Thomas Chase ran over from a distance, holding a stack of files. Zoe liked beautiful things and always stared so directly that it left people flustered.

Over the years, only two people had ever remained calm under such a gaze: one was Thomas Chase, the other was Charlotte Lee from this morning. Even Andrew Lane had never managed it—Andrew Lane would always blush.

“What a coincidence, I was just looking for you.” Thomas Chase stopped in front of them, smiling handsomely. “Ray Cindy, Teacher Yu has told you, right? Maybe Zoe doesn’t know yet. We, um, our class wants to throw a farewell party for you two. You really made a splash, none of us were prepared for it. Everyone feels it’s a pity to see you go…”

Ray Cindy smiled, a very sarcastic smile.

Thomas Chase paused, glanced at Ray Cindy, and said seriously, “There are definitely people who will miss you.”

Ray Cindy was stunned, lowered her head, and said nothing.

“Although maybe,” he turned to Zoe Young, speaking in a relaxed tone, “Zoe doesn’t really like formalities.”

Zoe Young shrugged and smiled; words like that weren’t annoying.

“But sometimes, formality can help with the substance, right? Maybe after a farewell party, everyone will really start to miss you.” Thomas Chase smiled even more brightly. Ray Cindy looked up at him, then lowered her head again.

“Don’t worry, since you two don’t like talking, when I host, I won’t let there be any awkward silences. Trust me.”

Nothing over the line, but very sincere and thoughtful, not slick at all.

Zoe Young nodded. “When are you planning to have the class meeting? Just let us know then. Thanks for your hard work, class monitor.”

Thomas Chase smiled and said, “See you later, all the best.”

Zoe Young took in all of Ray Cindy’s silent awkwardness, but said nothing.

The platform was still crowded. Zoe Young and Ray Cindy stood far from the crowd, having wandered through all the magazine stands and food shops around the school before slowly making their way over, watching the people on the platform chatting and horsing around. Green, white, blue—three grades, three kinds of uniforms squeezed together, but none of them were lively colors.

Back in tenth grade, Ray Cindy had tried hard, dragging the silent Zoe to rush onto the No. 8 bus. But every time, it was Ray Cindy barely managing to stand on the steps at the door, looking back at Zoe Young outside the bus, who was watching her eagerly, and then sighing helplessly, jumping off the bus to wait for the next one with her. The next bus that Zoe Young could handle was always the one that arrived when the platform was nearly empty. Every time Ray Cindy jumped off, she would expressionlessly aim her knee at Zoe Young’s backside and give a hard kick.

Zoe liked Ray Cindy from back then—the one with a cold face, but eyes full of tolerance and laughter.

The upheaval made her see many people more clearly. But it also made her less pure, and thus more tolerant. Zoe Young once thought that all the barriers between herself and Michelle Cindy in the last days of middle school would make them strangers, but the changes quietly transformed her. The things she once cared so much about—“first place,” “the best,” “the truest, purest friendship”—all faded into the background.

In tenth grade, Ray Cindy approached her as if nothing had ever happened in middle school, as if they were still good friends, as if she had never been that embarrassed, pitiful Michelle Cindy—and Zoe Young accepted it calmly.

It didn’t matter anyway.

The two of them wandered near the platform for over half an hour before taking the bus home; it had almost become a habit.

Zoe Young had once told Ray Cindy to go ahead without her, but Ray Cindy refused; she suggested they stay in the classroom to study until there were fewer people before going out to catch the bus, but Ray Cindy refused that too. Zoe never asked Ray Cindy why she liked standing idly on the platform, even though she thought it was odd—staying in the classroom to study was more Ray Cindy’s style.

She held back this question for almost a year, and then suddenly understood. On an early summer evening, the two of them stood foolishly under the bus sign, not talking at all. Zoe was already daydreaming in outer space when she suddenly heard Ray Cindy beside her, stretching and yawning contentedly like a cat.

“This is nice,” Ray Cindy said.

So Zoe smiled at her and said, “Yeah, it is nice.”

Maybe it really was that simple.

Neither of them brought up that strange conversation from the flag-raising ceremony that morning while standing on the platform. Ray Cindy chatted absentmindedly with Zoe about things that had happened during the day, and Zoe Young listened quietly.

