Peeking

[You like gray-blue because of Nan-jie’s eye color, right?]

[What the heck!! Her mother was truly vicious. If she hated her that much, why give birth to her in the first place!]

[This is the real meaning of people being worse than cats...]

[That mother is better off dead. Without her, things would be cleaner. Otherwise Yu Mao might be even worse off than she is now; she might already have been abused to death.]

[I don’t want to call her Yu Mao anymore... Saying that name once feels like hurting her once.]

[She really never even asked about her father all these years? She must’ve been completely shattered by those two scumbags.]

After hearing those answers, Yirui An looked at Yu Mao with eyes full of pity. She wanted to reach out and pat her head again, but Yu Mao still dodged her.

A subtle shift crossed Yu Mao’s face. Her body tensed; her eyes flew wide open and fixed on Yirui An, tracking every movement she made.

Her jet-black eyes were round and bright, clear as a jewel washed clean by water. They were beautiful, yet there was something feral and dangerous in them.

Anyone who had kept cats for a long time would know at a glance that a cat in this state was on the verge of attacking.

Yirui An had never raised a cat, but some primal warning in her instincts told her not to get any closer.

“How old were you when you went to the welfare home?”

She no longer tried to touch Yu Mao, but that didn’t slow her questions at all; they came so fast it was as if she were taking notes.

Yu Mao stared at her for two more seconds. Once she confirmed Yirui An had no intention of coming closer, she lazily lowered her eyelids and returned to her usual expressionless self.

“Eight.”

Yirui An froze for a moment.

“...That young.”

Yu Mao didn’t respond.

Yirui An’s eyes flickered. Making her gaze even gentler, she softened her voice. She very much wanted to use physical contact to show closeness and harmlessness, but Yu Mao’s resistance kept her from moving.

“You’ve suffered too much. I know the way you are now definitely isn’t what you wanted. It must have been very hard for you to get this far on your own, right? I’m sorry I only met you so many years late. If you’re willing, from now on I can be the one who stays by your side and takes care of you.”

Her tone was so tender, so sincere, it was as if they’d known each other for years and shared a deep bond.

Yu Mao tilted her head slightly. Her thoughts ground to a halt for half a second before she quickly gave up.

She didn’t understand what was wrong with this person, and she didn’t want to think about it.

An unimportant person.

The livestream viewers were sharper than she was; listening to this, they frowned so hard it felt like they could carve out a three-bedroom apartment with their toes.

[Little cat confused head tilt.gif]

[What is she even saying? Is she acting out an idol drama here? Even an idol drama can’t have someone confess on day one, right?]

[This attempt at selling a queer ship has no skill whatsoever; it’s all artificial syrup. Disgusting.]

[Hmm... maybe she grew up overseas and is more open-minded, so her way of expressing herself is more direct. Our culture is too reserved, so it sounds uncomfortable. At least her intention is good; from the start she’s treated the little cat very well.]

[Sounds nice enough, but I doubt little cat will appreciate it.]

Sure enough.

Yu Mao’s tone was light. “I’m not willing.”

Yirui An choked on her own stubborn, oil-and-water persistence.

This wasn’t at all what she had expected. It was too slow; more than that, it was completely different from what she had imagined.

She tried probing, “Do you... like me?”

The second the words left her mouth, she regretted them. She suddenly doubted whether asking Yu Mao this would just earn her a flat “I don’t like you,” so she hurried to add, “I mean, what do you feel about me? Do you dislike me, like me, or something else?”

Yu Mao lifted her eyes slightly and met her gaze. Her eyes were dark and empty, so hollow it was as if she had already looked straight through Yirui An and was staring into the void beyond.

Her voice was light as mist in the woods, without a trace of emotion. “A stranger. Nothing at all.”

Yirui An’s heart went completely cold.

What was going on? Wasn’t it supposed to be that children who had suffered childhood trauma were easily moved by sincere feelings and would cling to them without a second thought? Had she said something wrong? Was she not sincere enough? Or was she just too eager?

Yes, yes. Yirui An suddenly realized. It really was because she had been too eager.

