2013

It turned out Beijing winters could have a brilliantly bright sun, too. But this might have been the first time Chi Xiaoman had seen such a blinding sun in this rented room. It was on Chen Tong’s face.

She was still as beautiful as ever; just like when they first met, she stood in the sunlight, her features washed in gold, shimmering with a faint weariness. A natural movie heroine.

Chi Xiaoman still thought so, even now.

Then Chen Tong said,

“Nothing happened.”

Chi Xiaoman couldn’t make sense of that answer. Most of the time, she couldn’t make sense of what Chen Tong was thinking at all.

Before, she always felt that even if she couldn’t understand, it was fine; everyone needed their own personal space, and even lovers had to respect the private space in each other’s hearts. And more often than not, she also knew Chen Tong was thinking for her sake, trying to protect her. Because Chen Tong had never been a bad person.

Now, though, it felt like that wasn’t right after all. It shouldn’t be like this.

Perhaps sensing her confusion and uncertainty.

Chen Tong smiled at her as she always did, then took a step closer.

“Xiaoman.”

Chi Xiaoman instinctively stepped back.

Her calves brushed against the blue sofa, pressing into its soft edge.

She didn’t dare sit down, and she didn’t dare move any farther away.

So Chen Tong had to stop. She stood on the boundary between sunlight and shadow, her gaze on Chi Xiaoman blurred and unreadable.

Chi Xiaoman stood in the dark, wrapped in the winter air until she could hardly breathe; her hands and feet were shaking.

But she still forced herself to stand straight, and to look into Chen Tong’s eyes with all the effort she had. “Then, then why did you lie to me?”

Actually, Chi Xiaoman was cheated often. The sales clerk lied to her, saying the moon necklace was custom-made according to the moon on the day Chen Tong was born. A classmate lied and said that as long as she ran laps on the track, she’d get a chance, so she ran many laps around the field. The crew boss lied and took the money she had saved, saying she’d recommend her into a new production… That was how she had spent so many years in Beijing.

But she was still willing to believe; to believe that one day she would have the chance to become a big star, to believe that the Chen Tong she loved would also get to make the films she wanted to make… Yet she really had very little experience being deceived by someone she truly trusted.

The last time she’d been lied to was when Lang Lang told her to go downstairs and print the script.

This time, the lie was Chen Tong saying the crew was on New Year’s holiday; Chen Tong buying a ticket, refunding it, buying it again.

Last time, Lang Lang was gone. This time, Chi Xiaoman couldn’t imagine what other consequence she might not be able to accept.

“I didn’t lie to you.” Chen Tong didn’t move any closer.

She stood in the divide between light and dark, as if split into two different halves. Her tone was contradictory, carrying both a calmness that wanted to soothe her and an agony she couldn’t suppress; her voice was kept very soft.

“I just… didn’t know what I should do.”

Panic, longing, helplessness… these were things that rarely appeared in Chen Tong.

From summer to winter, she had always been the embodiment of strength, reason, and generosity in front of Chi Xiaoman.

But now.

She looked at Chi Xiaoman in silence with that expression.

“Xiaoman.”

Chen Tong seemed like she wanted to come closer, but was afraid Chi Xiaoman would suffer because of it; in the end, she could only stand there suspended, uncertain…

For the first time, Chi Xiaoman saw real, unmistakable pain on her face. But later, Chi Xiaoman would come to understand completely: Chen Tong was just like that, always hidden under a layer of fog, even her pain blurred.

No matter how hard she looked into her eyes now, she still couldn’t tell; she couldn’t tell how many times Chen Tong had already gone through moments like this alone.

Maybe no matter how many times she asked, Chen Tong still wouldn’t reveal everything to her.

“Then… are all those messages true?” Chi Xiaoman struggled to part her lips.

“Someone said—”

“That you knelt for an entire night so your mother would agree to let you make this movie?”

Chen Tong said nothing.

