Hopeless Romance (GL) - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

“Mom, where did you put my shoes again?”

Today was the only day in Ye Du’s next three years of middle school when she could enter campus without wearing a uniform—after all, the uniform fee hadn’t been paid yet.

“On the third shelf of the shoe cabinet,” Ye Sangshu’s voice came from the kitchen. “I’ve said it before—black shoes go on the third shelf. Don’t just toss them around.” As she finished speaking, Ye Sangshu set a cup of reheated milk and two freshly boiled eggs on the dining table. Ye Du didn’t respond. After all, her opinions never really carried decisive weight; she only needed to listen. Whether she actually took them to heart was another matter entirely.

Before Ye Sangshu could say anything else, Ye Du cut in, “I’ll take it to school to eat. I’m running late.”
In this parent–child relationship where Ye Sangshu played both father and mother, she and Ye Du had developed a peculiar kind of tacit understanding. Even though Ye Du couldn’t truly agree with her, she understood her all the same—and had no choice but to.

Ye Du’s home wasn’t far from Yunchuan Middle School—just three bus stops away. Still, she left forty minutes early that day. She needed to calculate the maximum amount of time it could take to get from home to school, so she could determine how late her alarm could be set. Time spent dawdling, walking slowly, and potential traffic jams on the bus all had to be factored in.

September in Yunchuan was still stiflingly hot. The blazing sunlight streamed through the bus windows, landing on Ye Du’s skin. In this windless, rainless season, the air felt as though it had been heated into some indescribable solid. During rush hour, the packed bus only amplified that sensation. Still, sunlight was better than none. Ye Du truly hated winter—the cold drained people of their energy, and bulky clothing made every movement feel constrained.

There were several teenagers about Ye Du’s age on the bus, all carrying flat, empty backpacks, ready to stuff them full of textbooks for the semester. Watching them, Ye Du began thinking about what kind of book covers she would choose later. Plastic ones made books easy to identify but weren’t very attractive; kraft paper covers were simple and durable, but too many of them felt monotonous; patterned ones were visually interesting but prone to aesthetic fatigue. She resolved to make a decision before getting off the bus.

When she got off, Ye Du checked her watch. It was an electronic one more suitable for elementary school students—there was no ticking hour hand, only digital numbers. After all, twelve-year-old middle schooler Ye Du still couldn’t read an analog clock. What she didn’t expect was that even at twenty-two, she still wouldn’t have learned.
Twenty-eight minutes—this was an acceptable commute time. That way, she wouldn’t have to wake up as early as she had in elementary school.

Squeezing her way to the notice board to check class assignments took Ye Du five minutes. Her competitors were all adults, and though she was slightly taller than her peers, no matter how hard she stood on tiptoe, all she could see were shirts and skirts blocking her view. As for having to complete enrollment procedures on her own, Ye Du felt nothing amiss. She had mastered that skill long ago. She could do many things by herself. Still, as she walked from the school gate toward the teaching building, early-fallen leaves rustling down around her, the sight of parents holding their children’s hands on either side stirred a brief, bitter emotion in her heart.

She arrived in the classroom just in time. Among the few remaining seats, Ye Du chose one near the back—unfortunately not by the window. In a season like this, sitting by the window, catching the breeze, and stealing glances at the rustling green leaves would have been truly pleasant.

On the podium stood the homeroom teacher, dressed in a solid goose-yellow dress. The fabric was structured, the cut flattering. Her long black hair was casually pinned up, secured at the back of her head with a yellow hair clip. She looked every bit the part of a “people’s teacher.” A strand of white pearls adorned her neck, adding just enough decoration to keep the outfit from feeling too plain. After finishing the familiar phrases that always appear at gatherings of strangers, she concluded the welcome speech with her self-introduction.

The homeroom teacher taught Chinese. Her surname was Zhang, given name Jianwei—derived from the phrase “prevent problems before they grow.” It sounded rather like a boy’s name. This was her third time serving as a homeroom teacher. As Ye Du lowered her head to stifle a yawn, she heard Zhang Jianwei say she hoped they would spend three unforgettable years together in middle school.

To Ye Du, Zhang Jianwei looked like it was her first time being a homeroom teacher—she didn’t resemble someone who had already been worn down twice by three years of mischievous, energetic teenagers. Ye Du couldn’t help comparing her to her elementary school homeroom teacher. Both taught Chinese, yet Zhang Jianwei was so calm and gentle. Of course, time would later teach Ye Du the meaning of a line of poetry she once loved deeply: If life were only as it was at first meeting.

As the homeroom teacher of Class 10, Grade 7, Zhang Jianwei assigned their first task: getting to know one another. There were six columns of desks in the classroom, so she instructed students on the left and right to exchange names and hobbies, then stand up in pairs—starting from the front row by the door and moving backward—to introduce themselves and their desk mates. Her intention was simple: although most freshmen wouldn’t remember many people from the first day’s introductions and would only gradually recognize classmates through homework notebooks and roll calls, this method would at least help everyone remember the person sitting beside them. Remembering one person was better than none. The student left without a partner would be responsible for introducing Zhang Jianwei again.

The student sitting next to Ye Du was also a girl, named Jiang Xinwan. Upon hearing the name, Ye Du instinctively guessed that her Chinese grades were probably excellent—or that her parents were. Jiang Xinwan was an anime enthusiast. All the most popular series were on her to-watch list, and she knew the characters inside out. To her, they weren’t merely drawn by artists or confined to thin pages of paper; they seemed to inhabit worlds of their own, just as real as hers. She couldn’t quite tell whether she saw herself as a participant in those worlds or as a bridge connecting them—though the latter sounded cooler.

That world which no one else understands—I will be the one to protect it.
Jiang Xinwan had once written this in her diary.

“So what do you like?” Jiang Xinwan asked.

After hearing the question, Ye Du fell silent for a moment. She tried to determine whether, in her not-so-long life, there had ever been a moment that truly qualified as something she “liked.”

Most of Ye Du’s life had been filled with studying. Ye Sangshu had graduated from a fairly good university—back in her day, college graduates were already rare, let alone from a top-tier school. Naturally, she believed her child should also be outstanding. This belief only grew stronger after her divorce from Song Yu. She was a wife who had been abandoned, but she refused to let Ye Du become a child who was abandoned as well. Ye Sangshu needed to ensure that Ye Du’s growth trajectory never deviated—not even slightly. She had to be the best.

So during the years meant for carefree indulgence, Ye Du was constantly attending tutoring classes in English, math competitions, and writing. She absorbed knowledge far beyond her age. Whenever she couldn’t keep up, she wondered whether finishing all this learning early might also allow her to grow up sooner.

After holding it in for a long time, Ye Du said uncertainly, “I usually like reading.”
That wasn’t untrue. Aside from the evening news, Ye Sangshu didn’t allow her to watch television—let alone cartoons. Ye Du once believed her lack of imagination stemmed from this. As a result, reading became her primary pastime. Fortunately, books did bring her comfort. The wisdom and talent of others filled her with strength, allowing her to remain hopeful amid endless letters and formulas.

“My favorite writer is Borges,” Ye Du added, as if naming a specific author would make her fondness for reading more convincing.

“My favorite anime director is Satoshi Kon,” Jiang Xinwan said after thinking for a moment.

Youthful bonds form so easily, yet are so precious. Two girls, guarding their secrets, shared the things they loved most. Because they happened to sit next to each other, they became one another’s first familiar presence in this unfamiliar place.