It Seems Like My Senior Seems to Like Me - Chapter 63

“Xiao Yezi, it’s me.”

That long-missed, gentle voice came from the other end of the phone, breaking through the air, rippling outward in waves, piercing her eardrums.

Ye Wanjia froze for two seconds. The fingers gripping her phone trembled slightly. She tried to muster some of that special kind of courage one always seems to need in front of an ex, but her throat could only force out a trembling, broken sound.

“What is it?” she asked.

Because of the time difference, it was still morning where Pei Suye was. In the background, she could faintly hear strangers saying “morning” as they passed.

Pei Suye didn’t respond to them. She just sat down on a nearby bench, her voice tinged with deep concern.

“Are you doing okay?”

Her heart felt like it had been riddled with bullets, battered and bruised. Falling from the sky, she thought she had landed on a cloud, only to find thunder and lightning waiting inside. And when another cloud floated by, she no longer dared step onto it.

“Are you calling to blame me too?”

Blame her for being careless, blame her for not guarding against others, blame her for not realizing that tall trees catch more wind.

Her counselor’s words were still bleeding in her ears.

The voice on the other end sank, sensing what had happened to Ye Wanjia, and corrected her firmly:

“This wasn’t your fault. Being kind is simply your nature.”

From the eruption to the calm, the entire incident had lasted just a single day—yet too many voices had judged her.

Onlookers whispered: She can’t be that good of a person. Otherwise, why would Tang Can want to hurt her?

Her counselor had scolded: How could you be so careless? Don’t you even care about your future?

It was as if losing her offer from a prestigious university was nothing but her own fault, her own punishment.

Only Pei Suye told her directly, clearly, without hesitation: It wasn’t your fault.

People are strange—sometimes a single sentence can push you into an abyss, but sometimes a single sentence can pull you back out again.

“Wuu…”

Her hand holding the phone went bone-white, as if reduced to nothing but skeleton. Her body curled up against the wall, head bowed, face buried in her knees, sobbing silently.

The person on the other end didn’t rush her, didn’t push. She just stayed, quietly, as if holding her in her arms and gently soothing her.

In this vast world, amidst the countless crowds, even from a foreign land, that one person’s voice, far away, outweighed everyone and everything close by.

And yet why—why had that person chosen to walk away, leaving them a world apart?

“So you called… just to comfort me?” Ye Wanjia asked hoarsely once she’d calmed a little.

To comfort her for losing that rare offer, for missing the graduate school application deadline abroad, for watching her four years of struggle in college collapse into nothing because of one wrong email address.

“Not only that.” Pei Suye’s voice, as always, was patient and gentle. Her pace slowed, testing carefully:

“Our lab still has one spot. Do you want to apply?”

Thump!

The morning sunlight slanted across the lake. A droplet of dew, clinging to the tip of a lotus leaf, trembled, then slipped into the water. Ripples spread outward, ring after ring.

Normally, UC Davis’s application deadline had already passed. But that year, a newly hired professor named Leo had joined just two weeks later than usual, and filed for an extension in admissions.

“Jessica.”

Before calling Ye Wanjia, Pei Suye had gone to Leo. But he was hesitant about her recommendation.

“I know you are excellent, but this girl is just from the same school as you, not as good as you.”

Pei Suye’s English was fluent, her tone sharp and clear as she fought for Ye Wanjia:

“She won the national scholarship two years in a row, and got 92 points on the TOEFL. You need a student. She needs a mentor. Why don’t you talk to her?”

At 5 a.m. Beijing time, 2 p.m. Davis time, Ye Wanjia had her first English interview of her life.

The road to success is long—endlessly long—and difficult. Even after crossing a thorny path, one may face a mire of mud. Often, what success truly tests is whether you have the courage to wade through that mire after the thorns.

Ye Wanjia did.

On the very day she lost her offer, sleepless and devastated, she pushed herself through a 5 a.m. interview, her fluent English and clear logic winning Leo over. She secured an offer from the University of California, Davis.

When the letter arrived, signed by Leo himself, Wei Xiaoxiao burst into tears.

“See? I told you! You are amazing! You’re incredible, oh my god—”

After crying and letting it all out, the not-so-academically-gifted but socially astute Wei Xiaoxiao finally calmed down. Hesitating, she still asked the question lingering in her heart:

“If you go there… won’t you end up in the same lab as… you know who?”