Compared to the past, it was as if their roles had reversed.

There were seats when they got on the bus, but she and Ray Cindy sat far apart. Zoe Young leaned her head against the dirty window, her eyes heavy and hard to keep open. Dusk was falling, and the scenery under the deep blue sky outside had become so blurry. She was very sleepy, very tired, but still stubbornly refused to sleep.

Zoe Young always got drowsy when the bus jolted. As a child, she was always carried around by her mother, wrapped in a cloth called a “hugging monkey.” When she cried and refused to sleep, her mother would keep bouncing her, saying, “Good baby, good baby.”

But on the bus, no matter how sleepy she was, she insisted on keeping her eyes open to look at the scenery, even if she’d seen the same bus route hundreds of times.

“I can sleep at home anyway. The more I look now, the more… the more I get to keep.”

Zoe Young still remembered little Zoe’s triumphant expression as she said this inexplicable logic, and her mother’s laugh when she heard it: “That’s right, Zoe is so smart.”

Zoe is so smart.

Zoe Young yawned, and tears seeped from the corners of her eyes.

Swaying like that, she finally reached her stop. Zoe Young waved to Ray Cindy and got off first.

Since third grade, the area under her grandmother’s building had turned into a vegetable market. Many school staff would come here after work to buy groceries for dinner, and every morning and evening, it was especially lively.

The government had tried hard to move the vendors into the mall’s ground floor, but ultimately failed. The tug-of-war between city management and the vendors lasted a year, and the market nervously returned to prosperity. As a child, Zoe Young loved the roasted sweet potato chips made by an old lady at a barbecue stall downstairs, so every time she saw the city management’s car from afar, she would run several blocks to warn the old lady.

The old lady passed away the winter before last. Her son still grills lamb skewers in the same spot, but Zoe Young has never eaten them.

On Saturday afternoons, while reviewing lessons at home, she could still hear the hawkers calling out “clean your range hood” and “buckwheat husks,” the voices coming closer, then slowly fading away.

At that time, if she looked up at the sky, there was a patch of deep blue above the old building across the street.

Tina Young and Lily Young had both moved out, and her eldest uncle had moved back in. Just as Lily Young’s mother had said: “Didn’t he say children should take care of their elders? Well, let him move in then!”

Zoe Young moved back to her grandmother’s house. The apartment her mother left hadn’t been sold, just left empty in the Haicheng neighborhood. Zoe Young hadn’t been back for a whole year.

Her aunt had already finished cooking: tomatoes with scrambled eggs, green beans, and diced chicken with peas. Zoe washed her hands and sat down at the table.

“Try my diced chicken with peas. First time making it.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” her uncle said, only to get a glare from her aunt.

“I understand,” Zoe said, and got a glare from her aunt too.

They didn’t talk much during dinner. Her uncle would talk about things at the union, her aunt would gossip about the office, and Zoe Young would occasionally chime in, but mostly she just ate quietly and daydreamed.

Her aunt wouldn’t let Zoe Young wash the dishes, so she never volunteered. After dinner, her uncle went to watch “Focus Report,” and Zoe Young went back to her room to do homework.

Brightstar High School’s tradition was not to assign homework, but to give students lots of workbooks. Everyone would also buy extra workbooks on their own, though most never had time to finish them. Almost no one hid their workbooks like Michelle Cindy did in middle school—not even Ray Cindy did that anymore. The students who got into Brightstar High School were all good students, well aware of such childish tricks. Besides, even if everyone had a copy of the “secret manual,” so what? Not everyone was a martial arts prodigy.

Politics was spread out under the bright desk lamp, and just looking at it made her feel nauseous. Zoe Young had slept through politics class, leaning against the windowsill, propping her chin with her left hand, head slightly bowed, pretending to look attentive.

After class, Ian nudged her and quietly told her that the introduction and the first section of chapter one were finished. The first philosophical principle was “nature is objective reality.” When answering questions, you had to write out the philosophical principle, methodology, and “the opposing erroneous tendency” in order. He had copied all the details into his notes.

As he spoke, he pushed his neat, childish notes to Zoe Young’s side.