Did the Tsundere Miss Get Slapped in the Face Again Today? - Chapter 91

Chapter 91: “Can Only Swallow All Grievances Back Down.”

The clump of soggy noodles sat unfinished on the table, neither eaten nor cleared away. Jiang Zhi lay slumped against the tabletop, lacking the energy to tidy up, let alone wash the dishes.

“One, two, three, four…” She counted the seconds in silence.

She was wondering how many seconds—or minutes—it would take for Lin Anran to call back. But she waited and waited, counting from one to sixty over and over, marking countless minutes, yet the phone never rang.

Is she still on the phone with Chu Yuening? Does talking about work really take this long?

Or perhaps they weren’t talking about work at all. Maybe they were bickering and chatting, just like they had earlier that day—bantering with that easy, practiced familiarity.

Jiang Zhi’s finger idly picked at the table’s surface. Her lips pressed into a thin line as her foul mood transformed into a deep sense of grievance. Biting her lip, she picked up her phone and sent a message to Anran.

“Are you still on the phone with her?”

The message went out, and Jiang Zhi began another long wait. She waited until she forgot exactly what she was waiting for.

Finally, she stood up, took the bowl to the kitchen, dumped the cold noodles, and turned on the tap to wash up. Afterward, on a sudden whim, she scrubbed the entire kitchen until it was spotless. She worked until sweat beaded on her forehead and her back ached, but her mind remained fixated on the phone.

When exactly is Lin Anran going to reply?

There were spots on the window. Jiang Zhi grabbed a rag and started cleaning the glass.

Ding-dong.

The phone sounded.

Jiang Zhi didn’t look at it immediately. She simply stopped her scrubbing and gripped the rag tightly, remaining frozen in that position for a long, long time.

She had waited so long for this reply; she should have been excited. Yet, strangely, there was no joy. The reply had come too late. The delay had drained her anticipation and withered the happiness she would have felt.

Jiang Zhi calmly finished wiping the glass, rinsed the rag, washed her hands, and dried them thoroughly before finally, slowly, picking up the phone.

Lin Anran: “We were just discussing work. Sometimes I really think she’s quite stupid; I have to explain one tiny detail a dozen times.”

Jiang Zhi’s thumb hovered over the screen. For a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. She could say, “I see, it’s work, be patient,” or “It’s so late and you’re still working, how tiring.”

She could have said those things, but…

Jiang Zhi took a deep breath and let it out slowly, suppressing the turbulent emotions within. She tried to stay restrained and calm, trying not to let her feelings hijack her into saying something hurtful.

She felt she needed to have a very serious conversation with Anran. She couldn’t stand the feeling of this weight pressing on her chest. She needed—desperately needed—to communicate.

“I know you were talking about work, and I understand that. But because her call came in, you hung up on me immediately. It made me feel uncomfortable. Actually, not just uncomfortable—extremely uncomfortable. I’ve been very unhappy and sad for a long time.”

Her finger hovered over the send button for three full seconds before she found the courage to press it.

Almost immediately after the message was sent, the top of the screen displayed “Typing…”

Anran: “Are you jealous?”

Anran: “Hahahaha”

Anran: “What is this? I only hung up because I knew she had work to discuss, not for any other reason.”

Anran: “Look at you being so pathetic.”

Anran: “…”

Anran sent several messages in a row, the phone pinging repeatedly, but not a single word seemed to hit the mark. None of them were the answer Jiang Zhi wanted.

Looking at those five or six messages, Jiang Zhi felt as though a dark cloud was still hanging over her. Anran often said, “Look at you being so pathetic.” Usually, it sounded cute; now, it felt strangely piercing.

Jiang Zhi didn’t quite understand what was happening to her. Lin Anran was being perfectly transparent. From the moment she met Chu Yuening to their current friendship, Anran had shared every detail of how they met and how they interacted. There was no deception, yet Jiang Zhi still felt uneasy.

This discomfort wasn’t about whether Anran and Chu Yuening were too close; it was about not feeling prioritized. Confessing her feelings and telling Anran she was sad was an attempt to be seen, to have Anran take her seriously, and to have Anran call her immediately.

Those expectations went unmet. Anran simply laughed it off as banter.

This caused Jiang Zhi’s sadness to peak. “I told you I was sad, I told you I was unhappy because of these things, so why are you still laughing at me for being pathetic?” she whispered to her phone, her voice thick with unshed tears.

The two were on completely different wavelengths. One was earnestly expressing her pain, while the other thought it was just a joke.

Jiang Zhi: “Are you friends with her because you like her?”

In the heat of the moment, she sent the confrontational message. The second it left her phone, she regretted it and wanted to retract it. But the “Typing…” indicator appeared immediately. Anran had already seen it.