“So that means—”

Chi Xiaoman tried to piece together the cause and effect of everything.

“You went back to find your mother because, because you wanted to borrow money for me, and then, then after you went back, because your mother didn’t agree, you couldn’t go make the movie, and then, then…”

By the time she got there, she couldn’t go on. She could only stare blankly at Chen Tong’s knees—

“This had nothing to do with you directly.”

Chen Tong didn’t avoid her gaze. She looked at her, calm as ever. “Don’t overthink it.”

“Sister Chen Tong.” Chi Xiaoman asked blankly, “Did it hurt back then?”

Chen Tong opened her lips. She probably wanted to say, “It didn’t hurt.” But for some reason, she couldn’t get the words out.

Chi Xiaoman looked back at her, waiting very hard for Chen Tong’s answer. Only for one second did she suddenly feel that—

Chen Tong now looked a bit like the blue sofa sitting in the rented room; it couldn’t be moved outside, and couldn’t be touched by anyone anymore, so it had to be set aside temporarily in this not-too-large space.

And like the coat and purple scarf she’d been holding since she came in; she couldn’t put them on neatly, nor could she set them down completely, so she could only force herself to keep holding them.

And like those messages arriving again and again, showing the ticket had been successfully refunded, the service fee deducted, then the next one showing the ticket had been successfully booked, reminding the passenger to board on time. A few hours later, another message would arrive, showing the last booked ticket had been refunded again…

While Chi Xiaoman knew nothing, Chen Tong had tortured herself into this state.

Maybe even if she knew, it wouldn’t help. Because Chi Xiaoman clearly wasn’t a reliable, qualified lover.

And because…

The pain had been caused by her.

As adults, this world seemed completely opposite of what they had imagined as children. It wasn’t that two people being together could hold hands and halve the pain. It was that when two people were together, even the pain doubled.

So before Chen Tong could answer.

Chi Xiaoman frantically wiped the tears from her face and suddenly ran over to hug Chen Tong.

The embrace happened under the half-bright, half-dark sun; warmer than winter, colder than summer.

But it was very brief.

One second, two seconds… she could feel Chen Tong wavering because of her hug… even causing that contradictory pain again, the kind that seemed to be hesitating over and over between wanting to stay and wanting to fly away, until it hung unresolved.

So Chi Xiaoman let go of her and stepped back into the shadows, shoulders trembling slightly.

But she forced her lips into a smile at Chen Tong and wiped at the tears sliding from the corners of her eyes. “Sister Chen Tong, time’s almost up. Maybe, maybe I should take you to the airport first, okay?”

Chen Tong looked at her in the sunlight and wiped her tears away, not in any hurry to speak.

The blue sofa left aside; the coat and scarf that couldn’t be worn or set down; the ticket refunded and then booked again; Chen Tong, unable to make a decision and so setting herself aside in pain at every moment…

The damp, cold rented room; the phone with its screen smashed in the snow; Chi Xiaoman wishing Chen Tong could fly higher; Chi Xiaoman wishing Chen Tong could be free; Chi Xiaoman wishing Chen Tong could suffer no pain at all…

“What I mean is…” Chi Xiaoman pinched her palm, trying to keep her voice normal. “After we separate for this period, you can go do your thing first. I’ll be in Beijing too, handling mine, Lang Lang’s things, and then… then…”

She couldn’t say the rest.

Chen Tong still looked at her. After a long while, she slowly moved her lips and asked in a light voice, “Chi Xiaoman, are you breaking up with me right now?”

Her voice didn’t sound very sad, as if she were simply stating a plain fact.

But Chi Xiaoman froze in place because of it. So even though she had heard the word breakup in so many movie scenes, hearing it with her own ears still felt different; it made her mouth taste bitter, like she’d bitten her tongue, feeling both pain and numbness.