After trauma, some people not only weren’t easily moved, they became even more guarded. Yu Mao should be that kind of person.

Thinking she had found the reason, Yirui An relaxed, and the awkward strain on her face once again blossomed into a bright smile.

“Alright, looks like I still need to keep trying.”

She was only eighteen, young and impulsive, not mature enough; once she made up her mind, not even ten oxen could drag her back.

One setback was nothing. She would come every day and farm Yu Mao’s favorability. The show was going to be filmed for several months; she didn’t believe Yu Mao could stay made of stone forever!

No matter how hard the iceberg was, if she kept ramming into it for months, it should crack, right!

Yu Mao didn’t catch even a trace of her fired-up emotions. She half-closed her eyes in exhaustion and let out a small yawn.

Still sleepy. That brief nap at noon hadn’t made up for the sleep she was missing.

Yirui An had stayed in the dorm long enough that the trainees in the cafeteria had already finished lunch. Yuan Li, Qi Qi, and Liu Yuanxi returned to the dorm at this point.

Yirui An knew she shouldn’t linger any longer. She greeted the girls who came in, then waved at Yu Mao with a smile. “I’m heading off now, little cat.”

Yu Mao ignored her and didn’t even spare her a glance.

At last, her ears were quiet again.

Her three roommates were much more likable than Yirui An and rarely came to bother her.

Only Yuan Li asked one question:

“Yu Mao, are you going to practice singing tonight?”

“No.” Yu Mao shook her head and picked up the half-plate of fruit, preparing to finish what was left.

Yuan Li looked at her and sighed a little helplessly.

They were on the same team; at the very least, they counted as a group. In truth, she should have persuaded her to practice seriously. But Yu Mao’s vocal technique had no problems at all, and emotional issues weren’t something that could be solved in the short term.

Whether she practiced or not seemed to make little difference. Yuan Li found it hard to say anything, so she simply let it go.

She wasn’t the team leader anyway; it wasn’t her place to worry.

Once she adjusted her mindset, Yuan Li felt much lighter.

After dinner and a brief rest, the trainees gradually began practicing their songs in earnest. In the dorm, Qi Qi was the first to leave for the practice room.

“Deng Cheng is such a dead-serious overachiever; all she knows how to do is train like crazy. She’s way too intense. I’ve got to go too, or else if she comes looking for me later, she’s going to nag at me again.”

Though she said it like a complaint, Qi Qi wasn’t actually resisting. She still had a competitive streak; she knew her own ability wasn’t ranking high among the trainees, so naturally she had to practice harder and perform well.

The next to leave was Liu Yuanxi.

She was on Lin Baiyu’s team, and going to the practice room so early wasn’t because she was especially diligent about singing; it was purely because there were so many interesting people on her team, and being with everyone was more fun than staying in the dorm to rest.

Once the two of them left, only Yuan Li and Yu Mao remained in the dorm.

Yuan Li felt some pressure being alone in such a small space with Yu Mao; even though the room wasn’t cold, she always had the illusion that a chill was creeping over her entire body.

So she didn’t want to stay long either, and headed off alone to the practice room.

After the three of them had all left, Yu Mao, who had been sitting motionless by the bed, finally reacted.

She turned to look at the tightly shut door, quietly got to her feet, and stuffed the remaining fruit into her mouth in a few large bites; both cheeks puffed out.

She went out, went downstairs, and returned the plate to the cafeteria, but she still didn’t go back to the dorm. Instead, she lingered on the practice-room floor.

The sky had completely darkened. The hallway lights were off; only the light spilling from the practice-room doors and windows lit up small patches of darkness.

Yu Mao scanned left and right to make sure no one was in the corridor.

She rose onto her tiptoes and silently walked to the practice room at the very end. Leaning toward the small window, with the light reflecting on her pale face, her jet-black eyes gleamed faintly.

Just like a cat.

Thin and agile, hiding in the darkness, spying on the only human in her world.

Changgeng.

...

[...Help, is she just going to keep doing this? I’m both heartbroken and scared, what is wrong with me]

[As a Nan-jie fan, I can’t bring myself to feel heartbroken. Getting to see her up close for so long—I’m dying of envy!]

