"How can that be? That stuff is only good as a snack. If you don't eat a proper meal, how will you have the energy for class?"

Auntie's voice was loud, and her eyes looked a bit intimidating when she glared.

"But bread is more nutritious than steamed buns, and milk has more calcium..." Zoe Young thought for a moment. "It's good for growing."

"But, that's not how things are done," Auntie hesitated, "What kind of talk is that?"

Sometimes, whether something is proper matters more than nutrition, but Auntie's actions were understandable. Zoe Young sat quietly on the chair, staring at her toes, trying hard to make her words persuasive but not forceful.

"I've always had breakfast like this. I like eating bread. Mom always let me eat this way for breakfast. I'm used to it."

Auntie was taken aback.

"Alright, alright... but I have to get up in the morning to fry you an egg and heat up some milk."

"I like cold milk. I hate eggs." Zoe Young lowered her head, her voice a bit cold.

"No! Just do as I say."

A moment of silence. "Alright, Auntie, thank you for your trouble every morning."

She could see the light that flashed in Auntie's eyes after hearing this, just as complicated as when she first took her in—an uneasiness mixed in with warmth and affection.

Maybe it was because this child in front of her, with her indifferent expression, had never made her feel close or lovable. Zoe Young sometimes overheard Auntie lowering her voice to ask Uncle if she had done something wrong.

"Let her be." Uncle would always just sip his tea, stare at the TV, and say this lightly.

Zoe Young was, after all, a well-behaved child. Even when there were occasional disagreements, there were never any arguments. She didn't ask for much, nor was she ever willful. It's just that the smell of hot milk made her want to vomit, and she only ate the egg white of the fried egg.

"Don't like it?"

"No, I just never eat egg yolks." Still a toneless reply.

Zoe Young remembered the slightly hurt look on Auntie's face, and suddenly felt a bit sorry, but still forced herself to keep a cold expression.

She couldn't remember how many days Auntie insisted on fried eggs and hot milk. She only remembered that one morning, she woke up to see bread and individually wrapped cheese in the quiet kitchen. Zoe sat down and ate slowly, as if this scene had been going on for years.

Actually, she knew how she should act to be a lovable girl—she used to be like that, naturally.

"Alan Carter, I always believe that true closeness isn't about loving hugs and smiling at each other, nor about acting cute or being spoiled. It's about not being polite, about being able to ask for things without feeling embarrassed, about loudly saying 'Mom, buy me a computer' or 'That dress is ugly, don't buy it,' about being sent downstairs to eat fried dough sticks and leftovers, even about arguing and shouting, not caring at all if it breaks the relationship or ruins the surface harmony... So I know, once that fake atmosphere of warmth is created, both Uncle, Auntie, and I will feel uncomfortable. You get it, right? Everyone tries to heat up their feelings to get rid of awkwardness and coldness, but it goes too far. But, one day, something will still tear apart that peaceful facade between us."

Zoe Young started writing to Alan Carter again, only now she had a faster way. Text messages could be delivered instantly, so Alan Carter no longer had to read words from Zoe Young written days or even a month ago because of postal delays. However, Zoe Young could no longer find the inner peace that came from the scratch of a pen on letter paper.

Actually, Zoe Young lied to Auntie. When she was little, she never had the luck to eat cheese and bread, and when she grew up and life became stable, her mom was often too busy to make her breakfast. Soy milk and fried dough sticks were the norm. All that talk about nutrition and habits was just made up to convince Auntie.

In fact, it was to fulfill a small wish. Zoe Young only remembered that from the age of four or five, her mom did massage work for others, with an irregular schedule. If she missed mealtime, she'd just hand her a yuan or two to buy something to eat at the corner store.

Zoe, go buy some bread.

Just don't buy lollipop candy.

Benny and the others were always envious of Zoe Young; she was a regular at the corner store. But Zoe Young envied the Hong Kongers and foreigners on TV, sitting at long dining tables, drinking milk and eating toast. Even when everyone else was playing house, making buns and dumplings out of damp construction sand, she would squat to the side, studying how to make square slices of bread.

