Chapter 13

After dinner, Chen Xian led 孟頔 to Jianghan Road to find food. The whole street was even livelier than she’d imagined, like seventy percent of Jiangcheng’s young people had gathered there—especially all the stylish, good‑looking couples. The second time they almost got swept apart by the crowd, 孟頔 took her hand. Just like that, they became one of the “young couples.”
A fulcrum in the sea.
That was what he felt like to her. For a half‑homebody, when he guided her through the crowd and around obstacles, the muscles in his tense arm were still solid. Those accidental brushes were enough to give her goosebumps all over.
They stopped in front of a drink stall selling red bean shaved ice.
孟頔 went to order. Chen Xian waited a little ways off, looking down at her WeChat messages. She got lost in them until a receipt dropped onto the phone screen in her open hand.
Chen Xian laughed and looked up at 孟頔.
He took the receipt back. “What are you looking at?”
Chen Xian: “Work group messages. Our team lead just announced the pre‑training meeting date.”
孟頔 made a small “oh,” didn’t ask which day, and slipped the receipt into his pocket.
Chen Xian kept her head tilted back.
Being stared at like that made 孟頔 gradually uneasy. He looked away for a second, then looked back. She was still looking. He smiled, that clean shyness still on his face. “What are you looking at now?”
“You,” Chen Xian said simply. “I’m just afraid I’ll strain my neck.”
孟頔 glanced behind him and stepped down one stair. Their heights matched now—no more looking up, just level.
Chen Xian arched a brow. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“What did you order?” Chen Xian asked.
孟頔 pulled out the receipt. “Red bean shaved ice and mung bean shaved ice. Which do you want?”
Chen Xian: “Can I have both?”
“Of course,” 孟頔 said.
Chen Xian got her wish and tried both. So did 孟頔. As they wandered and ate, they traded notes and came to the same conclusion: “Mung bean’s refreshing; red bean’s rich.”
That night, Chen Xian still ended up at 孟頔’s apartment, hunting for a movie. She used the word “ended up” because she knew 孟頔 would never kick her out. She’d been handed a seven‑day key, free to come and go in his temporary life.
孟頔 opened two bottles of Coke and set them on the table.
Chen Xian picked one up. “How long did you rent this place for?”
“Two weeks,” 孟頔 said.
“That long?” Chen Xian raised her brows and took a sip of the icy soda.
“Mm. You? What time’s your train the day after tomorrow?”
Chen Xian didn’t give an exact time. “Around sunset—”
As if knowing what he was about to say, she cut in, “Don’t come see me off.”
孟頔 froze. “Why?”
“Mm…” She thought for a moment. “No reason.”
孟頔 didn’t push. “Okay.”
Just then, Chen Xian paused the movie. She turned to him. “I should go.”
“Now?” She’d only been sitting a little while—half an hour at most.
“Yeah.” Chen Xian tilted her phone; it was past midnight. Day six. Tomorrow she would leave—for real, in every sense. She bent to slip on her canvas shoes.
孟頔 stood. “I’ll walk you back.”
“No need.” Chen Xian got up too. A restless irritation made it hard to stay, even with the AC blasting. The other kinds of sadness clung to her like gray ghosts, hard to shake off.
They walked to the door, one after the other. “Okay, stop following me,” Chen Xian said.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” 孟頔 asked.
“No idea. Maybe nothing,” Chen Xian said.
“Did you have nothing at the start too?”
“I did,” Chen Xian said. “Sleep all day.” As soon as she said it, 孟頔’s expression changed. She rushed to clarify: “…Not that kind—just sleep. Pure sleeping. Sleep a whole day and think about nothing.”
She nearly cracked up herself.
“Back then I was thinking, I’ll definitely be running around the first five days, so the last day I’ll rest hard. People can’t run all the time. Right?”
孟頔 nodded in agreement.
Chen Xian opened the door. “I’m off. Bye.”
“Chen Xian,” 孟頔 called after her.
She turned.
His eyes flickered; he was on the verge of saying something. Chen Xian knew what he wanted to say—either a long speech or something startling. She could guess. But in the end he said nothing, only: “Can I find you tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure,” Chen Xian said.
—
Restraint.
That great, high‑level emotion humans had evolved. They both followed it, guarded it.
Chen Xian couldn’t sleep. Her heart felt heavy. There was no way she was going to “sleep all day.” Her escape had only one day left; it felt dangerously fragile. She couldn’t seize every minute either. She lay on the bed, staring into a sky with no stars.
At two a.m., she pulled her phone from under the pillow and texted: Asleep?
The reply came fast: No.
Chen Xian: I can’t sleep.
孟頔: Me neither.
Chen Xian teased him, as always: Why not, thinking about me?
He admitted it: Yeah. Thinking about you.
Something tugged in her chest, a sweet ache. Then come see me.
He asked, uncertain: Now?
Chen Xian: Now.
Going downstairs, she didn’t turn on the lights. Every step on the stairs sounded extra loud and quick in the dark. The sound of the door opening, the sound of being pulled into his arms, the sound of breathing—each one made the night sparkle.
“You know you’re very huggable?” she said softly, pressed against his chest, all broad shoulders and steady warmth.
“…Didn’t know,” he said. “I’ve only hugged you.”
“Yeah, right,” Chen Xian said, half doubting. “You’ve never hugged your parents?”
“Never,” 孟頔 said.
Chen Xian snorted a laugh and kept mumbling against him: “On the last day, I just want to be with you. All day. All day.” On “all day,” she poked him twice in the back with her finger.
孟頔 got the message, tightened his arms, and laughed. “Okay.”
By the time they turned on the lights, fifteen minutes had passed—who knew how long they’d been wrapped up in each other. Chen Xian finally slipped out of his arms, satisfied. “So hot,” she said.
The tips of 孟頔’s ears were scarlet.
He walked with her to the living room, and they sat down.
Chen Xian got him some water. When she came back, there was a small booklet on the coffee table in front of him, palm‑sized, dark green cover.
She set the glass down. “What’s that?”
孟頔 picked it up and handed it over. “It’s not finished yet. But I think you should see it.”
Chen Xian sat and opened it.
In that moment, regret or closure both seemed to shrink into nothing.
The plain white sketch paper had become a dreamy storybook under 孟頔’s hand. On every page, the main character was a little girl.
There was no doubt who she was.
On the first page, the little girl stood with her back turned, cupping the sunset in the window with both hands. Light and clouds, like orange juice, poured from her palms and all around her.
On the second page, the little girl lay on lake water like a pink ribbon, hands behind her head, eyes gently closed.
On the third, the little girl rode a bicycle pedaling through the night sky over the riverfront, sparkling stars swirling around her like dancers.
On the fourth, the little girl stood in a sea of flowers, holding her skirt as she curtsied. Vines and leaves twined into her hem, growing wildly over her.
On the fifth, the little girl curled up inside an edamame pod, in a plate of fragrant, glossy marinated edamame. Round and snug, she slept—like Thumbelina in an Andersen tale.
On the sixth, the little girl rested her chin on the window ledge, eyes wide and innocent, just like in *Up*. The little wooden house she was in was being pulled toward the sky by countless pink flower balloons.
In every scene she was alone, and yet each one was more beautiful than anything she’d seen with her own eyes—by a hundred, a thousand, a million, to infinity. People are strange. We chase endings, whether fulfilled or unfinished, but we rarely accept the truth: the best part is often right here, not at the end.
Chen Xian flipped through it again and again, eyes blurred with tears.