Heading for the Plains - Chapter 38

That night’s fireworks ended in a dull, hollow blur.

Xia Chao couldn’t remember how they got home. She only recalled that neither she nor Ping Yuan said a word the entire way.

It felt as though they had regressed to the night they first met. She had taken a fall; Ping Yuan had driven her home in silence; and the two of them had climbed the seven flights of stairs without a sound. She stood behind Ping Yuan, watching her pull a cluster of keys from her bag, the lock rattling as she turned it.

The only difference was that the Dragon Boat Festival had passed. The dried mugwort and cornelian cherry had long been removed by the neighbors; the hallway no longer smelled of herbs. The rusty lock on Ping Yuan’s door had also been repaired. Xia Chao had meticulously oiled it during her first week there. Now, the key slid in with a smoothness that was almost heartbreaking.

They didn’t even have the chance to stand together at the door and complain about the lock.

Inside, the silence was absolute. They took turns washing up—Ping Yuan first, then Xia Chao. In the steamy bathroom, Xia Chao turned the water to a scalding temperature, letting it drench her until her skin turned red and stung. Only then did she slowly look down to inspect the damage.

She had indeed hurt herself. Despite the pads, her elbows were bruised from bracing her fall. Her backside throbbed, too; she remembered the staff member suggesting a “turtle” cushion for beginners. Thinking she was a pro, and wanting to look mature in front of Ping Yuan—she had waved them off with a cool, “I don’t need that.”

Overconfidence always demands its tribute.

Logic dictated that fresh bruises should be iced, and hot water was the worst thing for them. But Xia Chao didn’t care. She desperately needed the heat to jumpstart her stagnant blood, like a machine that needs warming up before it can function.

Even so, her movements were leaden. She turned off the water, leaned against the doorframe, and slowly put on her pajamas before brushing her teeth. A bit of white foam fell onto the hem of her shirt. She stared at it, wiped it away, and rinsed her finger. Having exhausted every meaningless routine, she finally found the courage to push open the door.

She hadn’t expected Ping Yuan to still be in the living room. A soft floor lamp sat beside the sofa like a lonely spotlight on a stage, illuminating her hair with a quiet glow.

Even now, she was beautiful—like a forlorn moon. Xia Chao stood by the door, caught in a deadlock between retreating to her room and pretending nothing had happened. She stood there like a student kept after class for punishment.

Ping Yuan glanced at her. “Finished?”

“Mhm.”

“Are there bruises from the fall? There’s ice in the fridge and medicated oil in the first-aid kit.”

She was being a sister again, offering a concern rooted in guilt—but only in guilt.

Xia Chao knew she should take the exit offered. She should act spoiled, let Ping Yuan fetch the medicine, and let the night be smoothed over as a clumsy accident. By tomorrow, they could be the same seamless pair of sisters they were before.

But Xia Chao didn’t want it smoothed over.

She wasn’t that kind of person. She didn’t know if her current resolve was stupidity or the “solitary courage” of a young girl. Perhaps she was just terrified, knowing her bravery would evaporate by sunrise, leaving her with a secret buried forever. She wanted a clear ending, not a peaceful compromise. If Ping Yuan didn’t like her, she wanted to apologize properly.

Instead of answering the question about the ice, she looked at Ping Yuan and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Ping Yuan asked.

“About tonight,” Xia Chao’s voice was steady. She straightened her back and looked Ping Yuan in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

Ping Yuan understood perfectly. Xia Chao’s apology was calculated and precise; by acknowledging what had happened while apologizing for it, she was giving Ping Yuan the space to reject her without further embarrassment.

Talking to such a sharp, honest girl was a form of cruelty. You both know exactly what comes next, yet she stands there with clear eyes, laying her heart bare, telling you: Whatever you say, I will accept it.

Ping Yuan could only offer a smile.

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice strained with a desperate, sisterly gentleness. “I’m the one who bumped into you while you were helping me. Why are you apologizing?”

“Go to sleep,” she added softly. “You have work tomorrow, and that math quiz.”

It was a rejection.

Xia Chao never thought she’d see Ping Yuan look so tired while smiling so kindly. Even the moon outside looked weary, wanting only to retreat behind the clouds.

The message was clear. Ping Yuan’s attitude was one of magnanimous tolerance. Who could blame her? How could anyone endure a stranger coming into their home as a “sister,” sharing a bed, and secretly harboring such unspeakable desires? It must have been revolting.

Xia Chao offered a bitter smile, thinking back to the dream. It was all destined. She liked women; she liked Ping Yuan. She liked being near her, the smell of her—not as a sister, but with a desire to pull her into her arms and stroke her face when she had a headache. To lean down and kiss her.