But after life got better, she actually forgot to ask her mom for this. Maybe it was because she no longer lacked anything, materially or emotionally.

Now, she remembered it all.

About her mom.

Zoe Young suddenly felt her chest so tight she couldn't breathe. She paused, then took a deep breath, lifted her head, and strode toward the bus stop.

Standing on the platform, Zoe Young still felt exhausted, as if she hadn't slept all night. In the distance, a No. 8 bus wobbled over, like an old man stuffed so full he could barely move. She raised her wrist to check the time: "7:06."

She had to catch this one today. Zoe Young sighed helplessly.

There were two kinds of No. 8 buses: the regular bus for one yuan, and the air-conditioned bus for two yuan. The air-conditioned ones were fewer and less crowded. Every day, she waited for the air-conditioned bus that arrived around 6:50. But to avoid being late today, she had to squeeze onto the regular one.

Zoe Young witnessed the brutal battle to board the bus almost every day. As soon as the bus appeared around the corner, the platform would stir. As it approached, everyone adjusted their positions and steps, trying to guess where it would stop to grab the best spot. She'd once seen a No. 8 bus brake too late, making people chase after it. A middle-aged woman fell and was trampled by the crowd behind her.

As soon as the bus stopped, the tug-of-war began. The small door was blocked by a dense crowd like ants at an anthill. Zoe Young felt a bit sorry for the bloated bus—every day, every stop, it had to swallow all these commuters, packed so tight inside that for every person who squeezed in the front, someone would fall out the back. Those who couldn't get on still clung to the front door, lips pressed tight, ignoring the shouts from those already on board. Many who had just squeezed on would turn and loudly scold them for wasting time, telling them to wait for the next bus.

Zoe Young watched this scene play out every day, without any judgment in her heart.

All she had to do was look up to see the newly built garden complex across the street, beautiful European-style buildings, wrought-iron gates swallowing and spitting out luxury cars with dazzling headlights, roaring past the crowded platform.

There are two completely different nerves in this world.

Everyone's life has its hardships, and its own truth. Mom once said that.

Zoe Young couldn't remember if that blurry voice was really her mom's. But the warmth of the hand on her head still lingered. Zoe Young never really understood what her mom meant—maybe she was just drunk. In just a year, waves of memories flooded her, and she just stared wide-eyed, sinking to the bottom, silent.

At 6:50 every day, the empty air-conditioned bus would glide in like a ghost, and Zoe Young would get on, brushing past the tug-of-war scene. She remembered the other two regulars on the air-conditioned bus, also girls from Brightstar High School. Every time they saw the scene at the platform, they'd laugh loudly, shrug, and say, "I really don't get it. Is it worth all that trouble just to save one yuan?"

Zoe Young didn't know if it was worth it, but she knew she wasn't good at squeezing onto buses. After a long time, she was still standing on the edge, unable to get close to the door. After being stepped on several times, she angrily flagged down a taxi.

"Uncle, Brightstar Middle School."

You—born a lady, living a maid's life. She seemed to hear her mom's teasing voice.

Getting into the car, Zoe turned her face away, not looking at the struggle by the No. 8 bus. The gray sky and gray city blurred together behind her. She felt a bit cold, put on her school uniform, and buried her head in the lingering scent of Omo laundry detergent. Every time she smelled it, she felt safe—so safe she could fall asleep, so sleepy that when she looked up, she could see the "囍" character, hanging high in the sky of last night's dream.

That dream.

The first half was festive and splendid, but the second half was like a curse, the melody of life plunging straight down, almost coming to an abrupt end, as if a clumsy composer was trying too hard to create dramatic ups and downs, but the turn was too harsh and tragic.

Zoe Young suddenly opened her eyes wide and turned to look at the buildings sliding past the window.

"Little girl, you go to Brightstar High School?"