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All the more so, they might not even recognize her at all. She had changed so much: the long, flowing hair she once had was now a neat, ear-length bob, and her once fair skin had been tanned by the California sun. Dressed in a loose T-SHIRT, jeans, and sneakers, she looked completely different from before.

They slowly, step by step, walked closer, and then… passed right by each other.

It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt.

A faint, almost imperceptible voice drifted over.

“Should we buy some milk?” Amy Mitchell’s gentle voice.

“……”

But the reply was too soft to make out. She missed it so much—Ian Mitchell’s deep, cello-like voice, which, even after all these years abroad, still echoed in her ears from time to time.

Feeling both disappointed and relieved, Mason Scott lifted her head, which had been hanging low, and started walking.

With a “bang,” her shopping cart crashed into a mountain-like pile of discounted soap on the floor. The culprit, Mason Morgan, stared dumbly as hundreds of bars of soap collapsed, making for quite a spectacular scene.

Uh, could she pretend it wasn’t her doing?

“Oh my! This is already the third time today.” A supermarket stock clerk, who seemed to appear out of nowhere, let out a pained groan.

So, this really shouldn’t be her fault, right? Who piles goods in the middle of the aisle anyway? Mason Scott secretly stuck out her tongue and tried hard to put on a guilty expression.

The commotion drew the attention of people nearby, including Amy Mitchell. She glanced casually toward the noisy spot, then froze—it was her, it really was her! Amy Mitchell could hardly believe her eyes. She… had come back?

“Amy Mitchell?” Ian Mitchell, puzzled by her reaction, asked aloud, following her gaze.

His tall, upright figure instantly stiffened.

Mason Morgan!

That petite woman with her head down and an innocent look—wasn’t that Mason Morgan! Her face was full of apology, but her eyes sparkled with unmistakable mischief. From a distance, it was hard to see her expression clearly, but Ian Mitchell just knew. He had always known—she was like this, used to stirring up a pool of spring water and then irresponsibly walking away, willful, selfish, and infuriating.

Seven whole years… did she even remember to come back?

Ian Mitchell lowered his eyes. “以玫, let’s go.”

Amy Mitchell looked in surprise at Ian Mitchell’s calm face. “Don’t you want to go say hello? Maybe…”

“She’s no longer a part of my life.” His tone was calm, as if it truly meant nothing.

Amy Mitchell studied his expression carefully but couldn’t find a single clue. In the end, she could only sigh softly, “Let’s go.”

She glanced one last time at Mason Morgan, only to find that she happened to turn her head and see her too. Their gazes met in the air; Mason Scott seemed to pause for a moment, then a faint smile appeared on her face as she nodded in greeting.

Amy Mitchell hurriedly turned back and called, “以琛…”

“Hmm?”

“She…” Amy Mitchell stopped in surprise. Looking back again, Mason Scott’s figure had already disappeared into the crowd.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” Amy Mitchell lowered her head. But she had clearly seen them—why did she leave so easily? And Ian Mitchell, he had clearly seen her too…

She never expected that one day she would return here.

During the editor-in-chief interview, she was asked, “Miss Morgan, why did you choose to work in City A?”

Mason Scott suddenly didn’t know how to answer. Why? Because she had attended university here for over a year? Because she had met him here? Because she had experienced so much here?

At first, she didn’t know either. Before returning to China, the first place she thought of was here. It wasn’t until she saw him that day that she understood—she wanted to see him. Even though he no longer belonged to her, she just wanted to see him.

Just to see him.

“Maybe because I can’t go home,” Mason Scott said. The editor-in-chief gave her a strange look for a long time, but kept her on, making her a photojournalist for a women’s magazine.

However, the editor-in-chief’s excessive emphasis on her experience at a foreign magazine made her uneasy.

“That was just a small magazine,” Mason Scott told the editor-in-chief.

“Hey! Ash.” The editor-in-chief, a woman in her forties, called her name affectionately. “Are you complimenting my knowledge? I even know all about a tiny, obscure American magazine.”

Mason Scott laughed, and her unease vanished.

The editor-in-chief said seriously, “Ash, I know how hard it is for a Chinese person to be a photographer in America. You have to be better than most white people. They always think we Chinese have no artistic talent.”

And so she settled down. She still shopped at that supermarket, but never ran into them again. Until one day, a supermarket security guard stopped her.

