Lin Haiyang fell into step beside her: “I’m always starving after evening study. You have no idea how much guys can eat. After evening study, a big flatbread dipped in sauce — I could eat three, easy. You believe me?”
Jiang Du stifled a laugh: “I believe you. You’re so tall.”
“Let me tell you, guys are basically born starving. We do so much exercise. How do you eat so little? I watched you at lunch — you eat like a bird.”
“Not at all — I eat a normal amount. Birds eat practically nothing.”
On the walk to the karaoke bar, she passed the time in conversation with Lin Haiyang — trivial, meaningless little details. From time to time she looked ahead. Wei Qingyue never once turned back.
He can’t see me.
But at least I can see him. And besides — the stretch of road underfoot is one we’re walking together. She didn’t ask for much: a small happiness, like the single note of a plucked string that swells, against all expectation, into a great surging melody.
Entering the karaoke venue, shimmering, restless lights traced their way across every face. Down the corridor, a door left ajar let through music that was ear-splitting — and what could only be described as howling.
Jiang Du couldn’t sing — she only ever hummed quietly to herself. But the meaning of today was not in eating, and not in singing either. She didn’t feel the slightest bit of reluctance; she only felt that this entire day was an extraordinary stroke of luck.
The sixth is an auspicious day, her grandmother always said. More newlyweds get married on this day than any other — every year it’s the same.
New Year’s Eve had its beauty, and so did the first day — but neither could compare to the beauty of the sixth.
Once they settled into the private room, countless tiny spinning stars fell across their faces in deep ocean blue. Jiang Du sat at the very end, listening to everyone argue over which songs to choose.
“You still owe me a song,” Zhang Xiaoqiang said quietly, the shimmering light all around her. She looked at Wei Qingyue with a smile; he feigned ignorance, a slight frown: “What do you mean I owe you a song?”
Zhang Xiaoqiang hushed him: “The New Year’s showcase. You stood me up.”
Only then did Wei Qingyue smile — briefly, deflecting: “My voice isn’t great today. Don’t feel like singing. How about this — you pick a song, and I’ll give you my critique?”
“Look how full of yourself you are,” Zhang Xiaoqiang said, clearing her throat. “My English pronunciation is more accurate than yours — don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Truly impressive. Is that a London accent?” Wei Qingyue popped open an easy-pull can with a smile; the crisp sound split the air and the cold liquid traced its way down into his lungs.
His tone wasn’t something people generally warmed to — call it sarcasm and Wei Qingyue would only say there was no such intention; one explanation was his absolute limit. He genuinely just spoke however the words came. In short, Wei Qingyue was not the sort of person who knew how to please others, nor did he much bother with their feelings.
Zhang Xiaoqiang shot him a look, then glanced over to where Lin Haiyang was already itching to sing a Cantonese song. The moment he opened his mouth, he was clearly imitating the accent — certain sounds twisted in peculiar ways — and yet Lin Haiyang sang with total abandon. She and the other girls burst out laughing.
Afterward, Liu Xiaole pushed the class representative and Zhang Xiaoqiang into a duet. They were both top students and had worked so well together on class affairs all term — it would be a shame not to sing at least one song together.
“What though? All the duets feel kind of corny?” Zhang Xiaoqiang scrolled through the song list, genuinely baffled.
“Yearning in Wind and Rain?”
“You Are the Most Precious?”
“My Confidant and Dearest, haha!”
“You all love those old songs, don’t you? Someone who didn’t know better would think it was grandparents making the requests.”
Jiang Du listened to everyone chime in from all sides. As usual, she had no way to join. She sat very straight, her back a perfectly even line. Next to her, Wei Qingyue had already half-reclined on the sofa, hands crossed behind his head, his long legs stretched out and folded over each other.
The duet began. The class representative’s vocal talent was — difficult to endure. Lin Haiyang was already doubled over with laughter, offering zero sympathy; the class representative grew so mortified he nearly gave up. Lin Haiyang waved him back: “No, no — you have to see it through to the end.”
The music boomed and crashed in every direction. Liu Xiaole suddenly said she wanted fruit — she thought she’d forgotten to order a fruit platter. Wei Qingyue stood up directly: “I’ll go. You all keep singing.”
Whether he was bored or the room was too stuffy, Jiang Du couldn’t tell. She summoned her courage and finally spoke to him:
“Why don’t I go instead? I can’t sing anyway.”
“Then what did you come for?” Wei Qingyue asked with a laugh. Jiang Du was immediately flustered. She pressed her lips together and muttered vaguely, “I’ll go order the fruit platter.”
But the moment she actually stepped into the corridor, a wave of disorientation washed over her. The hallway was a swirl of extravagant, otherworldly light — and she immediately got lost.
“If you can’t sing, why did you come? Zhang Xiaoqiang invited you for her birthday for a reason. You’ve gone the wrong way.” Wei Qingyue’s voice came from behind her — she had no idea when he’d appeared. He gave the hood of her down jacket a light tug — not hard at all, but it startled Jiang Du thoroughly. She turned around and stood there for a long moment.
In the ensuing fluster, it took her a while to find her voice: “I’ll just order the fruit platter.”
Wei Qingyue let out a soft, amused sound: “I’m going to the bathroom.”
Oh? Jiang Du froze. So it was her own presumption all along. In an instant, a wave of mortification crashed through her — how embarrassing.
A few drunk adults stumbled past down the corridor, one of the men nearly careening straight into Jiang Du. Wei Qingyue reached out and steadied her in passing, saying, “You even get lost in here?”
Jiang Du murmured: “I’ve never been here before.”
“You barely ate anything, you don’t know how to sing, you don’t talk much — are you really this shy? Aren’t they all your classmates?”
The bit about the food… Jiang Du gave him a searching look, hesitating, then let her lashes fall.
“Jiang Du.” Wei Qingyue suddenly said her name. She looked up and watched the light pass across his face.
“Are you nervous every time you see me?” He asked with complete directness — so direct that Jiang Du felt, for a split second, as though her soul had left her body.
On pure instinct, she stumbled over her denial: “No — I’m not.”
Wei Qingyue smiled — a contained, subtle sort of smile. He glanced around, then turned back to her and said:
“If you feel constrained talking to me, you can—” he paused deliberately, watching her expression. Sure enough, Jiang Du went rigid, as though at his next word she might simply snap. Her eyes were beautiful — irises dark as ink, pooling with bright, vivid light. At the center of that light was his own reflection.
“Write me a letter.”
Those four words, the boy said with quiet certainty. He was still smiling, still watching her eyes.
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