This time, Chi Yao didn’t bother with small talk and directly pulled her forward by her backpack strap: “Fine, let’s see if you have a bloody disaster today.”
Lin Zhexia: “…”
Because they were delayed a bit, by the time they scanned their cards to board the bus, it was already crowded with people.
Lin Zhexia squeezed in and found an empty spot to stand, her hand holding the back of the seat in front of her.
Chi Yao stood behind her, reaching up to grab the overhead handle.
The two stood very close. Without turning her head, Lin Zhexia could still feel that there seemed to be an invisible shadow cast from behind, helping to separate her from the surrounding people.
She lowered her head, trying hard to ignore it.
It was only because there were too many people on the bus that they had to stand closer.
Only because it was too crowded.
…
She recited this to herself once, and just as she managed to pretend nothing was happening, the person behind her moved—the young man lowered his head, wanting to talk to her.
From an onlooker’s perspective, her posture with Chi Yao looked intimate.
The young man in a school uniform with his backpack leaned down to her ear, this motion bringing the distance between them even closer.
The loose strands of hair on his forehead fell forward, his neckline severe, even showing the protruding cervical spinous process. Someone who looked cold and unrestrained seemed to unintentionally lower his posture through this action.
“Lin Zhexia.”
Chi Yao rarely called her full name.
As he spoke, his breath fell very lightly on the side of her neck, both numbing and tickling.
Lin Zhexia stiffened.
Then, her neck felt another tickle, and the voice behind her continued: “…What are you avoiding?”
Lin Zhexia pretended not to understand, her fingers tightening on the seat back: “What am I avoiding?”
Chi Yao kept his head down, his expression unclear: “Avoiding me.”
“…”
Chi Yao made himself clearer: “These past few days, you’ve been avoiding me. You think I can’t tell?”
“Also, you don’t reply to messages.”
Chi Yao said, “Before, you talked so much, I wanted to block you. Now you’re like a mute.”
Lin Zhexia didn’t know what to say, finally managing only: “…I’m not.”
But this “I’m not” sounded somewhat weak.
Before, she could chat with Chi Yao about a basketful of trivial matters in a single day.
Whether she had something to say or not, she would always poke him.
Occasionally, when she saw a very corny joke online, she would have to retell it to Chi Yao.
So after reducing their chats for a few days, she felt very uncomfortable.
She discovered that suddenly many things had nowhere to be said, or rather, she didn’t have that much to say originally—it was only because it was Chi Yao that she became talkative.
Lin Zhexia guiltily stared at the swaying street scenery outside the window.
Her worst fear had come true.
She felt like she had shot herself in the foot.
She and Chi Yao were simply too familiar with each other, so familiar that even her deliberate distancing was immediately seen through.
“Fine,” Lin Zhexia lowered her head, staring at her toes, letting out an exaggerated long sigh, “At this point, I might as well tell you.”
“Originally, I wanted to deal with this pressure by myself. Sigh, I didn’t expect you to care so much about me. I’ll just be honest: I’ve been under too much academic pressure lately.”
“…”
The breath on her neck disappeared.
Chi Yao fell silent.
“The pressure of the college entrance exam is suffocating me, so I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts.”
“…”
The scenery outside the window continued to flit by.
As Lin Zhexia spoke, she completed her unfinished thoughts in her mind:
It was also fortunate that she and Chi Yao were so familiar; familiar enough that she knew what reaction would dispel his doubts.
“And you even said you wanted to block me, so aren’t I allowed to be a bit aloof sometimes?” Lin Zhexia finally convinced even herself, becoming righteously indignant, “You wanted to block me, you’re so mean.”
“…”