For the past few days, Shen Xi Fan had been busy translating Li Jie’s documents, leaving her sleep-deprived. At work, she yawned constantly, and by the time she walked home, she was so exhausted that she barely registered her surroundings. She wandered aimlessly through the snow, her boots sinking into the thick, powdery layers. Finding the crunch of snow underfoot amusing, she made an effort to stomp heavily with each step, relishing the satisfying crunch crunch sound that gave her an odd sense of triumph.
Lately, she’d been wondering if she was under too much pressure.
But in the end, it wasn’t the snow that bore the brunt of her frustrations—it was her own conflicted feelings, tied in no small part to He Su Ye.
She missed him. Subtly, lightly, like a thought that brushed against her mind and refused to leave. It started small but stretched into something long and unending.
But it wasn’t a pleasant kind of longing. It wasn’t the bitterness of coffee or the lingering fragrance after a sip of tea. It was the medicinal bitterness of Chinese herbs—a flavor you endured only because it was meant to heal. Thinking of him was like that: something she couldn’t help but do, even if it left her uncomfortable.
Frustrated, she bumped her head against the bookshelf, accidentally knocking down a precarious stack of books. With a yelp, she let the books rain down on her, the thuds providing an oddly satisfying release for her pent-up emotions.
She laughed. A hearty, silly laugh, realizing just how ridiculous she must seem. But she found this silliness endearing—she liked herself for it.
Sitting on the floor, she began gathering the scattered books, unable to hide the smile on her face. They were all textbooks and reference materials from her college days, some of them still blank inside, not even her name written on them.
The days of skipping class, napping during lectures, and pulling all-nighters before exams were long gone. She was independent now, shouldering responsibilities.
But those carefree days had been beautiful, a time she only realized the value of after they were gone. Now, all she could do was look back on them with nostalgia, cherishing those fleeting years.
Her hand froze when she came across a photograph tucked among the books, along with a few sheets of letter paper. She hesitated, then picked them up. The delicate papers felt impossibly heavy in her hands.
Pain has a way of making things weighty—not physically, but in the heart.
In the photograph, she was smiling radiantly, genuinely, her eyes brimming with happiness. Her arm was looped through Yan Heng’s, who wasn’t looking at the camera but instead at her, with a fond and indulgent expression. Back then, everyone thought they were made for each other.
When in love, every girl becomes an angel, blessed and radiant, basking in happiness.
Now, turning to the glass door of the cabinet, she forced what she thought was a bright smile. But the reflection mocked her. The eyes staring back were dull, and the smile was strained—a stark contrast to the girl in the photograph.
How ironic, she thought. Running into her first love three years later, tangled in unresolved emotions, felt like a cruel joke.
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