When she said it, her thinking had been simple. She had thought separating for a while would just be separating, that during that time they wouldn’t have to contact each other, wouldn’t have to meet.

She wouldn’t need to trouble Chen Tong over anything of her own; she could let Chen Tong finish filming quietly, without worrying about her, without missing her, without having to answer her calls, without hearing bad news from some phone call she made and immediately retreating from her bright, sparkling future to come find her—

Just like Chen Tong’s mother had said, only after they separated could Chen Tong feel at ease doing her own things. This was something Chen Tong had knelt all night in that room to do; something Chen Tong had finally managed to find, something she liked; the opportunity Chen Tong had longed for most on that winter night, sitting by the roadside waiting for Chi Xiaoman to pick her up… No matter what, Chi Xiaoman should not become her obstacle.

That was all Chi Xiaoman had thought.

As for breaking up…

She hadn’t realized that this was what breakup meant.

Her first instinct was to say no.

But looking at Chen Tong standing one meter away, seeing her face split into blocks of color by the half-bright, half-dark light, seeing the calm acceptance in Chen Tong’s eyes, seeing the pain in them too.

She suddenly understood one thing—

In this brief relationship, she might not have been good enough to make Chen Tong believe that leaving her alone in Beijing was the most reasonable choice;

and not bad enough to make Chen Tong completely abandon this pain, this hesitation, this torment, and resolutely leave her side.

If she were a little better, they could have been together for a long time.

If she were a little worse, they could have broken up cleanly and decisively.

It was precisely being neither good nor bad that made her the most useless. No matter how hard she tried to hold on, it seemed she could only prolong the suffering.

“Is that so?” Chen Tong looked into her eyes and asked again softly, “Chi Xiaoman, are you breaking up with me?”

Chi Xiaoman’s thoughts were pulled violently back.

She looked at Chen Tong’s calm, softened eyes in the sunlight and suddenly felt pain in her chest so sharp she could hardly breathe; yet in that pain, she slowly understood that growing up was made of moments like this, moments where you couldn’t make a choice but still had to make one.

Sunlight spread everywhere. Chi Xiaoman wanted to smile, but her eyes burned and swelled under their shared stare. In the end, she had no choice but to break eye contact herself, covering her eyes tightly and saying blankly,

“Sorry, Sister Chen Tong.”

Lowering her head, Chi Xiaoman kept wiping the tears that fell down her face, crying until she could hardly speak.

“It seems, it seems this is the only way.”

-

Chen Tong said nothing more.

She had always been a quiet person.

That day, she was even quieter.

She didn’t ask Chi Xiaoman anything else, and she didn’t look into Chi Xiaoman’s eyes again.

The sunlight pouring in grew wider and wider, almost enveloping her entire body.

She stood in the sun for a long time.

Maybe ten or so minutes; like a cloud that, after lingering for a long time, would eventually drift away. Slowly, she put on the coat she’d been holding, then wound the purple scarf around her neck in circle after circle.

After that.

She went to pick up the suitcase Chi Xiaoman had packed for her these past few days; inside were still those things, clothes, gloves, the medicine for her hives, that necklace tucked into a small box…

Chen Tong didn’t specifically take the necklace out. Maybe she forgot.

She carried the suitcase past Chi Xiaoman. When she turned to leave, her phone suddenly dropped to the floor—

The sound was loud.

Chi Xiaoman, curled up on the bed with her knees in her arms, didn’t dare look at Chen Tong, and didn’t dare look at the phone that had fallen.

Chi Xiaoman kept her head down as hard as she could, watching the sunlight slowly spill in, watching her own hunched, ugly shadow.

Chen Tong stood beside her for a long time, then bent down very slowly. With her head lowered, she picked up the phone from the floor.

After picking it up.

Chen Tong held the phone in her hand and crouched on the floor for about two or three minutes before standing back up and letting her gaze fall on Chi Xiaoman.

