Little Animal

The washed team uniform hung in front of the window, where the sunlight turned it a brighter yellow. Water dripped steadily from the hem, pattering onto the tabletop.

Yu Mao sat curled up in the chair by the table, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes fixed on a small puddle of water on the tabletop. Drop by drop, it fell, splashed, merged, gathered, and reflected a blinding sheen.

Her gaze was fixed and heavy, as if she were thinking, or perhaps simply spacing out.

The transparent beads of water made her think of tears; the rhythm of their falling matched the beat of her heart. Yu Mao thought that there must be tear-like droplets striking her heart too, year after year, pounding the flesh that was less hard than stone deep into a wound.

It hurt. Like being hollowed out by worms, leaving behind a long, empty echo that would not fade.

In the past, at times like this, she would anxiously do something to fill it up, never caring whether she stuffed it with mud, stones, or straw. But now she was in the middle of recording the show, and there was nothing for her to do.

Nan Changgeng was nearby, yet she did not need her.

Yu Mao thought: she saved me, but all I can do for her is so little. I can’t bear any of her pain or sadness for her.

That sense of emptiness and agitation pushed her close to self-disgust and anger. Without realizing it, she bit down on the white wristband on her left wrist, grinding hard through the nylon against her bones.

The dorm room door was knocked on suddenly, shattering the bubble of isolation around her thoughts.

Yu Mao was too tired to move. She wanted to call out “Come in,” but when she opened her mouth, her lungs suddenly went weak, and no sound came out.

So she got down from the chair and went to open the door herself.

The woman outside made her falter for a moment.

The familiar scent of fruit drifted into her nose; the tall figure before her felt like a massive intrusion, stirring a wave of disorientation and, at the same time, awakening a primal longing deep in her soul.

She had long been submerged in a faint dizziness and nausea. Now, by instinct, she gathered her focus again, mustering every bit of energy in her body to perceive the person before her more clearly.

But her body was like a rusted gear stuck in place; unable to bear the strain, it was dragged down by fatigue and weakness, and the dizziness only grew worse.

Her tongue trembled slightly at the root. She wanted to vomit, but all that came was a burn in her eyes, as if she were about to cry.

Then she shut her eyes hard and swallowed the tears back down.

The two of them stood facing each other, neither speaking for a moment.

In silence, Nan Changgeng studied her. First she noticed those catlike round eyes, long lashes, black pupils veiled by a glassy film of moisture; bright, warm, and full of light.

In truth, she had long since stopped liking eyes like that, eyes full of focus and affection; she was even resistant to being physically too close to such people.

To her, anyone carrying that kind of emotion was simply a strange, overheated body.

Too hot. Easy to scorch out the smell of human desire.

It made her instinctively recoil and feel repulsed.

But Yu Mao... she was too thin, too small.

This life looked far too frail, so slight it seemed unable to kindle a flame, as if one squeeze of the hand could snuff it out in her palm; so weightless it didn’t even feel threatening.

Just like the cat she kept.

Yu Mao looked like an injured cat at this moment, exceptionally good at enduring. Maybe even with her organs shattered from the fall, she could still remain silent and stare at a human with wide eyes.

This cat was watching her. Nan Changgeng could clearly feel it; that gaze skimmed over her eyes.

Maybe she was checking whether there were any tear tracks left behind.

Nan Changgeng suddenly felt a pang of suffocation.

She could not stay in the silence any longer and spoke first, breaking it. “How’s your body?”

Yu Mao seemed slower than usual. She tilted her head slightly, stepped back two paces, and after opening and closing her lips several times, finally forced out a sentence:

“I’m fine.”

Not dead, not unconscious, still able to move normally; that meant fine.

Nan Changgeng didn’t believe it. The girl’s steps were unsteady, her voice so light it sounded like a thin veil of cloud.

She went inside and walked to Yu Mao’s side.

“Can I take a look?” She pointed at Yu Mao’s right arm.

Without hesitation, Yu Mao pulled back her sleeve, revealing the few scratched wounds seeping blood; she did it so neatly she looked like a machine receiving an order.

Only after seeing Nan Changgeng’s expression change all at once did she react a beat late, her brows drawing together in alarm.

“Why... do you know?”

She clasped her hands behind her back and tried to retreat, but Nan Changgeng caught her wrist in one motion and pulled her back with barely restrained force.

She did not answer Yu Mao’s question. Looking down at the wound, she asked softly, “Why are you hurting yourself?”

Yu Mao could not make out her expression. The depth in those brows and eyes made her dizzy. The temperature on her wrist was cold, cool like Nan Changgeng’s skin; soft like fine jade, slightly tight, pressing against her pulse.

She heard the pounding in her own chest, growing more intense by the moment, as if the touch itself were a disturbance that stirred a faint tension and fear.

“I’m not hurting myself,” she said.

Nan Changgeng lifted her eyes slightly, her gray-blue irises fixed on Yu Mao, a question conveyed only through her gaze.

Yu Mao’s breathing caught; her heart shivered.

If Nan Changgeng disappeared, she would struggle to breathe; with Nan Changgeng this close, it felt as if she were taking the air from around her too.

She could not think of much else, so she answered truthfully:

“I’m just relieving the pain.”

The woman’s brows suddenly furrowed. Yu Mao could not read that expression, but she faintly caught a trace of struggle, a shallow confusion that arose when one wrestled with oneself.

Nan Changgeng looked at her again and fell silent.

