Chapter 08
In our CP (couple pairing), I’m in charge of beauty and brains, while San Ye is responsible for picking fights and being dumb. Yep, that’s how it usually is… though, occasionally, San Ye has moments where his IQ soars.
1
Back in high school, I hated doing homework, but I was too timid to ever dare not hand it in. So after every long holiday, I was always the first to arrive at the classroom (I even specially applied for the “honor” of keeping the key to unlock the classroom). As soon as I got there, I’d sit properly at my desk, staring eagerly at the door, waiting for some kind soul to save me.
That kind soul was usually San Ye.
Of course, I had borrowed homework from others to “reference” before, but I later realized that San Ye’s had the highest accuracy rate, his steps weren’t too complicated, and his solutions took up plenty of space on the page. Naturally, I became especially fond of borrowing his homework.
For a pure high school student, a classmate who lends you homework during a time of need practically radiates holy light! So every time school resumed after a long break, the moment I saw San Ye, my eyes glued to him like a dog staring at a bone—watching him from the moment he walked through the door, sat down, took out his homework, and then brought it over to my desk. Every single one of his movements seemed incomparably charming.
I remember especially vividly one summer vacation when I hadn’t done more than half of the math problems in my Summer Workbook. Even though I knew the teacher wouldn’t check, I still felt uneasy. So I called San Ye for help. He said, “I finished mine already. You can come get it.”
Overjoyed, I jumped on a bus from the old part of town to the new district where he lived. The moment I got off, I saw him waiting at the bus stop. Without saying anything, he handed me the workbook.
I dumbly took it, muttered “Thanks,” and, noticing my bus home arriving across the street, I hurriedly ran off and got on it. It was only after I sat down that I thought—wasn’t it really heartless of me to just grab the homework and leave like that?
Years later, I firmly believed that lending me his homework was San Ye’s first move to “hook” me. I asked him, “Did you deliberately make your solutions so short because you knew I liked fewer steps?”
He looked puzzled. “You mean those holiday books? That stuff already has an answer key. You just slap down a couple of formulas and then copy the answer. Teachers don’t even check. Uh… did you misunderstand me again?”
And so, upon learning the truth, tears fell down my face.
2
After that ambiguous summer following high school graduation, we each started our new college lives with curiosity and excitement. Once military training and the chaos of meeting new people settled down, I suddenly found myself missing San Ye. One dark, windy night, I sent him a WeChat message.
I was too lazy to type, so I sent him a voice message: “Where are you?”
His reply came as a voice message too, with noisy sounds in the background: “Eating.”
In that moment, I felt strangely disappointed—like I could already sense how colorful his new life was, and how it no longer included me, his so-called “number one best friend in the universe.” So I said: “Oh… let’s chat then.”
He switched to typing: “Go ahead.”
I typed: “Let’s do a long-distance relationship.”
San Ye asked: “Why?”
I was speechless. He was the Ten Thousand Whys guy! So I started rambling nonsense: “Well, winter is coming, and in cold weather, isn’t it better to cuddle with someone than freeze alone?”
San Ye replied: “Daytime temperature here in Xiamen is 28 degrees. I’m wearing a tank top and shorts.”
I had no comeback. “…Fine, go back to your dinner.”
After that, I contacted him from time to time—sometimes to joke around, sometimes to get shut down by him. More than once, I seriously suggested this “long-distance relationship,” but he always refused.
Finally, refusing to give up, I told him: “Let’s date long-distance. I’m serious this time. No playing around. Neither of us will see anyone else.”
San Ye replied quickly: “Okay.”
I froze. “…That’s it?”
He asked back: “What else did you expect?”
In the following months, I often felt like I’d fallen right into the trap San Ye had dug for me.
After we got together, I even complained: “Why was I the one who had to pursue you? Not fair. You should chase me now! Otherwise it’s embarrassing to admit to people.”
But by then, San Ye was no longer the innocent boy he used to be. He lazily brushed me off: “I liked you first, you chased me first. That’s perfectly fair. We’re not teenagers anymore. Stop making a fuss—come on, let’s get barbecue.”
And just like that, even as I sulkily followed him, I thought: Maybe you’re not seventeen or eighteen anymore, but I’m still only nineteen…
3
San Ye always seemed so carefree. Sometimes, just to mess with him, I’d try to make him jealous.
One time, I saw a guy who had once liked me post a poetic, artsy status. I immediately called San Ye and said, all mysterious: “I did some quick fortune-telling and I think he’s missing me!”
At the time, San Ye was gaming. He had the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, with the game’s sound effects blaring. He casually asked, “Mm, and then?”
I fumed: “Don’t you feel any sense of crisis?”
San Ye calmly replied: “Crisis? He has a new girlfriend, you have me—what’s the problem?”
I threatened: “Aren’t you afraid he’ll rekindle his feelings for me, and then we’ll set off sparks together?”
First, he mocked my poor language skills. Then he said, “Six months ago, maybe. Now? Not anymore.”
I instantly understood the hidden meaning behind his words, and with a pang in my chest, I muttered, “Fine… go back to your game.”
After hanging up, I ran to the mirror behind the door, scrutinizing myself. I asked my roommate: “Do I look fatter than when school started?”
She shot me down mercilessly: “You just realized? You’ve gained at least ten pounds.”
I had never considered it before, and the revelation shocked me. I dug out old pants and skirts—only to discover that none of them fit anymore!
Determined to make San Ye feel some “sense of crisis,” I resolved to diet: skip dinner, only eat twice a day. After a week, I lost three pounds. Excited, I reported my progress to San Ye.
He was shocked: “You’re dieting?”
I huffed: “Only now you notice? Shows how little you care about me!”
He said helplessly: “How would I know if you didn’t tell me? So, how much have you lost?”
I proudly declared: “Three pounds!”
He actually laughed and said: “That’s not much. Other people lose weight by skipping all three meals and just eating fruit. You still eat two big meals a day—of course you won’t lose much.”
I thought that sounded logical, so the next day I switched to only apples and eggs.
One day, two days… on the third day, a snack delivery arrived, addressed to “Little Bu’s roommate.” My roommates cheered as they ripped it open and happily munched away. I sat on my bed, bitterly watching them, and texted San Ye: “Why are you doing this to me… why not buy snacks for me?”
He sternly replied: “You’re dieting. Once you slim down, I’ll buy you snacks.”
Hearing his shameless coaxing, and seeing my roommates munching away, I collapsed in defeat: “I give up! I want jelly, I want chocolate, I want dried durian. Darling, I was wrong! Please buy them for me!”
His tone instantly softened: “That’s better. Soft and chubby feels nicest to touch. Your package will arrive in a few days. Be good.”
I silently mourned my rolls of fat for a few seconds… and then dove off my bed to fight for snacks with my roommates.
My roommate commented: “Making you gain weight on purpose—this is the smartest scheme San Ye has ever pulled off.”