That might have been her last look at her. In truth, she could have said nothing at all; she could have resented Chi Xiaoman completely, even demanded that Chi Xiaoman pay back the money she’d borrowed from her right now.

But she simply said to Chi Xiaoman,

“Chi Xiaoman, remember to eat breakfast.”

Then she turned around.

Carrying the suitcase, she walked into the sunlight, her figure shrinking little by little until it vanished completely.

-

That was Chi Xiaoman’s first breakup.

It wasn’t surging or violent; it didn’t have the grand scale of the breakup scenes in Lang Lang’s scripts. It ended simply, on an ordinary winter day.

Her illness wasn’t fully cured, and the New Year wasn’t fully over either.

That day.

Chi Xiaoman sat on the cold floor for a long time, feeling like she was about to go stiff from the cold. When she stood up, she looked at the many lights coming on outside, saw many children running and jumping around, and then she suddenly ran out herself, using the little money she had left to buy a bottle of alcohol she had never really been able to get used to.

She had wanted to imitate other people and drink herself numb.

But after a few mouthfuls, she threw it all back up.

So this was what alcohol smelled like—so disgusting.

Chi Xiaoman curled up by the bed and thought quietly.

So this was what breakup felt like.

Not that the instant you broke up, you immediately fell into pain and felt like the person had disappeared from your world.

It was that her brain hadn’t fully reacted yet, so she kept intermittently thinking things like, “Has Chen Tong reached Hong Kong yet?” “Has Chen Tong had dinner?” “What is Chen Tong doing now?” “Will Chen Tong sleep well tonight?”…

The human brain seemed like such a stupid thing.

Saying it once wasn’t enough.

It had to be said a hundred times, a thousand times, ten thousand times…

Only then could it truly accept and grow used to the fact that it existed.

When she woke up, she saw the bottle lying crooked on the floor, spilling some clear liquid. She wanted to pick it up, but staggered and fell beside the bed, her hand touching the bed frame—

She suddenly froze.

She felt around inside.

Under the pillow, she pulled out a kraft paper envelope.

Inside were the two thousand yuan left behind.

A full twenty banknotes.

Chi Xiaoman counted them again and again. In the end, her fingers stiff, she also recorded the two thousand yuan in her notebook.

Her fingers were so cold in winter she could hardly hold the pen. She gripped the black pen tightly, wrote hard, wiped away her tears hard too, and after more than ten minutes, finally gave this entry five stars.

At last she hugged the little notebook, curled up by the bed, and cried until she could hardly breathe.

The human brain was such a foolish thing.

Even after emphasizing it a hundred times, a thousand times, ten thousand times, it could still so easily overturn everything repeated a hundred times, a thousand times, ten thousand times because of one insignificant moment.

She couldn’t remember how many times she had repeated it to herself, nor how many times she had overturned it.

Chi Xiaoman’s illness gradually healed.

And so she understood that even the worst illness would eventually improve. Just like even the person you loved most would eventually be forgotten. It was just that the former took less time, and the latter took longer. But she hoped that for Chen Tong, neither of these things would take too long.

When spring arrived.

Lang Lang’s apartment lease ran out.

Only then did Chi Xiaoman finally dare to clean up Lang Lang’s belongings, and finally dare to open the computer Lang Lang had left behind, and see the densely packed folders on Lang Lang’s USB drive—

Only then did she know that inside that USB drive, there was originally a separate folder named “Chen Tong.”

-

After returning to Hong Kong.

Chen Tong felt as though her life hadn’t changed much.

She wasn’t devastated by the breakup.

Nor did she constantly dwell on the fact that she and Chi Xiaoman had split up, so as to affect the filming.

At first the director was still a little angry with her, but later, seeing her quickly adjust her state and step into the role, with her condition even better than before she left, the director’s expression softened a lot. She often joked with her, saying,

“Knowing you’d be in even better shape after coming back, I should’ve sent you back to Beijing earlier.”