But it had to end. She couldn’t disturb her any longer.

Finally, Xia Chao just nodded, forcing a smile that felt like it was breaking her face. “Okay.”

She knew her eyes were wet. She retreated into the small storage room, the door clicking shut and severing their connection. She leaned her back against the wood, staring into the dark, until finally, the tears spilled over.

Fine. It’s fine. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, telling herself not to be so pathetic, but the tears kept flowing. The room was dark, and she didn’t bother with the light. She slid down the door like a punctured sandbag, her strength entirely gone.

No wonder teachers forbid dating, she thought with a self-mocking sniff. Heartbreak really does feel like being cut by a knife, and you have no choice but to bide your time and let it happen.

Outside, Ping Yuan remained on the sofa, staring at the closed door. The silence in the room felt like the ash left after a fire—dead, but still painful if you reached into it. Xia Chao’s departure had been so polite. Even tonight, she had closed the door softly.

It reminded her of the stray dogs that occasionally passed the orphanage gates. They looked at you with such understanding, yet they knew they were a bother, so they would eventually just walk away quietly.

The orphanage had a dog when she was little—not the current Big Yellow, but another little yellow pup. It hadn’t survived a bout of distemper. Ping Yuan didn’t know why she was thinking of that dog now.

The gentle smile remained on her face like dried-up paint, eventually peeling off in flakes. Tonight’s chaos had left her with a splitting headache. She leaned forward, pressing her temples, thinking it was finally time to buy some sleeping pills.

Neither of them slept that night.

Xia Chao had expected heartbreak to feel like the world was ending, or at least like a scene from the web novels her deskmate loved—weeping beautifully into her pillow. Instead, she spent the night with a nose so stuffed she had to gasp for air like a fish out of water. She went through half a box of tissues; the trash can was full of crumpled white paper.

The next morning, the sun rose anyway—bright, new, and utterly indifferent to a heartbroken protagonist. It looked so beautiful it almost made Xia Chao forget the previous night, until she stood up and felt like she’d been jumped in an alley.

Dammit. Only she would have a heartbreak that manifested as both a headache and a literal pain in the ass.

Her relationship with Ping Yuan had changed. She couldn’t define it, but she refused to look like a beaten dog. She’d rejected the medicine last night for the sake of her dignity; she wasn’t about to walk out today clutching her backside like a wounded soldier.

Death before dishonor!

She pumped herself up, straightened her chest, and practiced a neutral expression in the mirror. Once she was sure she looked unbothered, she took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Ping Yuan wasn’t home.

The living room was empty. The curtains were drawn, and the sunlight poured in, making the space feel hollow. This wasn’t Ping Yuan’s usual wake-up time. On workdays, she usually slept in half an hour later than Xia Chao. Back then, they would still be in the same bed, and Xia Chao would mischievously poke her to ask what she wanted for breakfast.

But everything was different now.

The apartment was quiet enough to hear the wind through the open window. Ping Yuan’s bedroom door was open, revealing an empty bed and a room flooded with that same desolate, brilliant sunlight.

Have you ever had that feeling? Waking up from a nightmare into a beautiful day, feeling like you’ve been transported to another world? The “Peach Blossom Spring” was gone; the dreamer had missed their time and stood alone with a rotted axe handle in hand.

Xia Chao stood there, feeling abandoned by the world. Eventually, her senses returned—mostly because her backside still really hurt. The physical pain insisted on reminding her exactly what had happened.

She walked to the kitchen. The pot was warm; there were buns and milk inside. A white board hung on the fridge. Since Cijing’s stay, they had made a habit of leaving notes. Ping Yuan’s “carrots and celery” doodle was still there, though she’d crossed them out with a red “X” the day before the park.

Now, Ping Yuan had left a reminder about breakfast. Xia Chao’s phone buzzed.

It was a text from Ping Yuan—white bubbles with cold black text.

“I have a date tonight. Won’t be back for dinner.”

Xia Chao didn’t know if “date” meant a romantic one or just an appointment. It didn’t matter. Whether it was real or a convenient excuse, the intent was the same: rejection.

Ping Yuan was avoiding her. The early exit, the prepared breakfast, the “date”—they were all walls.

Xia Chao had once told Ping Yuan that “secrets aren’t important; love is.” Now, the inverse was true. The excuse didn’t matter; only the rejection did. It was impolite to keep knocking on a door that refused to open.

Xia Chao gripped her phone. The screen flickered. She opened the chat and took a deep breath until she was calm.

“Okay,” she typed, like a real younger sister. “Stay safe, Sister.”

Support