The days slipped by in a rhythm that seemed tranquil, like a stream flowing over smooth pebbles. The surface was calm, yet unknown undercurrents lurked beneath.
Lan Yucheng’s “conquest” plan progressed with unsettling smoothness. It was so successful that it sometimes startled her awake in the dead of night, leaving her with an unreal sense of disorientation.
To outsiders, her relationship with Su Yiyi could even be described as “inseparable.” Their natural intimacy suggested a bond forged over many years of acquaintance.
They were almost inseparable. Their weekly grocery runs became the time they cherished most.
Pushing their cart through the aisles, Su Yiyi would meticulously compare product dates and prices, her expression as focused as if she were completing an important work of art.
It was then that Lan Yucheng would naturally draw closer, feigning interest in the item Su Yiyi held. Her hair would subtly brush against Su Yiyi’s bare forearm, a cool touch carrying the faint, distinctive scent of her shampoo.
Initially, Su Yiyi would flinch slightly, but she soon grew accustomed to it. Eventually, when Lan Yucheng leaned too close, she would even free a hand to gently tuck stray strands of hair behind Lan Yucheng’s ear, lest they obstruct her vision.
This gesture was both practiced and tender, drawing envious glances from a nearby auntie selecting fruit. “Look at those two sisters,” she murmured to her companion, “their bond is truly beautiful.”
Their time together in the kitchen was even more filled with carefully orchestrated “accidents.”
Lan Yucheng insisted on helping, yet always seemed adorably “clumsy.” She would “accidentally” splash water everywhere while washing vegetables, and her fingertips would frequently and naturally brush against Su Yiyi’s when handing over dishes.
Su Yiyi, wearing a floral apron, bustled in front of the stove, her back appearing warm and reliable.
When Lan Yucheng passed over peeled garlic cloves, her fingers “unintentionally” grazed Su Yiyi’s palm. Su Yiyi would turn back with a smile, her eyes devoid of any annoyance, showing only a nearly doting tolerance.
“Slow down, don’t hurt your hand.”
She always reminded her, her voice as soft as the comforting aroma of food permeating the kitchen.
Evenings spent snuggled on the sofa watching movies became an unbreakable routine. Only a single warm yellow floor lamp illuminated the living room, its light ambiguously outlining their silhouettes.
They shared a soft cashmere blanket, their legs touching, body heat transferring through thin loungewear.
Lan Yucheng’s “acting” reached its peak here.
She would select tender or slightly melancholic art-house films. At emotional moments, her eyes would redden slightly, and then she would “drift off to sleep while watching,” her head tilting to rest perfectly on Su Yiyi’s shoulder. Her breathing would become even and long, her body relaxed, like a child who had finally found security.
Su Yiyi, in turn, would adjust her posture to make Lan Yucheng more comfortable. One hand would even gently pat her back, as if soothing an infant. One time, when the movie ended, Lan Yucheng “woke up” to find herself almost entirely curled in Su Yiyi’s embrace. Su Yiyi hadn’t pushed her away; she merely smiled and said, “You almost drooled on my clothes while you were sleeping.”
There was no hint of displeasure in her tone, only a trace of almost imperceptible indulgence.
Su Yiyi seemed to have completely accepted this closeness, which transcended the boundaries of ordinary neighbors, or even friends.
Her tenderness was like a finely woven, soft net, silently enveloping Lan Yucheng. She would casually smooth Lan Yucheng’s ruffled hair, her movements as gentle as if handling precious porcelain.
By busy roads with heavy traffic, she would instinctively put an arm around Lan Yucheng’s shoulders, shielding her close. When Lan Yucheng “accidentally” burned her finger on the edge of a hot pan, Su Yiyi immediately dropped her spatula, took Lan Yucheng’s hand, and gently blew on it, her eyes revealing undisguised distress and anxiety.
“Does it hurt? How could you be so careless?” she asked repeatedly.
Such genuine concern sometimes left Lan Yucheng momentarily disoriented, unable to distinguish whether it was the effectiveness of her acting or simply Su Yiyi’s overflowing inherent kindness.
Even Auntie Zhang, the most avid gossiper in their community, would smile and tease when she saw them walking together: “Yiyi, it’s like you’ve adopted a younger sister! Look how inseparable you two are.”
Lan Yucheng enjoyed all of this with astonishing composure.
Her acting grew more refined with each passing day of practice. Every dependent gaze, every “unintentional” proximity, the shy curve of her lips—all were perfectly executed, neither too much to seem deliberate nor too little to lack conviction.
She even secretly began to mimic Qing Xinxue’s naturally naive and dependent demeanor from her memories—a demeanor that had once deeply captivated and pressured her. Yet, she meticulously removed its possessive, predatory edges, leaving behind only a pure, heartwarming softness.
She could clearly see the growing gentleness and indulgence in Su Yiyi’s eyes. It was a sense of relief that Lan Yucheng was “gradually emerging from the shadows and becoming more cheerful,” seemingly mixed with a slow-burning affection for Lan Yucheng herself.
Every night, she would replay the day’s “performance” in her mind, checking the slowly but steadily rising favorability points on Su Yiyi’s system panel. Everything was progressing according to her predefined goals, precise as a sophisticated instrument.
Yet, the smoother things went, the more hollow and cold a rust-sealed corner deep within her heart became.
Each intimate interaction with Su Yiyi, each time she felt Su Yiyi’s unreserved tenderness, felt like a silent betrayal. A betrayal of the person she had forcibly sealed in the deepest recesses of her memory, the one she truly longed to integrate into her very being.
This guilt grew daily, coiling around her heart like a vine, tightening with every beat.
Only in the dead of night, when the light in Su Yiyi’s room was extinguished and all was silent, did she dare to drop her facade. She would allow her longing for Qing Xinxue to grow wildly like weeds in a desolate field, gnawing at her already meager peace.
She would bury her face in her pillow, silently chewing on that name until her tongue tasted the bitter tang of rust.
That evening, Su Yiyi seemed in an exceptionally good mood, having specially slow-simmered Lan Yucheng’s favorite lotus root and pork rib soup.
The small, square dining table was covered with a clean checkered tablecloth, set with a simple three dishes and one soup: stir-fried seasonal vegetables, scrambled eggs with tomatoes, sweet and sour spare ribs, and in the center, a steaming tureen of creamy white soup.
The aroma of the food intertwined with the warm yellow lamplight, creating an almost perfect sense of homey warmth, tranquil and beautiful, as if it could shield them from all external disturbances.
“Come, eat more. You seem to have lost a little weight recently. No matter how busy work gets, you must take care of yourself.”
Su Yiyi said, using serving chopsticks to place a tempting, sauce-coated sweet and sour rib into Lan Yucheng’s bowl. Her eyes were so gentle they could melt. Under the lamp, the faint laugh lines at the corners of her eyes appeared especially soft.
“Thank you, Sister Yiyi. You take such good care of me.”
Lan Yucheng looked up, returning a sweet smile practiced countless times, imbued with just the right amount of gratitude. The curve of her lips was precisely rendered. She picked up her spoon and sipped the soup. The lotus root was starchy and soft, the ribs tender, the broth rich and fragrant—the familiar, increasingly comforting taste of “home.”
Life with Su Yiyi was like this: comfortable, harmonious, steady. There were no tumultuous waves, no hysterics, only a gentle, flowing warmth and stability.
This was the “normal” life she once thought she had strived with all her might to achieve, the ideal haven after escaping the quagmire of her past.