Hedgehog's Belly - Chapter 40

Chapter 40

The Hundred-Day Oath Ceremony at Chujiang Tianzhong was different from previous years; it felt more like a carnival before a storm.

Yes, a carnival.

Inspirational banners were draped everywhere across the school. The entire faculty and student body cheered for the senior students, and every tree along the paths was hung with prayers and blessings. Ribbons and flags, visible at every turn, swayed in the wind. The broadcast played high-spirited and hot-blooded “chuunibyou” songs, but only at this moment did the youths truly understand the sentiment behind them.

When the leadership’s speeches ended, the students let out a collective roar. Student representatives from each class held their class flags high, running together around the playground, letting the sound of the wind whistle past and the flags fly.

In that moment, the youths ran much faster than the wind.

Passionate, stubborn, and refusing to lose—that was the flavor of youth.

Amidst the cacophony, students from various classes sat in the spectator stands, their blood boiling along with those running. The cheers, shouts, and laughter were destined to condense into fragments of memory, becoming a page in the story of Chujiang Tianzhong.

“You dog! Lift the flag higher!”

“Shake it! Spin it! A Thomas 360-degree flare!”

“Run past Class 2 in front!”

“Hey, hey, hey! Don’t trip!”

“Leave your love in Chujiang Tianzhong!”

Please leave your love in Chujiang Tianzhong.

This summer, none of us will have any regrets.

After the flag-running activity ended, the remaining time was handed over to the individuals. Message boards were placed in various corners of the school for people to choose freely.

Luo Mu avoided the crowded areas, following her instincts. In a daze, she realized she had returned to the lakeside, a distance away from the auditorium.

The school’s artificial lake was well-constructed, free of withered branches or fallen leaves. The water lilies in the lake had finally bloomed, their petals a mix of pink and white under the sunlight. Weeping willows hung low, creating ripples on the surface.

Senior students couldn’t participate in the Foreign Language Festival, so Luo Mu rarely had the chance to pass through the path between the auditorium and the artificial lake.

Whose story would play out here, and whose story had already concluded—it was no longer clear.

Year after year.

In her sophomore year, she had skipped evening self-study with that person to listen to Jiang Yan’s rehearsal.

She had been clumsily pulled to the lakeside by that person to sing the Japanese song they had performed at the festival in freshman year.

Finally, at the Foreign Language Festival, she had witnessed Jiang Yan’s performance, stirring the entire audience.

The fragmented memories made Luo Mu smile despite herself, before dissipating in the wind. Luo Mu had to admit that the encounter with that person had indeed saved her volatile and dull high school days.

As it turns out, people live for just a few specific moments.

At this moment, she was truly grateful.

She was truly thankful to Yan Qingzhu.

The name “Yan Qingzhu” received a perfect score in Luo Mu’s memories of youth.

Luo Mu lowered her eyes and slowly sat on a wooden bench by the lake, her legs dangling and swinging. She watched a few koi swimming around. With the corners of her mouth slightly lifted, she softly hummed that old song, the melody gentle and tinged with sadness.

“Itsuka anata ni todoku you ni.”

“Utau hyakureinka.”

Her voice was low and melodious.

Just so that one day, it may reach your ears.

I am willing to sing here, that song of a hundred loves.

Luo Mu sat in a daze for a few seconds, then inadvertently giggled like a fool again.

It won’t happen again.

There won’t be another chance.

There will never be anyone else who makes my heart chant repeatedly, without end.

Luo Mu stood up and walked along the small path by the lake, only to find a large message board standing in an inconspicuous corner.

Senior Year Student Message Board.

Luo Mu smiled faintly, picked up a marker placed nearby, and wrote on the board:

“Good luck on the Gaokao.”

Her gaze drifted lightly over the surrounding messages.

“Great victory in the Gaokao, successful landing.”

“Stay healthy; sleep a full night after the exams.”

