Sang Ru switched back with Yang Fan. Li Chenfei felt her forehead for quite a while before saying, “You don’t have a fever.”

Sang Ru: “?”

“Weren’t you always the most annoyed by Zhou Tingzhao?” When saying his name, Li Chenfei lowered her voice. “Why would you go to him to discuss problems?”

“I could ask you too,” Sang Ru gathered her things and turned to her sincerely. “Question 20, the last part—can you teach me?”

Li Chenfei: …Damn.

Mocking me again, you top students think you’re so great!

Before high school graduation, Sang Ru had lived with her parents in a neighborhood near the school for convenience. After starting university, they had moved back to the villa district, renting this place to students who came later.

Having not walked this route for many years, she followed her memory back home.

The aroma of food wafted into her nose as the door opened, nearly bringing tears to Sang Ru’s eyes.

At that moment, Mrs. Jiang opened her bedroom door and came out, still wearing her pajamas, saying: “You’re back, darling.”

Oh, there was a hired cook in the kitchen.

But Sang Ru still threw herself into Mrs. Jiang’s arms.

White hair meant nothing to a lady like her mother. She could continuously dye it black, get beauty treatments, happily go shopping, and visit exhibitions when in a good mood, and do the same when she wasn’t—forever an elegant, wealthy wife.

But no one can fight against time. Mrs. Jiang, who had returned nearly ten years ago, still had a different spirit in the corners of her eyes and brows.

After dinner, Sang Ru clung to her mother’s side again, nestling in her arms, saying, “I miss you, I miss you.”

Jiang Shu stroked her daughter’s hair, smiling: “You’re acting like you’ve gotten younger.”

“Haven’t I gotten younger indeed?”

Mrs. Jiang had a refined taste for life; besides herself, the room also carried a subtle fragrance.

Sang Ru buried herself in the blankets and took a deep breath, smelling the familiar scent, which finally allowed her to truly relax and think through everything that had happened so far.

Everything now was incredible. If she wasn’t dreaming, then she needed to figure out what she should do at this point.

If Sang Ru’s life were to start counting anew from this moment, what regrets or gaps could be filled now? Yet when Sang Ru thought carefully, every choice she’d made had led to who she later became. There was nothing to regret, so she didn’t need to deliberately do anything different—just walk the same path step by step as before.

Except for one thing: she hadn’t dated in high school.

It wasn’t exactly regret, but it was certainly a pity. After burying herself in books for over a decade and crossing the threshold into adulthood at university, seeing many friends who had continued relationships with old classmates, Sang Ru occasionally thought that perhaps dating in high school wouldn’t have been so bad.

This missed opportunity could probably be filled with Zhou Tingzhao, Sang Ru thought.

Another question was whether she could go back. But this was beyond her control—thinking about it wouldn’t yield an answer. Better to just proceed with this pace, taking one step at a time.

Having sorted these thoughts, Sang Ru felt somewhat happier.

It seemed that her current biggest tasks were to help herself complete the college entrance exam and to seduce Zhou Tingzhao.

The working hours at an advertising company differed from other conventional companies. Sang Ru was accustomed to leisurely arriving at the office at eleven each day. This habit, when applied to senior year, had only one outcome—tardiness.

As the first class was nearing its end, a “knock knock” sounded on the closed classroom door. The Chinese teacher opened it to find the math class representative standing there, crisply calling out “Reporting!”

Under the gaze of the entire class, Sang Ru stood stiffly, hearing the Chinese teacher ask: “Were you on sick leave?”

“…No.”

“Then you’ve timed it quite well,” the Chinese teacher, in her forties and usually strict, looked at Sang Ru with a smile and said, “Why not just come when class is over?”

Usually, the one to stump others, the tables had turned. Sang Ru was speechless, finally saying after a long pause: “I’m sorry, teacher. It won’t happen again.”

The Chinese teacher waved her in, and Sang Ru returned to her seat, as if granted amnesty.

Class ended a few minutes later. Sang Ru slumped on her desk, exhausted from running. Though she had been startled awake earlier, drowsiness was now returning.

Someone’s finger tapped on her desk, giving Sang Ru a big fright. She looked up to find the Chinese teacher.

Still not having left after class, she probably wanted to settle accounts with Sang Ru.

Sang Ru followed her into the corridor, prepared to be scolded.

“I know you’re a good student, Sang Ru,” the teacher’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “Look at your grades—year after year, you’re second in the grade, with Zhou Tingzhao being first. Do you know where you lose points compared to him?”

“Chinese,” Sang Ru answered.

“Yes, Chinese. Your foundation is good; most of the earlier sections are fine. Your problem often appears in the essays.”

Sang Ru silently listened as she continued: “Essays may seem like a place where you can write freely, but there are many restrictions. You like to write narratives, right? With narratives, it’s easy to either go too high or too low. If you go off-topic even slightly, it will significantly lower your score.”

“I know, teacher,” Sang Ru did remember this—these issues hadn’t been completely resolved even by the end of the college entrance exam. “But I’m not good at expository essays, and they’re very rigid.”

The teacher smiled: “Yes, they are rigid. In narratives, you can tell stories; in expository essays, you can only talk about viewpoints back and forth—comparatively dull and inflexible. But Sang Ru, our goal isn’t just creative writing, it’s also the exam. You can continue writing narratives, but can you guarantee you’ll always score high without deviating? If not, then prepare for expository essays as well, so at least you have a choice.”

Sang Ru suddenly found this very sensible and said, “I understand, teacher. I will.”

Zhou Tingzhao, doing who knows what, passed by them. Sang Ru, quick-eyed and quick-handed, grabbed the hem of his clothes and said: “Can I ask Zhou Tingzhao if I don’t understand something?”

“You can. He’s always written well,” the teacher nodded and looked at the confused Zhou Tingzhao. “When you have time, teach Sang Ru how to write expository essays.”

Zhou Tingzhao followed that hand, holding onto him, to look at this person. She was smiling at him; when she pressed her lips together, her cheeks puffed up like a squirrel’s, which was somewhat cute.

His Adam’s apple nervously bobbed once, and Zhou Tingzhao answered: “Okay.”