It Seems Like My Senior Seems to Like Me - Chapter 61

The graduate exchange forum was successfully held half a month later.

Even though she was far away in the U.S., Pei Suye actually applied for a week of leave just to return home and attend as a guest speaker in her capacity as a guaranteed-admission graduate student.

Pei Suye was the shining star of the College of Veterinary Medicine. Whether it was winning first place in the high jump three years in a row, her outstanding year-long tenure as student council president, or her guaranteed placement in the joint lab at UC Davis—every single item was enough to make a résumé gleam.

A year had gone by, yet she still looked the same as before.

Her jet-black hair was braided into a fishtail braid, she wore a long gown with a gradient of light blue, and on her chest rested a willow-leaf brooch. Her shoulders were set wide, her back upright, radiating graceful elegance.

“She’s so gorgeous… goddess is goddess after all!”

“What a pity she broke up with the president. Otherwise, they’d still be the perfect love story, sob sob sob!”

“Well, long-distance love, right? Breaking up is normal. And it’s not like the president lacks admirers. She just pours all her energy into studies and student council—she doesn’t want romance.”

“Does anyone know the inside story? Who initiated the breakup?”

“How could we possibly know that? Anyway, they did split. But the two of them should still be friends, right? Otherwise, why would Ye Wanjia have invited her?”

“Sigh, why is it that every CP I ship always ends in heartbreak!”

“Will I live to see a reunion?”

The moment they saw Pei Suye, the gossip crowd sighed in unison about the fragility of love. Then they arrived at a startling conclusion—losing love had only made this woman more beautiful.

As the final keynote speaker, Pei Suye came on stage last to share her experience applying for graduate programs. After the talk, the Q&A session began. Some asked how to improve grades, some about learning English.

Then came a question about whether to study abroad or stay in China.

“Hello, senior. I’ve received an offer from UC Davis, but my boyfriend’s grades aren’t good enough for guaranteed admission. He can only take exams for domestic graduate schools. So, I’ve been torn—should I go abroad and give it my all, or stay here with him? I’d like to hear your opinion. How did you decide to go abroad back then?”

“Back then”—words full of memory and longing.

Pei Suye paused for a second. Her beautiful eyes flickered as she recalled:

“Back then, I made the decision to study abroad without asking my girlfriend’s opinion.”

“Ah…”

The audience gasped softly—no wonder they broke up.

But then Pei Suye continued:
“Healthy love means two people climbing upward together. So I encouraged her to take the TOEFL, helped her improve her professional grades, and supported her in becoming excellent. As for your current dilemma, I can’t decide for you. But my advice is—you can fight for the person you love, but never give up for them. Because that person may not be able to walk with you for a lifetime. And when the day comes that you lose each other, at least you won’t have ruined your own life, nor resent the one who once showed you spring.”

Not blind sacrifice, not lofty vows.

Meeting again at the summit—that was the truest view of love.

In the audience, sitting in the student council president’s seat, Ye Wanjia’s eyes trembled. She turned her gaze away and said nothing.

In many ways, Pei Suye’s presence had indeed changed her life.

When she was insecure, Pei Suye gave her rules to follow. When she was afraid of going on stage, Pei Suye hugged her backstage to encourage her. When she was upset about missing out on a national scholarship by a single ranking, Pei Suye told her, “Do good deeds, ask not for the future.”

At every stage of transformation, Pei Suye had been by her side. That once timid and insecure girl had become today’s confident student council president, commanding the stage at major events.

The hand gripping her pen unconsciously tightened, nail beds whitening, fingertips scraping against the pen barrel with a harsh sound—but its owner herself didn’t know what she was thinking.

Afterward, all staff and guest speakers went on stage for a group photo. Over forty people bustled about as the counselor nearly went dizzy trying to arrange them.

“Dean Zhao, please stand in the middle!”

“Professor Tang, over here, over here, stand here!”

“Pei Suye, where’s Pei Suye? Quick, stand next to the dean, come on, come on!”

“Where’s Ye Wanjia? Hurry up! You’re the student council president—stand in the middle!”

And so, amid the shuffling crowd, Ye Wanjia was pulled toward the center. But that day, she was wearing thin heels, and whether someone pushed her from the side or she simply misstepped, her balance faltered, and she fell forward—

—only to be caught in a pair of arms.

