Did the Tsundere Miss Get Slapped in the Face Again Today? - Chapter 92

Chapter 92: “I’m Not Necessarily That Great Myself, So I Won’t Blame Her.”

The winter this year was warm. Throughout the entire season, the temperature never once dipped below freezing, lingering instead around five or six degrees Celsius. One didn’t even need a heavy winter coat.

Yet, Jiang Zhi gathered firewood and lit a blaze to keep warm. Logically, it wasn’t cold, but she felt cold—cold enough to need a fire, needing to touch a heat source just to dispel the chill. It wasn’t a chill brought by low temperatures; it felt like something seeping out from the depths of her heart.

The flames flickered, accompanied by the rhythmic crackle of burning wood. The firelight reflected on Jiang Zhi’s face as she stared blankly into the embers, her eyes hollow. Zhaocai lay beside her, a silent companion.

Jiang Zhi looked down and called out: “Zhaocai.”

Zhaocai lifted its head lazily and glanced at her.

“It’s been a long time since you saw Little Kitten, hasn’t it? Do you miss her?” I miss her.

As if understanding her, Zhaocai tilted its head, its disdain written clearly across its face.

“Why do you still hate her so much?” Jiang Zhi said helplessly. Zhaocai ignored her, refusing even to look her way.

“What should I do? I think I’m becoming like you. I’m starting to hate her a little, too.” Jiang Zhi lowered her gaze.

After a long silence, she spoke to the dancing flames again: “What should I do? This feeling of loving and hating someone at the same time is so agonizing.”

The firelight cast her shadow against the wall—solitary and desolate.

Jiang Zhi pulled out the stack of train tickets she had collected over the past six months. She flipped through them one by one; each ticket represented a moment of joy spent on the way to see her.

“One, two, three, four… fifty-two.” Jiang Zhi counted. There were fifty-two tickets in total.

In half a year, she had traveled to Mucheng fifty-two times. Going every Saturday, returning every Sunday, rain or shine. She hadn’t felt tired, nor had she felt it was a waste of money. Usually a miser, she hadn’t found the fares expensive; she felt that being able to see Lin Anran made every cent worth it.

But now, it didn’t feel so worth it anymore, because the person she went to see didn’t look forward to those weekly meetings very much.

“One, two, three…” She started counting the tickets again.

As she counted, a drop of water fell onto a ticket, blurring the printed ink. Jiang Zhi wiped away her tears and kept counting. There were only fifty-two tickets, but she counted them seven or eight times. The paper became stained with tear marks—one drop after another, wiped away only for more to fall.

“So pathetic,” Jiang Zhi mocked herself, using the phrase Lin Anran often used. It’s not even that big of a deal. Why am I crying? I’m really regressing as I get older.

As she sat there crying, she suddenly spotted a figure standing at the door. Her vision was blurred by tears, but she recognized the person instantly. She froze for two seconds before springing to her feet. The train tickets scattered across the floor.

The person at the door walked in slowly, stopping in front of Jiang Zhi. Her exquisite features showed a hint of disdain: “Look at you, being so pathetic. Hiding away and crying… so pathetic. I don’t like it.”

Jiang Zhi stared at her, taking a long time to find her voice: “Why are you here?”

“What do you mean, ‘why am I here’? You didn’t come on Saturday, so I had to be the one to come. We have to meet on Saturdays. That’s the unwritten rule, isn’t it?”

Jiang Zhi’s heart swelled, and tears nearly spilled over. In the moment they fell, she threw her arms around her. All the grievances and emotions of the past few days vanished like smoke.

She knew it. Her Little Kitten was still her Little Kitten; she hadn’t changed. Lin Anran had said she’d never change; she had promised, and Jiang Zhi always believed in her promises.

Lin Anran patted her back gently. “Alright, I know you feel wronged. I’m here now, aren’t I? I dropped my work immediately to find you. Stop sulking. Stop crying.”

She comforted her softly. Her tenderness was unlike the awkward, non-comforting Lin Anran in her memory. The Lin Anran in her arms didn’t feel like Lin Anran at all. Is she a fake?

She was a fake…

The dream ended.

Jiang Zhi lay on the old wooden bed, alone. No one was beside her; the room was empty. The window had been blown open by the wind, creaking “creak-creak.” The old curtains fluttered, scattering the neatly stacked train tickets on the table.

The fifty-two tickets were blown everywhere—on the table, on the floor, scattered to every corner. Just like her heart.

Jiang Zhi didn’t get up to pick them up. Instead, she fell back into bed, exhausted. She wanted to sleep again; specifically, she wanted to go back into the dream. She wanted to continue that unfinished, beautiful fantasy.

In the dream, Lin Anran cared about her unhappiness. In the dream, Lin Anran ran to find her. In the dream, Lin Anran still loved her…

Jiang Zhi was suddenly struck with a shock. I’ve actually started to doubt if Lin Anran loves me.

Impossible! If she didn’t love me, why would she wait two years? Why would she fight so hard to keep a cowardly Jiang Zhi after two years apart? She loves me. How could she not?

Jiang Zhi had always believed in her love. She wondered if she had just lost her mind for a moment to even question it. Doubting her love was a terrifying thought.

She scrambled out of bed and shook her head, trying to cast the idea away. I can’t stay this negative. Relationships need work. Even the most in-love people need to go through a period of adjustment. We’re just in that phase. We just have to get through it.

She couldn’t negate the entire relationship just because of a minor conflict. That was too rash. Jiang Zhi took deep breaths to calm her thoughts, trying to step out of the emotional loop. As an outsider, she tried to analyze where the recent conflict had originated.

Was it the long distance? Is half a year too long? Even with weekly meetings, is the time spent together just too little?

