“Shen Yuan is back.”
Wang Ziqin looked up and saw Shen Yuan huffing and puffing, sweat pouring down his face, carrying several bottles of drinks in plastic bags. His glasses were crooked on his nose, making him look completely disheveled.
He’s such a fool, Wang Ziqin thought. Asking him to make a round trip in ten minutes—and he actually did it! The school supermarket was quite far from the playground, a six- or seven-minute walk.
Shen Yuan handed out the drinks to Wang Ziqin and the other young masters at his side, and every single bottle was distributed. Only after finishing did he have a moment to wipe the sweat from his face and straighten his glasses. Everyone laughed and joked around; Wang Ziqin found Shen Yuan’s slightly unlucky, meticulous nature amusing. While the others would just wipe sweat on their sleeves or shirts, Shen Yuan carried a handkerchief with him.
What a girlie habit… Wang Ziqin thought. Not many girls even carry handkerchiefs, let alone boys.
He swiped the handkerchief from Shen Yuan’s hand.
Shen Yuan was caught off guard. He hadn’t expected these kids to care about an old handkerchief, so he didn’t resist.
Confused, Shen Yuan asked, “Wang Shao… what… what are you doing with my handkerchief?”
Wang Ziqin twirled it playfully, smirking with a hint of mockery: “Nothing, just looking. Can’t I?”
Shen Yuan replied, “It’s… it’s dirty, I just wiped my sweat with it.”
The handkerchief was old, washed so many times that the corner lettering—once clearly his name “Shen Yuan”—was now faded. Wang Ziqin laughed: “You even wrote your name on it? Are you in kindergarten?”
Shen Yuan stiffened slightly and forced a smile: “Haha… it’s… from when I was little, my mom gave it to me. Not valuable at all, pretty dirty. Can I have it back?”
Wang Ziqin suddenly remembered that Shen Yuan’s mother had passed away last year. His heart tightened—he hadn’t realized the handkerchief was a keepsake. Even his rough instincts told him this wasn’t right.
Shen Yuan had been inconsolable when his mother died, crying over his desk for days. The memory alone made Wang Ziqin’s chest ache.
He tossed the handkerchief back: “Don’t rush. As if I wanted to take it—just a lousy handkerchief. Take it back.”
But the handkerchief was too light; it floated to the floor. Someone stepped on it without noticing, leaving a dark, muddy footprint.
Shen Yuan froze.
Wang Ziqin’s face went blank. His stomach sank. He hadn’t intended this, hadn’t caused the dirt, yet Shen Yuan bent down silently, picked it up, and walked off to the sink to wash it.
Shen Yuan looked so small, so fragile—pathetic, almost.
Wang Ziqin felt an urge to apologize. But… he hadn’t done anything intentional. He just looked at the handkerchief; he didn’t make it fall, and he didn’t step on it. Plus, he had never been used to saying “sorry.”
He hesitated. Someone tugged him: “Wang Shao, what are you staring at? Come on, let’s play basketball.”
He was pulled along, but couldn’t stop looking back. Shen Yuan’s thin, small figure grew more distant.
I should apologize…
He wanted to turn back, but his companion held him tight. Anxiety rose.
“Wang Ziqin, you can’t go back,” a cruel voice suddenly said.
—and then Wang Ziqin woke up. It had all been a dream.
It was all from his youth.
He noticed his pillow was wet, tears at the corner of his eyes.
These past two years, he’d been having the same dream over and over—probably from all the lingering regret.
Only after Shen Yuan finally cut ties with him did Wang Ziqin realize how many memories he had with Shen Yuan—all of them showing that Shen Yuan had been the one indulging him, the one following him, not the other way around.
The more he thought, the more regret he felt. He realized there had been countless opportunities; a different choice here or there might have meant he and Shen Yuan would be together now—not some despicable old man.
But back then, he had been selfish and immature, pushing Shen Yuan farther and farther away, to this point where he was practically a stranger.
Stop thinking… classes first.
He got up and went to wash.
The door wasn’t locked. Wang Ziqin assumed the bathroom was empty, pushed it open—only to find his roommate inside, changing, wearing cartoon-patterned underwear.
His roommate, Tang Xiaotian, was a tall, 1.9-meter, well-built Chinese exchange student. He looked like a polite, mild-mannered guy in jeans and plaid shirts. But his room revealed the truth: anime posters, manga books, and shelves packed with figurines—Tang Xiaotian was a hardcore otaku.
Wang Ziqin watched as Tang Xiaotian’s entire body turned red, like a crab in a steamer. Not just his face—his whole body.
Holy… what am I doing? Wang Ziqin felt an awkward guilt, as if he had done something inappropriate, though it was just an innocent accident.
He said, “Uh, sorry, I didn’t know you were here. Go ahead, I’ll come back later.”
Living with someone else always had such complications.
Given Wang Ziqin’s family background, he could easily afford an apartment near school, but he wanted to reform himself, to break old habits. Flashing wealth was foolish—other students didn’t do it. He decided renting a decent place was enough.
By chance, he found Tang Xiaotian online and immediately felt he was tidy and low-key, likely a good roommate. They exchanged information and agreed to co-rent.
It worked out. Their lifestyles and hobbies differed greatly, but Tang Xiaotian kept a clean space and cooked, while Wang Ziqin quietly paid for groceries. Clear division of labor.
Though at the same school, they were in different departments. Wang Ziqin had used connections to get in, while Tang Xiaotian was a scholarship-winning top student. Their commute coincided, so they went together.
Wang Ziqin made coffee. Tang Xiaotian emerged, shyly glancing at him. Wang Ziqin felt awkward—surely the outgoing and the otaku couldn’t understand each other.
After dressing, Wang Ziqin checked himself in the mirror, feeling confident. Still, living with a hardcore otaku had made him less concerned about appearance recently. He suspected Tang Xiaotian could also be attractive if he cared to groom himself—but everyone had their priorities.
After breakfast, Tang Xiaotian cleaned quietly.
“Let’s go,” Wang Ziqin said, lacing his sneakers.
They rode bicycles to school.
Unluckily, Wang Ziqin’s bike chain broke. Too late to repair it before school.
Bad luck.
Wang Ziqin said: “You go ahead, I’ll take the bus.”
Tang Xiaotian didn’t hesitate, pushing the bike back: “I’ll take the bus with you.”
“…?” Wang Ziqin noticed the little otaku had latched onto him like a chick to a mother hen.
Wang Ziqin sighed. “Fine, just give me a ride on your bike.”
Tang Xiaotian’s eyes brightened. “Sure!”
Previously, Wang Ziqin had mocked him for buying a female-style bike with a basket, now it came in handy. Tang Xiaotian’s bike, modified with a battery-powered front light, pedaled smoothly even with Wang Ziqin on the back.
Tang Xiaotian isn’t fat… he’s got muscle… a muscular otaku, Wang Ziqin noted.
Arriving at school, Tang Xiaotian said: “Call me after class, I’ll pick you up.”
Wang Ziqin barked orders: “Fine.”
But entering the classroom, Wang Ziqin immediately felt something off. Many Chinese classmates were giving him strange looks, whispering, pointing, even peeking at him.
Did I really look that good? he wondered.
He asked around but no one told him.
At lunch, he took out his phone to check Weibo. His notifications were flooded—bright red messages, all criticizing him.
[It’s not that Shen Yuan wasn’t hurt—you think it’s over? He was strong and brave. What if he were weak? This online abuse could’ve killed him.]
Wang Ziqin froze.
Shen Yuan? Shen Yuan… what happened?