I Fell In Love With My Rival - Chapter 51.2 Extra 1.2

Su Chunyin shook her head. “A delivery arrived.”

“You ordered something?” Fu Erqiu asked in surprise.

Su Chunyin didn’t answer. They walked side by side down the street. When they passed a Tibetan woman with a child offering prayers, Fu Erqiu bought them a hot meal and brought it over.

The woman said something in Tibetan. Though neither of them understood the words, her expression suggested she was offering a blessing.

As the woman walked away, Su Chunyin suddenly said, “It’s not an online purchase. It’s something I sent to myself five years ago.”

Fu Erqiu stopped in her tracks and turned to look at her. “Five years ago?”

Su Chunyin opened her mouth but struggled to explain.

Five years ago, she had failed her college entrance exams and decided to repeat a year. It was one of the darkest periods of her life—Fu Erqiu had disappeared from her world, and she had missed out on her dream university. Each of those things alone could have crushed her, and she had to bear both.

Back then, every day felt excruciating. Xu Yuhui couldn’t understand why she was so fixated on A University, and her friends urged her to let go of Fu Erqiu for the time being. Su Chunyin managed to put on a brave face during the day, but at night, she would inevitably fall into despair.

To cope with her emotions, she started writing letters. In them, she imagined her future—she saw herself walking on the campus of A University, with Fu Erqiu beside her. The pain and confusion they had once faced would be a thing of the past.

She studied during the day and wrote letters at night, gradually filling up a pile of them.

After the following year’s exam, she was accepted into A University. At that time, Jiang City was buzzing with a campaign encouraging people to “send a letter to your future self.” Spurred by the chatter of Yang

Yuxia and the others, Su Chunyin couldn’t resist and sent one of her letters—scheduled to be delivered five years later.

Which happened to be now.

Seeing that Su Chunyin didn’t want to talk more, Fu Erqiu didn’t press the issue. They continued wandering through the streets of Lhasa like any other travelers, letting themselves be immersed in the serene beauty of Tibet.

As night fell, the streets grew quiet. Only the bars, brimming with character, remained lit. Musicians in traditional Chuba robes played Zhamunian string instruments, their deep, far-reaching melodies echoing through Barkhor Street.

They had yak hot pot at a Tibetan restaurant. The warmth of the meal left them feeling cozy all over. Back at the hotel, Fu Erqiu went to shower first. When she came out, she found Su Chunyin sitting on the edge of the bed, visibly conflicted.

Fu Erqiu approached and gently pinched her cheek. “What’s wrong?”

Su Chunyin didn’t answer. Following her gaze, Fu Erqiu noticed a small, square package on the bedside table.

“What’s that?” she asked. “Can I open it?”

Still no response.

“Is it not okay if I do?” she asked again.

Her hand hovered over the package—hesitating, neither withdrawing nor moving forward.

Su Chunyin’s expression twisted in turmoil. After a long pause, she finally squeezed her eyes shut and surrendered. “It’s a letter I wrote to myself five years ago. Go ahead and read it if you want.”

There was silence.

She cracked open one eye nervously. “You…”

Just as she peeked, Fu Erqiu took her hand. “Let’s read it together.”

The suggestion caught Su Chunyin off guard. She had anticipated many scenarios—but not this one. Still, under Fu Erqiu’s steady, reassuring gaze, her panic subsided.

“Okay,” she whispered.

—After all, when she wrote the letter, she never once imagined that five years later, they wouldn’t be together. She hadn’t specifically envisioned reading it together, but she had never envisioned reading it alone, either.

There wasn’t a letter opener in the room, so Su Chunyin used a key to slit the plastic wrap. Inside was a gift box decorated with a pink glittery ribbon. It looked a little outdated now—clearly a design from five years ago.

Embarrassed, she hurried to untie the ribbon. Her fingers crumpled the silk into a mess. Fu Erqiu, without saying a word, gently smoothed it out.

Inside was a matching pink envelope. The handwriting on it was youthful and naive—frozen in time, a message from five years ago.

The envelope was small. Five years ago, on a certain night, Su Chunyin had sat by the window, racking her brain. She deleted line after line of what she had originally written, leaving behind only a palm-sized envelope.

Now, that very envelope was held in Fu Erqiu’s hand, slowly unfolding line by line beneath her gaze:

“To Qiuqiu-jie and myself, five years from now:”

“I wonder what we’ll be like five years later, and where we’ll be? But I believe that by then, we must have already made up and reunited. I have so many questions, so much curiosity. Will we be working hard in our careers, or still immersed in further studies? Will we still be naive and reckless, or have we grown worldly and sophisticated? Have we been to Lop Nur? Have we seen the Mother of Meteor Showers?”