For jokes like that, Chen Tong only smiled faintly and didn’t say much.

At times like that, the director would suddenly point at her expression and say excitedly, “Yes, that’s it. Come on, set up the camera, give her a big close-up and keep it for the footage—”

Chen Tong would then patiently smile into the lens again, just like before.

Perfect, with no wavering at all.

So much so that this up-and-coming female director gave her a very high evaluation, saying she was born to eat this bowl of rice, and also said many times how glad she was she hadn’t given up on her over those little troubles during the New Year period.

Only once.

They had finished filming for the day.

The director looked at the monitor for a while, then asked without any warning, “Chen Tong, why did you suddenly go back to Beijing back then?”

“I had a friend in trouble. I went back to check on her.” Chen Tong answered briefly.

“A friend?”

The director touched her chin and thought for a moment. “That important? Important enough to make you stop filming?”

“Mm.” Chen Tong said. “When I first went to audition, I didn’t have the money to come to Hong Kong.”

“The two of them…”

She paused, then continued, “One of them worked overtime for days and even secretly chased people for day-wage pay; the other took out the money she’d set aside for her own treatment, and only then did they pool enough to help me with the flight and hotel.”

The director was stunned.

Chen Tong lowered her head and smiled. “So tell me, was it important or not?”

“Important, important.” The director took a sip of water from her thermos and glanced at her.

“So the fact that you can come back to make the movie now, and your condition is still this good, is also because of those two friends, then?”

Chen Tong said nothing.

The director didn’t see anything off in her expression, so she patted her shoulder and said on her own, “Then you have to thank those two friends properly for me.”

Chen Tong smiled and, as if nothing had happened, said to the director, “Okay.”

The director looked at her for a bit. “But I do think your state now is more like the character.”

“How many people can audition their whole lives and never get to play a movie heroine?” the director teased her. “You’re good, taking leave whenever you want, running off whenever you want, not answering calls whenever you want… Still, it does fit the core of our film pretty well.”

Chen Tong smiled faintly and didn’t answer.

They wrapped very late that day.

Chen Tong had come to Hong Kong alone to make the film; she hadn’t signed with a company, and she didn’t have an assistant by her side.

As she filmed this movie, she began to come into contact with many things in the industry, and she understood that actually, an actor was just a very ordinary profession. Only when they appeared in someone’s eyes did they seem to shine that brightly. If she hadn’t met that person, she probably wouldn’t have wanted to be an actor this much either.

That night she went back.

She received part of the money her cousin had sent back to her.

On the phone, Chen Tong thanked her cousin very gently, also expressed concern about her illness, and asked whether she still needed help.

But her cousin worriedly said to her, “Chen Tong, did something happen to you in Beijing? These past few days Auntie’s been really worried about you. She said she doesn’t know what… what friend you met in Beijing?”

In fact, Chen Tong had heard the tone in which Chen Xiaoping spoke about the cousin’s life in Shanghai; it was a little sharp, the pace fast, more like criticism than concern. So even though the cousin’s wording was tactful, she still knew Chen Xiaoping’s exact words probably hadn’t been as neutral as “friend.”

But there was no need to tell the cousin too much about these things. Chen Tong smiled at her over the phone.

“I’m fine; it’s just that she always makes a fuss.”

“That’s good then.” Her cousin let out a breath. “Actually, Auntie is just like that; she has a sharp tongue but a soft heart. Don’t take too much of what she says to heart.”

Chen Tong said nothing.

Her cousin didn’t say more on this either. She sighed into the phone.

“Take good care of yourself.”

“Okay.” Chen Tong said softly.

Her cousin hung up.

The money was transferred over.

Chen Tong stared at the transfer notification on her phone for a long time, then opened her laptop and booked a flight to Beijing.

The time was two months later.

When they wrapped today, the director excitedly told everyone that their movie was very likely to finish shooting before summer.

After booking the flight.