It was Pei Suye.

Her arms were still slender, the forearms flexing with a faint ripple of lean muscle when exerted. These were the same arms that had once embraced her with tender warmth, enclosing her tightly from chest to back, every inch of skin immersed in the gentlest wind.

“Careful.”

A soft voice drifted from above her head.

Ye Wanjia pressed her lips together, using the arm’s strength to steady herself. She let go, and in a noisy, unnoticed corner, she murmured faintly:

“Thank you.”

The whole time, she didn’t look at Pei Suye. She was afraid that if she did, the unruly thought in her heart would overwhelm her.

After the photo, Dean Zhao lingered with the graduate speakers, chatting for a long time. Finally, with a clap, he invited everyone out for dinner.

Ye Wanjia’s eyelids trembled. She declined softly:
“Dean Zhao, I’ll pass. You and the seniors have a good talk.”

But Dean Zhao immediately grabbed her arm:
“Ye Wanjia, you must come. With your grades, you’ll definitely be applying for guaranteed admission soon. Learn from them—get yourself into a good lab.”

And so, muddle-headed, she was dragged along.

Academic banquets were always the same—experiments, papers, impact factors. Ye Wanjia rarely joined in, listening quietly instead. Her gaze fell upon Pei Suye. When it lingered on the willow-leaf brooch, her heart ached, and she drained her wine glass in one gulp.

Clearly they’d broken up—so why was she still wearing this brooch?

Did it mean that since they’d separated, the willow leaves no longer symbolized “two hearts together,” but were just an ordinary pattern, no different from any other brooch, something she could wear casually?

After the banquet, Ye Wanjia staggered slightly as she walked. Since Pei Suye hadn’t drunk, she volunteered to drive three people back. Two returned to the hotel. The last—Ye Wanjia—slumped drowsily in the front passenger seat on the way back to campus.

The car rolled slowly along the nighttime streets. Inside, it was just the two of them. So quiet, one could hear a pin drop.

It had been far too long since they’d been alone in the same space. That forgotten sense of intimacy flooded back—the skin along her ears tingled, memories of whispered touches brushed through her mind.

Uneasy, Ye Wanjia shifted and looked out the window.

Pei Suye kept her gaze on the patterned streetlamps ahead as she drove, and finally spoke:

“I heard you won the national scholarship.”

At last, the first words exchanged between them.

“Mm.”

Ye Wanjia stared outside, replying offhandedly. Alcohol muddled her thoughts, and she added one more line:

“I used to try everything and still couldn’t get it. But now suddenly I did. Do you know what that means?”

Pei Suye’s eyes flicked. “It means you’ve become more and more outstanding.”

“No.” Ye Wanjia corrected, “It means, without you, I’m doing even better.”

The words were sharp as blades, slicing straight into Pei Suye’s heart, leaving it bleeding.

Her fingers clenched hard around the steering wheel. She lifted her brows slightly, easing the pain in her chest, before slowly loosening her grip.

About half a minute later, Pei Suye finally found her voice:
“With your grades, you could get an offer from an overseas research institute.”

Ye Wanjia immediately grasped her implication and retorted:
“I won’t go to Davis for you.”

“I know.” Pei Suye’s voice faltered for a moment before she asked,
“But… would you avoid Davis because I’m there?”

Ye Wanjia lowered her eyes, giving no direct answer. Streetlights flashed across her smooth face, dazzlingly bright, though dimmer than the depths of her eyes.

“My goal is the Royal Veterinary College in London.”

It was midsummer, yet the roadside grass seemed rimed with frost.

Much later, when Pei Suye recalled that night, she said:
“At the time, hearing you say that, I thought I’d never see you again.”

By then, Ye Wanjia was holding her Davis diploma, dressed in a finely tailored master’s gown. Rationally, she explained:

“RVC scholarships are scarce. I can’t afford it, and I don’t want to burden my family.”

Seeing a flicker of disappointment in someone’s eyes, she added softly—

“Maybe, somehow, fate will still take me to where you are.”

And why did Ye Wanjia say “somehow, fate”?

Because during the guaranteed-admission period, something happened.

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