He Yang didn’t go home but followed Chi Yao.
Now he was sprawled on Chi Yao’s sofa, scrolling through social media for a while before starting to edit his post.
“What do you think I should write for the caption?”
He Yang rubbed his chin, “‘Not alone this 214,’ ‘Together with her,’ or ‘The movie wasn’t the beautiful thing’?”
“…”
Chi Yao leaned against the kitchen doorway, holding two bottles of water.
He held back repeatedly, barely resisting the urge to throw the water directly at He Yang’s head: “Now, immediately, get out of my house.”
He Yang took the water: “Don’t be like that, I don’t want to go back and listen to my mom nagging.”
“I think the last one is better,” He Yang continued editing his caption, “it has more atmosphere, and that unsaid feeling gives it an air of mystery.”
He Yang quickly finished editing, set the visibility to [Classmates], and posted this fraudulent, fake update.
After completing this major task, he exhaled deeply, fell back on the sofa, and said: “Today was not easy.”
He Yang burst out with a soul-searching question: “How can Valentine’s Day movies be so boring? I even picked one that seemed watchable. When I was choosing, there were several others, but I couldn’t even watch their trailers all the way through.”
He Yang continued: “But speaking of which, I fell asleep halfway through this one, but even the half I saw, I didn’t understand.”
Chi Yao: “Are you illiterate?”
He Yang: “…No, it’s just that the romance was genuinely hard to understand.”
He Yang sat up again, intending to discuss it in detail: “Why didn’t they tell each other they liked each other? Why not say it? If just one person had broken the ice, wouldn’t it have been resolved early on? Did they need to wait ten years? It’s very strange. Anyway, I don’t get it.”
Adolescence.
People inevitably begin to secretly explore the word “like.”
Although He Yang pretended to be cool all day, it was just his vanity acting up, just wanting to show he had grown up.
But he had never had a proper relationship, only knew how to play games all day, and didn’t even have a girl he liked.
He Yang truly couldn’t comprehend it.
But he never expected Chi Yao to respond to him—after all, someone like Chi Yao probably had even less tolerance for romance films than he did.
He probably didn’t pay much attention.
Likely just glanced at it, then looked down to play with his phone.
Only a fool like Lin Zhexia would cry rivers over such a movie…
As He Yang thought this, without any warning, he heard the person leaning against the kitchen doorway say in a very low voice, almost as if talking to himself: “…Because it’s too important.”
Because this person’s position in life is too special, too important.
More important than liking, and weightier than love.
So one proceeds with the utmost caution.
So it can’t be voiced, can’t be revealed.
“What?” He Yang didn’t hear clearly.
After coming home, Chi Yao had taken off his coat. As he spoke, his Adam’s apple moved with difficulty. His hands hung down, fingers curled around the water bottle, knuckles tensing and turning white with force.
But when He Yang sat up from the sofa to look at him, he released and flexed his fingers, as if the previous emotions had been just an illusion.
“I said,” Chi Yao twisted open the water bottle and pointed at the door, “when are you leaving?”
Although He Yang hadn’t heard clearly, he had caught something: “No, you clearly said ‘because’ something something, so what came after ‘because’?”
Chi Yao physically started pushing him out: “Never said that. Your ears have problems.”
He Yang staggered toward the door: “I heard…”
His response was met with Chi Yao’s merciless door-closing sound.
“…”
He Yang stood at the door, scratching his head, a bit confused: “Did I hear wrong?”
“Forget it,” he stopped thinking about it, shook his head, and walked home, “…it was just a boring movie anyway.”
Author’s note:
Only you found it boring; those two found it quite engaging.