After receiving the text.

Chen Tong closed her phone and set it on the table—

This was the new phone her cousin had bought for her when she came back for New Year, as thanks for her help; the latest model in 2013, using the 4G network mentioned in the news. In 2014, people began widely using smartphones and making video calls with the people they missed.

Only at the beginning of 2014.

Before walking out of that rented room, Chen Tong accidentally dropped this new phone, the one that always had many messages rushing in, urging her to make a decision quickly and leave Chi Xiaoman.

The screen shattered on impact.

Spreading outward from a point on the side like a sharp spiderweb.

After returning to Hong Kong, Chen Tong didn’t get it repaired.

She still used this phone.

Calling, texting, registering messaging apps, maintaining the necessary but not intimate contact with everyone she needed to keep in touch with.

And using it to book flights.

And refund them.

This film’s director had a lot of ideas; one idea a day. The day before she’d say, “We’re almost done shooting.” The next day she’d say they needed to rush to a new scene and shoot as much footage as possible for later editing.

Chen Tong had no choice but to keep changing her flight dates over and over.

Maybe it didn’t have much to do with the director’s decisions either.

Maybe it was simply that she herself was indecisive, pessimistic, and unable to make a choice.

Because Chen Tong was just that kind of person.

If Chi Xiaoman had known that from the beginning, maybe she wouldn’t have dared to like her so easily.

She wouldn’t have responded immediately when Chen Tong kissed her, and she wouldn’t have bravely told her the very next day after being kissed without receiving any explanation that she liked her, that they should be together.

If she’d known from the start, her love probably wouldn’t have been given to her.

Maybe she would have been a more decisive, more forceful person.

Maybe she would have been someone who, when Chi Xiaoman wanted to leave, wouldn’t silently let her go, but would do everything she could to hold on; someone capable of handling feelings, and good at expressing them; someone who could make decisions cleanly; someone who could manage and balance all these things well…

Not Chen Tong.

Chen Tong sometimes thought this way.

But most of the time, she made herself stop thinking about it.

She set herself a date.

A date to fly back to Beijing.

And then on some day, because of some small thing, she overturned it.

And then after that, she set herself a new date to wait for on some future day.

And then after that after that, the new date would be overturned again by one small matter.

…

She used this method to delay and avoid the suffering she knew was coming. Though it wasn’t very mature, even childish, laughable, and a waste of a lot of her time and money, it was a habit she’d formed over many years.

Every time, it worked very well.

Every time, it successfully kept her in a normal, natural state, without having to feel too much pain.

Chen Tong didn’t know how many times this had to be repeated before it became effective enough. But she thought things would eventually end, numb and less painful, through one delay after another.

Until spring began to arrive, and then slowly neared its end. The movie was almost finished; Hong Kong’s temperature started rising, sometimes beginning to feel like summer.

Chen Tong started noticing the change in temperature, and also noticed that there was one person who would always, after she finished work, slowly follow behind her, doing nothing at all; just hiding behind many silhouettes, quietly peeking out to look at her. Saying nothing either, just like a little fish following behind her, clumsily drifting through the neon streets.

Hong Kong still had a lot of neon signs then.

Sometimes it would rain.

The puddles on the streets would hold many beautiful reflections.

After finishing work each day, Chen Tong would step lightly through those puddles. A little fish newly arrived in the city might feel very unfamiliar with it and would also follow her, awkwardly swimming along.

March.

Chen Tong finished shooting her scenes.

That night, she received flowers cheerfully handed to her by the director, and smiled for the camera and for a group photo with everyone.

After wrapping.

She hugged that bouquet larger than herself and walked slowly down the street through the falling rain.

Halfway there, she suddenly looked back.

Crowds came and went under the neon lights. Ten meters behind her stood a girl in a hoodie. This girl was going to turn twenty-one this summer.