“Miss, please come to the security office.”

Mason Scott was startled, instinctively sensing trouble. There were too many news stories about supermarket security guards forcibly searching or even assaulting people.

Mason Scott watched him warily. The guard said helplessly, “Miss, I mean you no harm. I just want to ask if you lost something about a month ago.”

She had just returned to China a month ago—could she have lost something without knowing it? Curious, she followed him into the security office, where he handed her a black leather wallet.

Mason Scott didn’t even need to look inside to know it wasn’t hers. She shook her head with a smile. “You’ve got the wrong person. This isn’t mine.”

Unexpectedly, the guard insisted, “Open it and take a look.”

She took it and opened it—then saw her own photo.

The guard said proudly, “Miss, this is your photo, right? Even though you look very different now, I recognized you at a glance.”

The difference was huge, because it was her college entrance photo, taken when she first started university. Her hair was still long and tied in a ponytail, and she was grinning foolishly.

How did it end up in a stranger’s wallet?

Mason Scott handed the wallet back to the guard. “It really isn’t mine.”

The guard was dumbfounded. “Isn’t the person in the photo you?”

“It’s me, but the wallet isn’t mine.”

“But it must belong to someone who knows you. Miss, maybe the owner of this wallet has a secret crush on you…”

Well, who says Chinese people lack imagination?

“But…”

“Just take it, take it. No one’s come to claim it, and it’s hard for us to deal with it. If we turn it in, it’ll just be confiscated. Better to give it to you—you must have some connection to the owner. Ah! Maybe I’ve even helped create a beautiful romance…” The guard was lost in a TV drama-like fantasy.

A month ago was about when she ran into Ian Mitchell and Amy Mitchell. Could it have been his? With this ridiculous guess in mind, Mason Scott took the wallet home.

That night, after her shower, she lay on her bed and examined it carefully. It was a simple style, a luxury brand, not much cash inside—nothing that could identify the owner.

As for the photo, Mason Scott carefully took it out. There were still marks from a seal on it; it must have been torn from some kind of ID. Absentmindedly, she turned it over—and suddenly froze. There was writing on the back! That bold, sharp handwriting that seemed to leap off the page—she would never forget it in her life.

It was Ian Mitchell’s handwriting, written in black ink—

my sunshine!

Life in a complex city could still be lived simply: work, eat, sleep, and that was it. After a hectic period of adjustment, what followed was numb repetition.

“Ash, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Mason Scott had just stepped into the magazine office when she heard someone calling from afar.

“Old Ben, what’s up?”

Old Ben was actually quite young, another photographer at the magazine. His surname was Li, but because he often mispronounced words, everyone jokingly called him Old Ben. He was great at coaxing celebrities, so he was always in charge of shooting the magazine’s cover stars.

“My wife’s about to give birth. Can you help me shoot Model Scott’s photos tomorrow?”

Scarlett Scott? Mason Scott hesitated a bit. “I don’t have a problem with it, but I’ve heard Scarlett Scott has a strange temper—she won’t cooperate with anyone she doesn’t know.”

Old Ben had thought of this too. After a moment, he said, “How about this: you try first, and if it really doesn’t work, call me.”

The next day, when Mason Scott saw the cold and stunning Scarlett Scott, she was completely stunned. She wasn’t familiar with domestic celebrities and had never seen a photo of Scarlett Scott before. She had no idea that… she looked so much like her college friend.

But her friend had been such a simple, awkward country girl, while the woman before her crossed her long, elegant legs and smoked with practiced, seductive ease…

Mason Scott didn’t dare believe it—maybe it was just someone who looked similar.

But Model Scott squinted at her, walked over with graceful steps, and stopped in front of her.

“What, don’t recognize me?”

“…Young May?”

“Heh!” She let out a mocking laugh. “Of course it’s me.”

“Ash, you know Scarlett Scott? That’s great!” a colleague who had come along said excitedly.

“She was my bunkmate in freshman year.”

“Bunkmates in college are always the closest,” Scarlett Scott’s agent chimed in.

“Aren’t we here for a shoot? Let’s get on with it!” Scarlett Scott said impatiently.

She really had changed so much! As Mason Scott took photos, she thought: the person in the lens was no longer the adorably awkward Young May—so who was she now?