“Never touching coffee again after the Gaokao!”

“Gonna confess right after the exams!”

Luo Mu couldn’t help but laugh, until she dazed upon a line of familiar handwriting. Luo Mu froze.

“Do you know what a hedgehog’s belly looks like?”

The handwriting was neat, dignified, and exquisite.

Luo Mu didn’t need to think twice.

She knew Yan Qingzhu must have guessed she would come here.

Luo Mu could imagine the person holding the pen, hesitating for a moment before the message board before writing this sentence.

Luo Mu took a deep breath, lamenting that she indeed rarely saw her anymore.

Finally, as Luo Mu left, she looked back at the message board and then walked away with quick, small steps without turning back again.

Beside that sentence, another was added in crooked handwriting:

“I only know they probably don’t have ankles.”

The people passing by this path would let their eyes fall on this dialogue. No one would know why these two strange, nonsensical sentences became a Q&A.

Perhaps, they didn’t need to know.

It was quite a while later when Luo Mu noticed a message sent by Jiang Yan.

Shi Kai: Sister Muzi, are you free at 4:00 PM? I’ll be waiting for you at the green corridor opposite the West District Lab Building. Chiumi!

Luo Mu didn’t think much of it and replied with an “Okay.”

But when 4:00 PM arrived, Luo Mu sat in the corridor, swinging her feet as usual. She looked up at the lab building, half-covered in wisteria—fresh and tranquil, looking as though it were destined to be formed by the accumulation of years, with no artificial touch.

Luo Mu held up her phone, aiming the camera at the wisteria-covered lab building. At the moment she pressed the shutter, Luo Mu truly hoped to keep this in her memory forever, or at least have it fade a bit slower.

Luo Mu was smiling faintly as the lens slowly moved downward, her view shifting from the wisteria lab building to the gravel path in the grass.

In a daze, a familiar figure appeared in the lens.

The person was holding a bouquet of flowers.

It wasn’t Jiang Yan. Luo Mu paused and lowered her phone.

Yan Qingzhu?

Luo Mu frowned in confusion, her breath momentarily stopping at that second.

It was Yan Qingzhu.

It was the Yan Qingzhu who had lived in her memory, appearing repeatedly.

It was the Yan Qingzhu who had received a perfect score in her youthful memories.

Luo Mu’s nose felt sour, but with every step the person took closer, Luo Mu’s heart throbbed with pain.

The hand holding the phone couldn’t stop trembling until Yan Qingzhu appeared before her. She didn’t hold the phone steadily, and it fell face-down directly onto the ground.

Luo Mu’s mind went blank. In a panic, she bent down, intending to pick it up quickly, but the other person was one step ahead.

She looked up sharply, meeting Yan Qingzhu’s eyes. Their likenesses were reflected in each other’s pupils.

Luo Mu fought back tears. It felt like a dagger laced with poison, its sharp blade piercing through skin, organs, and bone.

She gazed at her.

Facing each other, Luo Mu felt as if her heart was about to stop.

We finally met.

We finally met, at last.

Yan Qingzhu handed the flowers to Luo Mu, knelt on one knee, and pulled a tissue from her school uniform pocket. She checked that the screen wasn’t broken and wiped the dust off the phone screen.

Then she handed it to Luo Mu.

Luo Mu nodded, intending to say thank you. But intense emotions tore at her; if she spoke, it would surely be a suffocating sob.

Why was it always like this?

It was the same when she met her for the first time, and it was the same now—always seeing her at her most pathetic and embarrassed moments.

“Jiang Yan suddenly had something to do and asked me to help deliver the flowers to you. She also reminded me that there’s a special card inside.” This time, Yan Qingzhu spoke first.

Luo Mu nodded again. The bouquet in her arms was vibrant, a combination of sunflowers and baby’s breath—and a few red roses.

Elegant and lingering.

The hand that was about to touch the bouquet froze in mid-air.