Jiang Zhi bit her lip and gave up on the retraction. Fine. It’s out now. Maybe it’s better this way, to ask clearly and stop overthinking. She hated the guessing game of relationships; it was exhausting, and she couldn’t take it anymore.

Anran: “You’re being so dramatic! Jiang Yi, is your jealousy always this extreme?”

Anran: “I don’t like it.”

The words “I don’t like it”—was she answering the question about the friend, or was she using her catchphrase to say she didn’t like Jiang Zhi’s jealous behavior?

The meanings were worlds apart.

The former would be a serious clarification: I don’t like Chu Yuening, don’t misunderstand. The latter would be an evasion: I don’t like this way you’re acting jealous.

Which was it?

Jiang Zhi had always been able to precisely translate the meaning behind Anran’s words—when she was being contrary, when she was being awkward, or when she was angry. She could always read between the lines. But today, in this moment, that “superpower” failed her.

She suddenly didn’t understand what Lin Anran meant. How could she lose that intuition? She knew Anran so well; she used to be able to tell what she was thinking from a single glance or a single punctuation mark.

When did she stop being able to “read” Lin Anran?

Jiang Zhi set the phone down and looked out at the pitch-black sky. There was no moon, no stars—just a murky, grey darkness that mirrored her heart. She didn’t have the courage to press further. Against her own will, she manually skipped the topic and started chatting about other things.

But while they talked about other topics, Jiang Zhi desperately hoped Anran would take the initiative to bring back the subject of Chu Yuening. Not because she suspected anything was going on, but because she hated Anran’s current attitude—an attitude that made her feel unimportant.

Unfortunately, Anran never returned to the subject. She chatted happily about other things for a long time. Jiang Zhi held her phone, numbly replying and entertaining Anran’s erratic train of thought, just like any other day. The only difference was that the smile was gone from Jiang Zhi’s face.

After saying goodnight, Jiang Zhi began to sulk. She often called Anran childish, but in truth, she could be quite childish in her relationships too.

She did something incredibly petty: every Saturday and Sunday, she usually traveled to Mucheng to see Anran. This time, she intentionally canceled her pre-booked train tickets.

It was a childish form of resistance. She was waiting for Anran to ask: “Aren’t you coming this weekend? If not, why didn’t you tell me? I was waiting for you, I’m sad that you suddenly didn’t show up.”

Jiang Zhi waited for those words.

But from Saturday morning to Saturday night—twelve long hours—Anran didn’t ask. She didn’t ask why Jiang Zhi hadn’t come, as if she had forgotten the Saturday they always spent together.

During those twelve hours, Jiang Zhi tidied the yard, pulled every weed in the vegetable patch, cleaned the house inside and out, and… did every chore she could find. When she was extremely anxious, she habitually used busyness to cope.

She worked for twelve hours until there was nothing left to do. As the sky darkened, her heart sank to the bottom. Her petty act of defiance hadn’t even caused a ripple. Anran hadn’t even noticed.

Jiang Zhi looked forward to every Saturday meeting. She started anticipating it as early as Monday, like a student waiting for a holiday. But what about Anran? Did she look forward to it?

Jiang Zhi used to be certain that she did. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Because on this Saturday, on the day they were supposed to be together, Jiang Zhi hadn’t gone—and Anran hadn’t noticed.

So, Saturdays aren’t something she looks forward to. It’s optional for her. It’s just my one-sided wish.

A sense of desolation washed over her. She sat by the courtyard gate, staring blankly into the distance. Her mind was empty, yet full of a thousand thoughts at once. Zhaocai squatted beside her. Jiang Zhi looked down at the cat, pulled it into her arms, and stroked its fur.

In the end, the one who was always there was Zhaocai.

At 10:00 PM, Lin Anran’s call finally came.

Jiang Zhi’s emotions were no longer fluctuating. She calmly pressed answer and held the phone to her ear.

Anran: “Isn’t today Saturday? Why didn’t you come over?”

A self-mocking smile touched Jiang Zhi’s lips. Half-seriously, half-jokingly, she said: “You’re only noticing now? It’s already night.”

“I’ve been so busy I lost track of time,” Anran said. “I just looked at the clock and suddenly realized it was Saturday.”

Jiang Zhi gave a quiet “mm” and casually made up a reason: “Something came up suddenly. I couldn’t make it this week.”

Anran paused for a moment. “I see.”

I see. That was it.

Jiang Zhi’s excuse was obviously flimsy, yet Anran didn’t even bother to ask a follow-up question. Jiang Zhi had hoped she would ask—if she asked, Jiang Zhi would have the chance to voice her grievances, to show her hurt and petty frustration.

But Anran didn’t give her that chance. Jiang Zhi had no opportunity to speak her hurt, no opportunity to vent her temper, no opportunity for anything.

She could only swallow the grievances, one by one, back down.

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