After just a few sniffs, the person beside her handed over a tissue. Chi Yao wasn’t watching the movie but instead was resting his chin on his hand, watching her. As he passed her the tissue, he said: “Why are you crying again?”
“Don’t call you scaredy-cat,” he added, “I should call you crybaby instead.”
Lin Zhexia took it, wiped her tears and nose, her voice choked: “I’m not called scaredy-cat in the first place.”
“And not a crybaby.”
“This movie is so touching,” Lin Zhexia said, “I just have strong empathy, unlike certain cold-blooded, heartless people.”
Chi Yao leaned against the chair back, pinching his finger joints, casually saying: “Cancer storylines, outdated even ten years ago…”
Lin Zhexia glared at him.
Chi Yao, in his cold and detached manner, corrected himself: “It is quite moving.”
Lin Zhexia ignored what he said: “Anyway, you’re cold-blooded.”
“I’m cold-blooded,” Chi Yao gave a cold laugh, “but the fact that I’ve watched this far already shows great respect for this movie.”
After speaking, he shifted slightly to give her some viewing space. “There’s someone even more cold-blooded.”
Through the gap Chi Yao made, Lin Zhexia saw He Yang slumped over, fast asleep.
“…”
“It’s tough for him,” Lin Zhexia wiped her nose again and said, “Just to post on social media, he had to come to the cinema specifically to sleep.”
Perhaps half-awake and hearing someone talking about him, He Yang suddenly woke up. He sat up straight and asked: “Who called me? Is this incredibly boring movie finally ending?”
Lin Zhexia: “…”
The movie was indeed about to end.
Although the film had a tragic tone, it still highlighted the Valentine’s Day theme.
At the end of the movie, the screen suddenly darkened, and a line of text appeared:
“May all unspoken affections blossom and bear fruit. Without a parallel universe, we will still be together.”
Although Lin Zhexia had cried because of the plot earlier, throughout the entire movie, what moved her most was this line.
All.
Unspoken affections.
She stared at these words, forgetting to get up even though it was time to leave.
He Yang couldn’t wait: “Brother Xia, why are you in a daze? Let’s go.”
He Yang shifted his gaze and realized he was the only one standing: “And you, Yaoyao, why aren’t you leaving either?”
Following He Yang’s words, Lin Zhexia looked at the person beside her. Perhaps it was her imagination, but Chi Yao also seemed to be looking at that line.
The young man leaned against the chair, his light pupils deeply colored by the screen light. Then he lowered his eyes, concealing his unclear gaze. When he looked up again, it was as if his previous expression had never existed. He stood up, hands in pockets, still his usual self: “Let’s go.”
The three walked back to the main hall.
Lin Zhexia: “Wait, I want to take a photo too.”
After she spoke, the other two looked at her.
“I mean the three of us together, as a memento.”
“After all, in one’s lifetime,” she said slowly, “…it’s rare to have such an eventful experience as today. I can’t help but want to capture the embarrassing things you two did.”
When she said she wanted to take a photo, neither of them objected.
Most of the time, they were quite accommodating to her.
“Hurry up and take it,” He Yang took out his ticket stub. “I almost threw it away when I left.”
Lin Zhexia looked up at Chi Yao.
Chi Yao didn’t say anything, but he also took out his ticket stub.
Lin Zhexia opened the camera and quickly took the photo: “Done.”
When she got home, she sat at her desk reviewing the photo she had taken at the cinema.
She wanted to take a photo because chances like today’s coincidence might never happen again.
But she definitely couldn’t take photos like He Yang did, so she could only photograph the three of them together.
She could have posted this photo on social media.
But after looking at it for a while, she carefully posted it as visible only to herself.
In the photo, Chi Yao’s well-defined knuckles were very close to her hand.
Their ticket stubs were right next to each other.
He Yang, standing farther away and eager to leave this sad place, was at a bit of distance from them.
Even though no one would see this post, visible only to herself, Lin Zhexia still wrote and deleted captions multiple times before finally leaving just today’s date.
2.14.
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