Her thoughts were in chaos, fragmented like shattered pieces. Countless notions flashed through her mind as she tried to infer endless possibilities from that short sentence; after ruling them out one by one, only the most likely remained: Yu Mao was unable to bear hearing about her past experiences.

But even so, it was still hard for her to truly believe it. It was simply too difficult to find any other reason.

Yu Mao’s instincts were screaming at her to break free from that hand and run while she could, but her soul remained motionless, greedily savoring this brief and illusory intimacy.

“Go get a physical checkup.”

Nan Changgeng let go of her hand and lightly touched the top of her head. “Did you hit your knee just now?”

She hid the emotion that made her uneasy beneath a surface gentleness; her voice was soft, though if one listened closely, there was a flatness to it.

She should not have been moved by the feeling of being cared for or loved—she did not know what it was that kept warning her, always waking her buried fear just as she was about to fall into it.

Being unable to give a response that held any real feeling made her feel a trace of guilt.

But the person before her seemed not to notice her perfunctory answer at all.

Yu Mao looked up at her, lips slightly parted. Her eyes suddenly widened, and after a burst of chaos and struggle in their depths, bright joy erupted.

In her mind, enough happiness could completely cover up pain. This kind of comforting intimacy made her unable to suppress her happiness.

It was as if she had been pulled out of a jar full of sorrow in an instant; Yu Mao judged that she had been saved.

Her body felt hot. She raised both hands to cover her nose and mouth, refusing to let blood spill out; her fingertips pressed against the inner corners of her eyes, wiping away the tears the moment they overflowed.

Her eyes still shone with a brighter layer of moisture, sparkling as she stared intently at the woman’s face. After a long pause, she finally remembered to answer the question:

“It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.”

It was impossible to deny that Nan Changgeng was pleased by her reaction.

She had paid nothing; she had only touched her head, something so simple... and yet that was enough to make her happy. It came so easily.

Even appeasing her own temperamental cat required a strip of cat treat plus a full-body massage.

Nan Changgeng’s lips curved slightly, and much of the gloom in her heart dissolved.

The girl seemed like a cat given human form, lacking complicated thoughts, her soul clean and pure.

But she was indeed a human being; too clean would only make her look pale and sickly.

For some reason, Nan Changgeng always felt a hint of coolness when she got close to her.

But that coolness was soft and harmless; it did not disgust or repel, and it even conveyed emotion in a subtle way.

At times, she even wondered if there was something wrong with her own mind again.

For example, at this very moment, Yu Mao clearly did not have much expression, only those bright eyes exposed, yet Nan Changgeng felt the other girl’s rising excitement and joy surging over her like a tide.

That made her own mood lift as well.

“Come on. Let’s get you checked. You can only feel at ease about preparing for the stage if you’re healthy,” Nan Changgeng said as she took Yu Mao’s hand and led her outside. “Even if there’s nothing wrong, at least disinfect and apply medicine to your arm. It’d be bad if it got infected.”

Yu Mao obediently followed her steps. The world before her flickered between clear and blurred, as if she had fallen into a dream that concealed deep longing.

The voice by her ear was low and gentle, like the sea quietly rising under moonlight, the rounded, deep edge of the tide rolling up onto the shore and then slowly retreating. Everything moved slowly and calmly.

Her steps grew even more unsteady. The temperature on her hand was cool, yet it burned her skin; she only felt as if she were being guided by some sacred force, stepping upward to the heavens one pace at a time.

When they reached their destination, Nan Changgeng turned back and saw Yu Mao looking dazed all over, and was taken aback.

She couldn’t help waving a hand in front of her face, amused. “What are you thinking about?”

Yu Mao came back to herself, her eyes flashing slightly as her awareness stepped down from the clouds to the ground. The outside world became clear a second later.

“Nothing.”

She was only passively sensing the wonderful feeling flooding into her body.

They arrived at the first-floor lobby, where staff were already waiting, along with an accompanying medical worker. They were taking this extremely seriously.

At the moment, several people were smiling at them.

“Teacher Nan really does have a way with words,” one woman teased. “We tried persuading Yu Mao for ages and she still wouldn’t go for a checkup. In the end, we had to let Teacher Nan handle it; one trip over and she came right along.”

Yu Mao remained so calm it was as if she hadn’t understood, while Nan Changgeng felt a faint twinge of embarrassment.

The instant she noticed that emotion, Nan Changgeng was startled.

She was very surprised that this time, rather than feeling irritated because someone emphasized how much others cared about her, she instead felt a sort of smug pride and a little shyness: as if, though this wasn’t even her own cat, it only loved clinging to her.

Ever since she was little, small animals had liked her. Not just cats and dogs; even birds and fish would come close to her. Others had to scatter fish food to draw fish over, but all she had to do was put her hand into the water, and fish would swim up to rub against her palm.

When she walked outside, birds that should have flown away at the sight of a person would remain on the ground even after she approached; they would even stare at her with their tiny eyes.

Cats and dogs were even more common. When she fed stray cats, they would run as soon as other people approached, but she had never met one that refused to let her pet it. In the past, when she went with friends to pick up dogs from a pet shop, the dogs would lunge at her first and completely ignore their owners standing beside her...

Her mindset at this moment was, unexpectedly, the same as in all those scenes.

Nan Changgeng lowered her head slightly and pressed her thumb hard against her temple, silently reminding herself:

Yu Mao may be named after a cat, but she’s still a person.