Ye Wanjia lowered her gaze. Her thick lashes quivered. After two seconds of silence, she answered:

“It’s under the same big professor, but we’ll have different advisors. So, no—we won’t see each other every day.”

As she spoke, her mind drifted back to Pei Suye’s speech at the graduate exchange not long ago. She added quietly:

“Even though we broke up, she was right about one thing—you can fight for someone, but never give up on yourself because of someone.”

If she gave up Davis just because Pei Suye was there, it would be far too foolish.

Once her visa came through, Ye Wanjia finished her credits early and flew to the U.S. in her final semester.

It was February then, bitterly cold. The wind felt sharp enough to slice her nose off. She had to wrap her scarf tight around her lower face, leaving only her eyes exposed.

The campus bus stopped at the administration office. After registering, she dragged her suitcase to meet Leo.

He was young—just thirty-one, already a professor in veterinary medicine.

“Pretty girl,” he said with a smile. Her eyes had impressed him. He asked Alma, a student heading home, to carry her luggage back, and sat down with Ye Wanjia to discuss her future research.

The lab arranged housing for everyone—small two-person apartments. Ye Wanjia’s roommate was Alma, the Argentinian girl, with big eyes, a tall nose, and a lively, warm personality. Their first meeting, Alma even handed her two pieces of candy.

By the time they finished, it was 5 p.m.

She was exhausted. Sixteen hours on a transpacific flight, two hours of research planning, air unlike anything back home—it drained her to the core.

She took two dollars, broken from a ten at the shop, and walked to the bus station.

Yes—two dollars. The ride cost over ten yuan in her currency.

Her gloves were still packed in her suitcase pocket. Her bare hands, frozen crimson in the wind, had to be tucked into her sleeves for warmth.

The chilblains were back—her lifelong tendency, worsened by her dislike of gloves. Or maybe because the one who used to always hold her hand… was gone.

Just as her fingers began to thaw, the bus arrived.

Few people rode. In Davis, most had cars or bikes. Only newcomers—like foreign students—took the bus.

She only needed five stops.

Sinking into a back corner seat by the window, she stared blankly outside, counting the stops.

The first took seven minutes. The second, ten.

Maybe bus stops were spaced farther here, she thought.

At the third stop, the overhead light flickered, and the bus halted. A slender figure stepped up, spoke to the driver:

“Sir, my friend missed her stop. May I take her off here?”

She wore a stone-blue coat, a long white scarf wrapped high, soft fabric hiding her jaw and chasing away the chill, leaving only quiet poise behind.

Still the same as their first meeting.

Ye Wanjia pressed her lips tight, shifted her eyes away, and murmured toward the window:

“I’m fine, I still have two stops.”

Patiently, Pei Suye explained: “Here, you have to pull the cord yourself, otherwise the bus won’t stop. You’ve already gone seven stops.”

The driver’s silent, urging look made Ye Wanjia unwilling to hold anyone up. She got off with Pei Suye. But there were no more buses. She had to ride the back of Pei Suye’s bicycle.

The Davis winter was brutally cold, her loose hair nearly frozen stiff.

But at least—though the wind was sharp, someone was shielding her from it.

As before, Pei Suye pedaled steady and sure. Ye Wanjia wrapped her arms around her waist, feeling the play of muscles beneath her clothes.

Her heart wavered.

Whoosh—whoosh—

The wind roared.

Her eyes drifted, unfocused, to the passing scenery—trees, shadows, light weaving. Memories tugged her back.

That day, she’d been headed to a ceremony audition, and Pei Suye had lent her a skirt. Just like today, she had carried her there—calm, attentive.

They hadn’t been together then. It was early winter, not yet cold. Gingko leaves filled the sky, whispering in the wind, golden sunlight painting the world like oil on canvas.

Shy, she’d been lost in the beauty, until at last, boldly, her hand—clutching Pei Suye’s coat—slipped forward, wrapping around that slim waist.

She’d grinned secretly in the backseat, lips twitching upward again and again until she couldn’t hold back anymore, finally smiling full, dimples deep, teeth bright.

And then, though she hadn’t seen it, Pei Suye’s lips too had curved up, her serene eyes bending, catching the romance of the gingko trees.

Maybe it was the daze of memory, maybe the wind of winter… but Ye Wanjia’s lashes trembled, her grip loosening. After a beat of hesitation, her chilblain-red fingers no longer feared the cold. They slipped forward, encircled Pei Suye’s waist, and interlocked tightly.

Once upon a time, even a single hug had to be given with such careful caution.

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