Anran was such a clingy person, someone who needed constant companionship. Being away from her for so long was a problem in itself.

Yes, that’s it!

Jiang Zhi’s eyes cleared. She felt she had found the source of the glitch. And if there’s a glitch, you fix it.

She acted quickly. She picked up her phone and started searching for rentals around Mucheng. The place needed to meet two criteria: close to the city, but with an environment suitable for her countryside-themed videos. This way, she could finish filming and see Anran every day. They could live together.

After an hour of searching, she found several suitable options—houses with yards, land, and vegetable patches, backed by mountains. They met all her needs. Such houses weren’t rare, and the rent wasn’t expensive since they were outside the city limits.

Saving the listings, Jiang Zhi couldn’t wait to call Lin Anran. She excitedly explained her plan to rent a house nearby.

“Why would you rent a house?” Anran interrupted her enthusiasm. “Why go through the trouble of renting an old house over here just to film? There’s no need.”

The smile on Jiang Zhi’s lips froze. She opened her mouth several times but couldn’t make a sound.

“Don’t go out of your way to rent a house. It’s too much trouble, isn’t it?” Anran said.

“Yeah.” All of Jiang Zhi’s excitement collapsed into that one word.

Her nose tingled, and a tear hit the back of her hand. Her voice became choked. Before the other side could notice, she hurried to say: “I’ve got things to do. I’m hanging up.”

She hung up in a panic before letting the tears fall. Zhaocai jumped onto the bed. Usually, Jiang Zhi didn’t allow the cat on the bed, but today she didn’t shoo it away. She pulled the cat close and buried her face in its fur, letting out a sob.

Jiang Zhi didn’t want to admit it, but she had to: Lin Anran had changed. She had changed a lot.

Before, to be with Jiang Zhi every day, she was willing to live in a cramped, dilapidated rental. She was willing to wait five hours in a convenience store while Jiang Zhi worked her part-time job. Those five hours weren’t about patience; they were an expression of her love.

But just now, the person who was willing to wait five hours said over the phone: “No need, it’s too much trouble.”

The problem wasn’t the long distance.

Then what was the problem? Jiang Zhi didn’t dare think deeper. Even though the answer was right in front of her—so close she could touch it—she was afraid to reach out. If she didn’t touch the answer, she could pretend nothing had happened. Everything could stay “normal.”

By playing dumb, they continued to talk every day. They said good morning and goodnight, and they chatted briefly on the phone, just like before. It seemed like nothing had changed. They were still the same Jiang Yi and Little Kitten who loved each other.

In this forced calm, Jiang Zhi even discovered something surprisingly pleasant: Lin Anran stopped mentioning Chu Yuening. Jiang Zhi looked back through the logs and saw that Anran hadn’t mentioned her for several days.

This discovery made Jiang Zhi very happy. Maybe Anran just didn’t know how to express it—she had never been good at that. Maybe she had realized Jiang Zhi was upset and didn’t like Chu Yuening, so she stopped contacting her. If Anran was willing to stop contacting her for Jiang Zhi’s sake, did that mean the previous misunderstandings weren’t real?

Testing the waters, Jiang Zhi sent a casual text: “You haven’t mentioned your friend lately. What happened? Did you have a falling out?”

Anran replied quickly: “No. I know you don’t like her, so I stopped telling you about her.”

Staring at the message, Jiang Zhi froze. The joy in her heart turned to ice instantly.

I’m still in contact with Chu Yuening, but because you don’t like it, I’ve chosen not to tell you. Is that it?

It wasn’t that she had cut ties; she had just chosen to stop mentioning her.

So, Lin Anran could see that Jiang Zhi’s jealousy and sadness were real, yet she chose to continue the contact anyway. It wasn’t that she didn’t notice, or that she was scatterbrained, or that their “brainwaves” didn’t match. She just didn’t care.

She just didn’t care?

Jiang Zhi started laughing through her sadness, and as she laughed, tears fell. The answer she had been avoiding was finally exposed. No matter how much she tried to pretend or “paint over the cracks,” the relationship was broken. She could no longer lie to herself.

She sat on the grass, looking out at the river. Half a year ago, right here, Lin Anran had made a solemn promise. She remembered the words:

“Jiang Yi, I’ve realized you have a very serious problem.”

“You don’t seem to believe in love very much.”

“Do you always feel like… over time, I’ll stop loving you? That I’ll get bored, and our relationship will just fade away?”

“You don’t trust me, and you don’t trust yourself… But I can tell you very seriously: No. I never will.”

“I will love you forever.”

It had only been six months since those words were spoken. Jiang Zhi didn’t doubt she meant them at the time; that “forever” was 100% heartfelt in that moment.

But “forever” has never been a measure of time; it’s a measure of intensity. In that moment, the intensity of her love was enough to sustain a promise of forever. But humans are fickle, and love even more so. Love is a luxury with a very short shelf life.

Jiang Zhi had always been a realist. She knew that’s how love was, and how most stories ended. And yet, for a very, very brief moment, even a cynical realist like her believed she had been blessed by the gods. She almost thought she had found it—the kind of love you only hear about in legends.

Reality, in the end, gave her a slap across the face.

Jiang Zhi didn’t blame Lin Anran. Truly. She didn’t even want to blame her. Human nature is what it is. Loving the new and tiring of the old is common. It’s normal for the spark to fade into boredom. Since they were both just ordinary people in a mundane world, why blame each other?

Jiang Zhi thought: I’m not that great myself. I’m not necessarily some paragon of loyalty and devotion. I’m just an ordinary, flawed person. So I won’t blame you.

She let out a long breath, gathered her composure, and dialed Lin Anran’s number.

“Lin Anran, let’s meet.”

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