If nothing unexpected happened, she would graduate from school this summer, find a job, enter society, and become an adult, just like many ordinary twenty-one-year-old girls; as if she had never experienced any harm or pain.

She looked thinner than she had last summer, her skin very pale, as if she had suffered a very serious illness last winter, so that the waist beneath the loose hoodie was thin and narrow. Her red hair, dyed during the New Year, had now faded into a lot more yellow, but she hadn’t dyed it back black; she still insisted on keeping that dividing line.

Maybe because this spring had been too hard, she didn’t have much energy; but she still looked vivid, alive.

She was holding very carefully onto a bouquet of flowers that looked freshly bloomed, as if she wanted to smile at Chen Tong, but couldn’t quite manage it, so she could only look at her with a strange expression.

“Chi Xiaoman.” Amid the passing crowd, Chen Tong called her name over the reflecting puddles.

“Huh?” Chi Xiaoman’s gaze slipped away. She probably wanted to hide, but because Chen Tong kept looking her way, in the end she had no choice but to meet her eyes with red-rimmed ones. “Mm, it’s me.”

“The movie’s finished.” Chen Tong said to her through the light and shadow.

The distance between them was very far. Chen Tong couldn’t see Chi Xiaoman clearly, and Chi Xiaoman probably couldn’t see her clearly either.

But Chi Xiaoman tried very hard to open her eyes and look at Chen Tong. Perhaps she wanted to give her the flowers, so she clutched them awkwardly and took a few unsteady steps toward her. As she walked, she also struggled to explain, “I, I just wanted to come see you; there, there’s no other meaning—”

“Can we make up now?” Chen Tong interrupted her with no logic whatsoever.

Chi Xiaoman froze.

Chen Tong gave no explanation. Just as she had suddenly kissed her lips last summer, she also never gave any explanation.

Now she stood quietly holding that bouquet of wrap-up flowers, in the city they had seen many times in movies and had said many times they would come to together, looking at Chi Xiaoman.

This gaze lasted a long time.

Chi Xiaoman probably took a long while to understand what she meant. At that time, her lips moved in panic, as though she had many things she wanted to say to her.

Maybe it was: What are you talking about?

Or maybe: I just came to wish you a happy wrap-up; there’s no other meaning.

There was also a chance it was: There’s something I forgot to give you. I’ve almost gathered the money I owe you.

But she looked at her.

It didn’t even last two minutes.

Car horns sounded; rain began falling over the street.

Chi Xiaoman wiped her red-rimmed eyes, stumbled over, and with spring flowers in her arms, looked like a stumbling insect as she slammed into Chen Tong’s embrace, held her tightly, and after a long while, said in a very small voice,

“Really?”

Rain fell, rolling over the city like spider silk and weaving the tiny two of them together. Chen Tong hugged her back through the flowers and said in a very light voice,

“If you want to.”

That was Chen Tong’s first breakup; still not honest enough, not brave enough, and handled in a way that was far from mature. Looking back later, among the few times she’d spoken so directly in this relationship was this time, when she asked Chi Xiaoman to make up.

But even then she hadn’t completely cast aside her pride and said outright, “I want to,” and instead had gone around it, saying, “If you want to.”

Maybe because the person was Chi Xiaoman, Chen Tong, who wasn’t brave enough and wasn’t honest enough, didn’t have to expose that fragile heart of hers that didn’t want to be fragile.

At first she wouldn’t haggle with her, saying that whoever kissed first or whoever said “I like you” lost. Now she wouldn’t haggle with her over who wanted to reconcile more, saying whoever came first was the loser.

Rain fell drop by drop. Chi Xiaoman hugged her, like she was crying and like she was smiling; in the end, she said softly,

“Chen Tong sister, I want to.”

Chi Xiaoman seemed to be just that simple a person.

[Author’s Note]

Updated Little Neon on time for the sixtieth day [sunglasses][sunglasses][sunglasses][sunglasses]

(Two months already)