[If Nan Changgeng found out about this, she’d be scared to death; she’d have to stay even farther away from her.]

Luckily, as long as no one came to cause trouble, Yu Mao really wasn’t easy to notice.

She stood quietly outside the door, her sensitive ears ensuring she would pick up every set of footsteps in the corridor in advance so she could dart back into the dark.

And whenever someone in the room happened to look toward the doorway, she could always avoid them as fast as possible.

Compared with daytime, the darkness of night was naturally more suitable for hiding.

But everything was still going so smoothly it was a little strange; the sensitivity to others’ gazes that should have been embedded in her genes seemed to have had no effect at all.

All night long, not a single trainee noticed that gaze.

Inside the practice room, Nan Changgeng had just finished guiding another member who had come to ask for help. She rubbed the back of her neck, stretched backward, and let out a long yawn before leaning back in her chair.

A relaxed sigh slipped out of her.

Though she was a little tired, she was fairly content. Guiding these kids did a good job of satisfying her desire to help others.

Standing on the same level as these young people and communicating with them, it felt as if her mindset had returned to what it had been years ago, making her feel quite a bit younger.

Because all the electronic devices that could connect her to the outside world had been taken away, if she ignored the ever-present cameras, this really felt much the same as those eight years from her past.

Cut off from outside information, wrapped in a little glass dome that only admitted a handful of people, writing songs, composing music, occasionally traveling around the world; plain and monotonous.

But after those eight years passed, the friends who had once stayed by her side had scattered; some left, some drifted away, some betrayed her. She was completely alone.

In truth, most relationships between people are only companionship at one stage or another; old people leave and new people come in. She had understood that very early on.

Only, back then she had never imagined that later on, old people would indeed leave, but no new ones would ever come.

It wasn’t that no one had tried to get close to her; it was that she could no longer sincerely accept anyone.

All the feelings offered to her that seemed fervent, beautiful, and harmless were, to her, poison wrapped in honey. They tasted extraordinarily sweet at first, but once swallowed, the poison would slowly seep out a moment later; by the time you tried to spit it back out, it was already too late, and it could painfully kill a person alive.

Now that she had come onto this show and been surrounded by so many people, though she didn’t feel especially close to any of them, the superficial liveliness still gave her something to savor.

That was just right.

She could feel the vitality of living people in the present without needing to bear any risk.

Her thoughts drifted through her memories and landed on Yu Mao, and a thread of guilt rose in her heart.

She hoped that girl, like most people, would be able to pull her feelings back cleanly once she realized her affection wouldn’t be returned, and not be hurt too deeply by her.

An idol, after all, was nothing more than a tool for emotional value to many people; liking someone came fast and went even faster. There were so many celebrities in the industry; there were plenty of replacements.

She had understood that ever since the familiar faces who had once crowded around her years ago, swearing they would never leave her for the rest of their lives, had vanished one by one with the passage of time.

A period of desolate heartbreak was the punishment for her naivete.

She would no longer take fans’ words seriously.

Whether they came or went, whether one batch was replaced by another, she would offer the same welcome and blessing, no more and no less.

And as for the fans who had remained steadfast to this day, she felt full gratitude, but she also accepted that they might choose to leave at any time.

In the first three years of her eight years of misery, before that person had betrayed her, someone had once complained to her that she was always too pessimistic; she never rejoiced in the fans who stayed with her all the way, and instead prepared in advance for the future in which they would leave.

Before the box was opened, Schrödinger’s cat had already been sentenced to death by her.

At the time, she had wondered whether she should change. Now she only thought it was fine this way. Otherwise, how could she have borne that person’s betrayal?

As if possessed, Nan Changgeng turned her head to glance at the door. Beyond the little window was a field of darkness; nothing was there.

She treated it as an unconscious movement and naturally withdrew her gaze, covering her mouth to yawn again.

As the hour grew later, trainees gradually left the practice room and returned to the dorm.

Nan Changgeng didn’t move. Since she had taken on the role of team leader, she intended to carry the responsibility through to the end and only go back after all the team members had left.