Fu Erqiu glanced at Su Chunyin. She, too, was peeking over, a little embarrassed.

“I completely forgot what I wrote back then.”

Five years was indeed a long span of time—not just enough to forget the letter’s contents, but even the very act of sending it.

She could still vaguely recall the feelings she had when writing it—an immature mix of nervousness and anticipation. In the blink of an eye, five years had passed. They had, in fact, come back together—working hard, gaining polish but still retaining some of their innocence. They had visited Lop Nur many times, though they hadn’t seen the Mother of Meteor Showers. But that no longer mattered.

Su Chunyin held her breath and continued reading:

“Today, I saw our class group discussing plans for our graduation trip. Some want to go to Tibet or Xinjiang, others are thinking of New Zealand or Finland. To be honest, I haven’t been to any of these places.

Someone asked if I’d like to join. I’m curious, but I didn’t say yes. After thinking about it, I realized I didn’t say no because I didn’t want to go—but because the person I want to go with isn’t a classmate or a friend.

It’s you, my Qiuqiu-jie. Qiuqiu-jie, if it’s five years later… will you go with me?”

Su Chunyin was momentarily stunned. So, she had already dreamed of Tibet and New Zealand five years ago. Yet in these five years, she had visited neither. Not until now—

She turned to look at Fu Erqiu, who met her gaze with quiet understanding and gently covered her cold hand with her own.

—Not until now had that wish finally come true.

The letter rambled on with trivial bits and pieces. Viewed through the long corridor of memory, it all felt distant. Thankfully, the Su Chunyin of five years ago must have known such things were a little too frivolous, and so she ended it with restraint—closing the letter with a short Spanish poem:

“I read a beautiful poem today. I hope that five years later, I’ll be able to recite it to you aloud:”

Aquí te amo.

I love you here.

Aquí te amo y en vano te oculta el horizonte.

I love you here, and the horizon cannot hide you.

Te estoy amando aún entre estas frías cosas.

Even among these cold things, I still love you.

(Note 1: From the famous Spanish poem “Aquí te amo” – “I love you here”)

The single sheet of paper was quickly read through. Fu Erqiu remained silent. In that moment of silence, Su Chunyin suddenly felt as if she were being judged—her heart suspended high in midair, neither rising nor falling.

“I…” She wanted to speak, but Fu Erqiu suddenly looked up and asked,

“Can you read it to me now?”

Su Chunyin was briefly confused, not quite grasping what she meant.

“What?”

Fu Erqiu leaned closer, her voice a soft mist in Su Chunyin’s ear. She pointed to the ending lines of the poem and said,

“Didn’t you write that you wanted to read this to me five years later? How do you pronounce this line?”

Following her finger, Su Chunyin looked at the first line of the poem. Though it had been years, and she should have forgotten how it was read, the moment Fu Erqiu pointed to it, it was as if her buried memories stirred to life. The words came out of her mouth naturally:

“Aquí te amo.

Aquí te amo y en vano te oculta el horizonte.

Te estoy amando aún entre estas frías cosas.”

As the final word fell from her lips, the person before her suddenly leaned in, warm breath brushing her lips:

“Yo también.” (Me too.)

A soft, misty kiss landed gently on her mouth.

With that kiss, Fu Erqiu gave her answer to the Su Chunyin of five years ago. She interlaced their fingers, one by one, her voice gently declaring her love:

“Yo también te quiero.” (I love you too.)

The kiss lasted a long time. When they finally parted, both were slightly breathless. Su Chunyin’s face was flushed, and she looked away, pretending to focus on the desk in an attempt to collect herself. She reached out to put away the letter, but Fu Erqiu stopped her, picked up a pen, and wrote at the top corner of the envelope:

[April 8, 202X – Lhasa, Tibet — Su Chunyin & Fu Erqiu]

Her handwriting was bold and steady. Once done, Fu Erqiu tucked the letter away. She looked at Su Chunyin with a uniquely gentle tone:

“It’s okay. The places we didn’t visit five years ago—we’ll go together now. Let this letter be our witness. We’ll mark every place we reach—right here, and here.”

Su Chunyin looked up and met her gaze, brimming with affection. Her heart trembled.

The gloom and frustration she’d felt when hiding in a dark corner to write that letter five years ago seemed to have been washed away by a downpour, leaving behind only warmth and love.

Her eyes stung with moisture she could barely contain.

“Okay,” she whispered hoarsely.

She gripped Fu Erqiu’s hand tightly, knowing that no matter if it was Tibet or New Zealand, Xinjiang or Finland—the journeys ahead, and the life to come—Fu Erqiu would be by her side.

A kiss landed on her forehead.

“From now on, every day will be a beautiful, sunlit day.”