-face balloon flowers squeezed together above her head, grinning stupidly at passersby. 孟頔 asked if she wanted one. Chen Xian shook her head and said she wasn’t a little kid anymore, but 孟頔 insisted on buying one anyway. Chen Xian laughed at him: “So you’re the kid.”
孟頔 didn’t deny it. He held the balloon easily in his hand—and naturally drew plenty of looks. A handsome guy holding a pink flower balloon was attention-grabbing all by itself.
As an adult, Chen Xian no longer bought balloons, cotton candy, or those sparkly headbands and little Victoria’s Secret wings. Not because she’d lost her “childlike heart,” but because she knew she wouldn’t be a child forever. She’d been adapting to the scrutiny and discipline of mainstream thinking for a simple reason: to avoid trouble. You do what fits your stage in life—an unspoken rule everyone understands. Those things look perfectly fine on little girls, but on adults they look strange.
Chen Xian found it odd that 孟頔 seemed so unbothered: “When you’re holding a balloon, don’t other people’s looks make you uncomfortable?”
孟頔 admitted: “A little.”
Chen Xian shot him a complaining glance on purpose: “So what now—let the balloon go?”
Right then, 孟頔 found her hand and took it, a little firmly.
Chen Xian’s heart in her chest thumped harder too.
“Now it’s fine,” 孟頔 said. “They’ll think the balloon is yours, and I’m just the guy helping you walk it.”
“What’s that,” Chen Xian’s smile turned sweet, “a hate‑redirect technique?”
孟頔 looked at her: “Yeah. You mind?”
Chen Xian said: “Is it too late to say I do?”
In the end, the balloon wound up in Chen Xian’s hand.
That night it was “planted” on the ceiling of her rental’s second floor, a long pink ribbon hanging down. Chen Xian would tug it down and let go, watching it float lazily back up and stick to the ceiling again, repeating the motion over and over, never getting tired of it.
When she woke the next morning, the flower balloon was a little deflated. It no longer stood proud; it looked like a belly‑up fish on its last breath. But Chen Xian wasn’t upset, because the first second she opened her eyes, the flower’s smiley face was looking right at her like this: :), grinning sincerely.
Chen Xian took a photo and led it downstairs.
She wrote a few words on the back of the balloon with a black marker, then went out, tied it to 2202’s door handle, and messaged 孟頔: I left the balloon at your door. It looks like it’s dying.
孟頔 was always optimistic: It’s fine. It can still float.
A few seconds later he added: What do you want to eat?
He must have seen what she’d written—“It’s hungry, and I’m hungry.” A pink balloon flower had turned her back into a little girl: needing to be cared for, needing to be fed. She lounged on the sofa and replied: You decide.
Half an hour later, 孟頔 showed up with breakfast.
The impressive part was: the balloon had puffed back up too—more spirited than last night.
Chen Xian asked in surprise: “How did you do that?”
孟頔 said: “There was a wedding-planning company on the way. I went in and asked if they had a helium tank and if they could top it up for me. The owner didn’t even charge me.”
Chen Xian unwrapped the breakfast: “Today’s your lucky day.”
孟頔 said: “It’s your lucky day. It’s your balloon.”
He brought two portions of paodan tiaofen. You could tell he’d hurried—he was still sweaty when he sat down. Chen Xian pulled out a soft tissue to wipe his sweat. 孟頔 was about to take it, but she pulled her hand back and clenched the tissue: “Can’t you just let me wipe it?”
The boy laughed and obediently leaned his forehead toward her.
Chen Xian smiled. With one hand she swept his fringe aside; with the other she gently wiped the sweat at his temple. “The last two days,” she said. “I’ve decided to get along with you properly.”
Only after she drew her hand back did 孟頔 sit up straight. “How do we get along properly?”
Chen Xian glanced back. The pink balloon had drifted to the window at some point, turned away from them, overlooking the riverfront in daylight.
Then she said, “I’m a pretty practical person. That pink balloon—when you bought it, what did you think? You probably just thought: want it, buy it. But I’d think it was bound to deflate sooner or later, and I couldn’t bring it on the high-speed rail anyway, so what’s the point? Still, I wouldn’t deny it—I wanted to have it.”
“You made it happen for me. You knew the outcome, but you did it anyway. You even went and ‘fed’ it again, treating it like something alive that could get hungry—maybe also so I wouldn’t be disappointed… But very few people can do that. Do you get what I mean? There’s still a brave, innocent kid inside you—someone who does what he wants, without so much weighing and calculating.” She opened the tissue in her hand and gave it a little shake, like raising a white flag.
“I want that too. Even if there are only two days left, so what if the magic disappears? I want to do it. If I want you to buy breakfast, I’ll let you buy breakfast. If I want to wipe your sweat, I’ll wipe your sweat. I’m done running from my feelings. Playing the mature, sensible adult is exhausting.”
The corner of 孟頔’s mouth lifted.
Chen Xian caught his expression. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Mm…” 孟頔 lowered his eyes, thinking for a moment. “Maybe I think you’re cute.”
“Maybe?” Chen Xian frowned.
孟頔 corrected himself immediately: “Chen Xian, you’re very cute.”
Chen Xian started slurping her tiaofen and spoke in a cartoon voice: “Damn it. You only *now* think I’m cute? I thought you were cute on day two.”
孟頔 said, “No. I thought that on day one.”
“Why?”
“You were at the door.”
“Like a guard dog?”
And it even rhymed.
“No!” 孟頔 denied it too quickly—then got stuck, afraid he wouldn’t say it right.
They stared at each other for a beat. Then Chen Xian burst out laughing, clutching her stomach, laughing until tears squeezed out. 孟頔 laughed too.
What he wanted to say was: the magic wouldn’t fade from someone like her.
She was the one who made him open the window, who told him that every sunset was different.
He’d never thought like that.
He’d believed every day was the same.
Seasons, mornings and nights—repeating the past like a cheap old movie screened over and over at the village entrance. Wasting brushes and paint had become his only way to loathe the world and hide from it. It was the first time he’d learned that someone could truly be disappointed about missing a sunset on a particular day. The world was precious. Time was precious. Every day’s sun was precious too. She made him start again, to notice and absorb the color and light in real life.
So 孟頔 decided to keep that sunset. From a corner she couldn’t see, he secretly took dozens of photos, picked the one he thought was the prettiest—also the closest to what the eye had actually seen—and sent it to her.
It always made him smile to think of it. He described their first meeting in detail: “After I came to Jiangcheng, every day I stepped out into that deep hallway. Aside from riding the elevator down to pick up takeout, I never saw anyone. Every day was the same, no different from the last. Then one day, I opened the door—”
That was the moment. He opened the door and met a real fairy, and real magic.