Luo Mu’s heart gave a violent thud.

How could Jiang Yan choose red roses?

How could Jiang Yan know she liked red roses?

A coincidence?

Luo Mu’s gaze slowly shifted. Yan Qingzhu stood up, straightened her sleeves, and was about to leave when she suddenly felt a force pulling her.

Luo Mu’s head was lowered, but her right hand was tightly gripping the hem of Yan Qingzhu’s jacket.

Yan Qingzhu’s eyes were sharp, one hand tucked in her uniform pocket. She turned back to gaze at Luo Mu, calmly waiting for the other’s voice.

“I—you—”

Luo Mu didn’t expect that as soon as she opened her mouth, her thoughts would become chaotic, making it difficult to organize even a single complete sentence.

The scene seemed to freeze for a few seconds, and Luo Mu’s entire body gave a violent shiver.

This is so damn embarrassing.

“It’s okay, I’m listening to you.” Yan Qingzhu’s gaze was calm, and her tone was equally flat.

Luo Mu took a minute to compose herself.

“Are you busy right now?” After hesitating, Luo Mu finally got the words out.

“No,” Yan Qingzhu replied simply and concisely.

Luo Mu took a deep breath, a hint of determination in her voice: “Sit with me for a while.”

Sit with me for a bit, just a bit.

As if Yan Qingzhu had expected it, a small smile quirked at the corner of her mouth while Luo Mu’s head was lowered. She sat down a short distance away from Luo Mu and looked up with her at the wisteria lab building.

Yan Qingzhu’s expression was casual and her gaze was cool. Looking up, she saw a familiar figure by the window of the lab building.

Yan Qingzhu guessed who it was.

They really know how to play.

The summer wind was sultry, and the scent of plants mixed with the fragrance of soil, yet it was much more intense than in previous years.

The atmosphere turned silent again.

“Are you okay?” Luo Mu could only ask this.

“Not okay.” Yan Qingzhu could only answer like this.

Since the last time they had a proper talk, it had apparently been over a year.

Even Luo Mu hadn’t expected time to pass so quickly.

Yet, countless times Yan Qingzhu could have asked the reason for Luo Mu’s wavering back then; perhaps in her heart of hearts, Luo Mu prayed she would ask just once.

Even one question would do, but Yan Qingzhu merely nodded and said slowly: “This is your choice. I respect you.”

Yan Qingzhu had not tried to make her stay.

Luo Mu hoped she would hate her—hate her more, hate her more intensely, it wouldn’t matter.

But if Yan Qingzhu really asked, how would she answer?

Luo Mu felt her breath stop again. She carefully used her peripheral vision to look at Yan Qingzhu.

The familiar faint orange scent matched the summer perfectly. Her wrists were fair, a hint of redness showing through her knuckles, the veins on the back of her hand faintly visible. Like an obedient child, she waited quietly for Luo Mu’s words.

But Luo Mu had nothing left to say.

“I haven’t studied Japanese. Teach me a phrase.” Yan Qingzhu spoke first.

Luo Mu was stunned, her pupils dilating slightly with a look of shock: “Huh?”

She didn’t expect her to suddenly say something like that.

“Anything will do.” Yan Qingzhu looked away, pretending not to care.

Luo Mu thought it was just a polite gesture to break the awkwardness, so she spoke the first word that came to mind.

Luo Mu’s gaze was shallow, her tone soft: “Tsubaki.”

“487?” In a daze, Yan Qingzhu hadn’t heard clearly. Luo Mu repeated it, and Yan Qingzhu sillily mimicked Luo Mu’s pronunciation and tone.

Finally, Luo Mu reluctantly accepted it, nodding as she suppressed a smile: “That’s about right.”

Yan Qingzhu asked, “What does it mean?”

Luo Mu didn’t think too much and said casually, “It’s my name.”

My name.

Suddenly, Luo Mu realized something was wrong the moment the words left her mouth. The soft, light feather in her heart was suddenly touched, appearing noisy and turbulent amidst the silence.

That was the moment Luo Mu realized she had easily lowered her guard.

And the Yan Qingzhu before her had a hint of warmth in her eyes, like the color of black-green hills dyeing the wilderness.

“You seem to have lost quite a bit of weight,” Yan Qingzhu spoke, her eyes fixed on Luo Mu’s cheek, her tone unusually calm and gentle. “There are only a hundred days left; you must pay attention to your rest.”

“I’m fine. Whether I’m thin or not doesn’t matter,” Luo Mu blinked, snapping out of it after a moment, her finger stroking the petals of the red roses. “Anyway—”

“Hmm?” Yan Qingzhu hummed instinctively in confusion.

Luo Mu tilted her head, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly as she whispered, “Anyway, I don’t have ankles.”

Actually, it wasn’t funny at all.

Yan Qingzhu didn’t laugh sillily like she used to; now there was an added layer of composure and seriousness. Her brow relaxed as she looked at Luo Mu calmly, expressionless. Her gaze was like diving into the colors of a mountain in late autumn—silent and elegant, yet revealing an indescribable, heart-shaking solemnity. Luo Mu couldn’t bear to look her straight in the eye.

Like being on a mountain peak in late autumn.

Like being within a broken heart.

Luo Mu lowered her eyes, realized she had said the wrong thing again, and felt embarrassed, hurriedly smoothing the stray hairs on her forehead.

“Good luck on the Gaokao,” Yan Qingzhu sighed, her lips moving slightly as she stood up and turned back to look at Luo Mu. “Lingyang is a good place.”

“You think so too?” Luo Mu asked in confusion, a surge of secret joy in her heart.

But Yan Qingzhu had never told her where she wanted to go for university.

“Yes.” Yan Qingzhu nodded, preparing to leave.

Luo Mu pursed her lips and looked back up at her: “Good luck on the Gaokao.”

“Yes.” Yan Qingzhu’s tone was solemn as she slowly walked away along the gravel path.

Luo Mu sat quietly in her place. She wondered when the next time they met would be.

Perhaps, there wouldn’t be a next time.

For a long while, Luo Mu did not leave the green corridor; she didn’t know how long she sat there.

In a daze, she remembered what Yan Qingzhu said about the so-called “special card” Jiang Yan sent.

A dark green envelope with gold foil, with dried flowers attached by kraft tape. It was indeed exquisite, Luo Mu marveled.

She carefully tore open the seal and took it out.

Luo Mu froze instantly, only to find it wasn’t a greeting card.

It was a photograph.

It was a photo of her and Yan Qingzhu from behind.

Luo Mu felt time freeze instantly; she could hear no wind, no noise.

In the photo, Yan Qingzhu’s arm was draped over Luo Mu’s shoulder, crooked. There were shadows of movement and the image was blurred, but it was very clear that Yan Qingzhu was looking down, smiling uninhibitedly. Where her gaze fell was the person in her arms.

Luo Mu finally realized: that night in sophomore year when she went with Yan Qingzhu to see Jiang Yan’s rehearsal.

Jiang Yan had taken it secretly.

Luo Mu’s finger repeatedly stroked the figure of that person in the photo. She didn’t dare to breathe, her breath as thin as a thread.

—”Want to see Jiang Yan?”

—”Sister Muzi, coming?”

—”You said even you don’t remember, so how could I possibly remember?”

—”Just a short-term memory, but I remember you were truly stunning then.”

That person’s voice surfaced in Luo Mu’s memory, like a dialogue right next to her ear—arrogant and uninhibited.

It was as if that person had never left.

Luo Mu’s heart throbbed with pain. All the memories of laughter and joy were tossed and soaked in the waves, finally sinking to the bottom of the sea.

Those familiar three words were destined to be branded with an eternal label in countless moments of Luo Mu’s life.