The rain that came early the next morning was strange in how abruptly it arrived. The sound of raindrops striking the tent canvas was the first thing to wake Yao Qiyun, a light sleeper. He opened his eyes and, with a jolt of alarm, realized that despite the clouds overhead, the sky had already begun to lighten. The moment before he’d drifted off pressed close to Situ Jie the night before, he’d repeatedly told himself he had to slip away quietly before dawn, to avoid anyone noticing. Reason and self-control had always been things he prided himself on — he simply hadn’t expected how quickly the hours beside her would slip away.
He lifted the corner of the tent to look out and found people already scrambling in a panic in the rain outside. He shook Situ Jie awake from her sweet dreams. She sat up groggily, still wrapped in the blanket, seemingly unsure what was happening — the instant she registered the rain, her first instinct was to bolt outside, but Yao Qiyun caught her in time.
“It’s pouring out there. Stay in here for now, I’ll go out first.”
Situ Jie nodded, unusually obedient. Still half-asleep, there was a soft, drowsy sweetness to her that gave even Yao Qiyun, his mind entirely focused on how to extract himself from the tent, a brief pang of reluctance to leave — some part of him wished they could just stay two foolish half-awake people, hidden away in a world that belonged only to the two of them, never mind the wind and rain outside. Still, he reined in the inappropriate thought, and just before finding the right moment to slip out, he shook his head and warned her, “Situ Jie, do me a favor and don’t forget your jeans next time you step outside.”
By then, most people were content to hunker down in their tents for as long as possible, and only a handful were out in the rain trying to salvage anything, too preoccupied with their own troubles to notice much else — which gave Yao Qiyun the perfect cover to slip away unnoticed in the chaos. He made it back near his own tent without drawing any unwanted attention, and felt a deep wave of relief.
Not far off, San Pi was practically pounding his chest in the rain, huddled with a few other group leaders trying to figure out what to do next. If the rain kept up, the tents were useless, and sheltering in the woods would be even riskier — it seemed the only option left was to call the boats back early. But just as strangely as it had arrived, the rain began easing off before they’d even settled on a plan.
Only then did everyone start emerging from their more or less flooded tents to deal with the aftermath. Yao Qiyun packed up his own tent and naturally went to help Situ Jie with hers. She was bent over, stuffing loose items into her backpack, and without even looking up at the offered hand, said, “Thanks, but I’ve really got this.” Who knew how many well-meaning “helpers” she’d already turned away in the minutes before — but once she saw it was Yao Qiyun, she broke into a bright smile and happily handed the rest of the job over to him. As the two of them worked together folding up the tent canvas, his hand brushed against hers. Situ Jie’s face warmed inexplicably, and she bit her lip, saying nothing. She stole a glance at Yao Qiyun — he too said nothing, but there was something unreadable in his eyes as well. It had only been one night, one moment of an embrace and a kiss neither of them could hold back — the two people were the same as before, and yet so much between them had quietly taken on new meaning.
Wu Jiang, chewing on half a reed stalk, walked over with his hands behind his back, breaking the wordless intimacy between them. With an air of mock regret, he said, “Looks like you two didn’t need my help after all.”
Situ Jie laughed. “Go run around after Qu Xiaowan, why don’t you. Only a fool would choose friends over romance — I won’t even ask where the two of you wandered off to for your walk last night.”
Wu Jiang grinned back. “Fine, don’t ask then. But I do have a question of my own. First thing this morning, I saw it was raining and came to check on you — and you know what I saw?”
Situ Jie’s face flushed and paled by turns, though she forced herself to sound composed. “Who knows what nonsense you think you saw?”
Wu Jiang made a show of examining the tent they’d just finished folding up. “If I’d known there were double tents available, I should’ve grabbed one for myself too.”
Yao Qiyun’s hands went still at those words. He should have known — there was no such thing as a wall without cracks in it somewhere. He hurried to explain. “Her stomach was bothering her and it was about to rain, so I just came to check on her, that’s all.”
Even as he said it, he could hear how much it sounded like he was trying too hard to cover something up — the more he explained, the less convincing it became. In truth, Yao Qiyun didn’t really need to answer to Wu Jiang at all, but since it concerned Situ Jie’s reputation, he felt he had to say something. He also knew perfectly well how slippery Wu Jiang could be, not someone easily fooled — and sure enough, hearing his explanation only made Wu Jiang’s grin widen further.
“Situ, spill it,” Wu Jiang said, draping an arm over Situ Jie’s shoulder and turning her away from Yao Qiyun, adding deliberately, “If someone’s been bullying you, you’d better tell me.”
Situ Jie shook off her arm, laughing too. “You really want to know?”
Wu Jiang nodded eagerly, over and over.
“Last night the two of us spent the whole night together in that tent, and there was, you know… whispered closeness, tossing and turning…” Situ Jie described with great relish, “and we kissed too, I kissed him, he kissed me, back and forth, the world spinning, faces covered in drool — way beyond anything you could imagine. Since it’s fine anyway, why don’t we find somewhere to sit down and I’ll walk you through every last detail?”
The more Wu Jiang listened, the more skeptical she looked, until finally she just snorted. “Boring. Keep making things up. Only a fool would believe you.”
Watching Wu Jiang stalk off, disappointed, Situ Jie doubled over laughing. Once she was gone, Yao Qiyun, equal parts relieved and unsettled, asked Situ Jie, puzzled, “Why do you think she didn’t believe you?”
Before they left the island, the summer camp’s final and most important segment got underway. Since this was, after all, a “mutual aid through compassion” camp, there naturally had to be some concrete action taken to help struggling classmates. Students like Tan Shaocheng and Xiao Gen, specially invited because of financial hardship, were the intended recipients of everyone’s donations. Back then, student loan policies were still far from comprehensive, and charitable funding for education hadn’t yet become mainstream, so gatherings like this one served to deepen understanding between classmates while giving those from wealthier families the chance to contribute a bit of goodwill. With enough people pitching in, it really could make a meaningful dent in the tuition worries facing struggling students before the semester began.
After a brief overview of each struggling student’s family circumstances, several upperclassmen circulated through the crowd carrying donation boxes labeled with the recipients’ names. All donation amounts would be announced on the spot and, once tallied, handed directly to the recipients.
Before learning of these students’ hardships, kids like Situ Jie could hardly have imagined just how many families out there were struggling with such difficult, unfortunate circumstances — some families’ entire annual income didn’t even match what she received in a single Lunar New Year red envelope. Take Xiao Gen, whom she knew fairly well, as an example: he came from one of the country’s most notorious impoverished mountain regions, where for half the year his family had to survive on a mix of corn and sweet potatoes just to get by, and as the eldest of five siblings, the responsibility weighed heavily on him. Tan Shaocheng, though not particularly likable, also came from a pitiable background — both her parents had mild disabilities and no education to speak of, and the family scraped by on very little.
Moved by sympathy, and by the friendships that had formed over the course of that single day and night, most people gave what they could. Since everyone present was still a student, few had much to spare, so most contributions amounted to twenty, fifty, or a hundred yuan — already a meaningful gesture in itself. Yao Qiyun had brought five hundred yuan with him. Seeing this, Situ Jie asked, “Who are you planning to give it to?”
“I think I’ll give it to Xiao Gen.” He knew perfectly well what she was really asking, and added honestly, “The rest I’ll give to Tan Shaocheng. Honestly, given her family situation, and being a girl on top of it, getting into a school like this must not have been easy at all. If I can help, I should.”
Situ Jie pulled out five hundred yuan of her own as well, from her allowance. She gave a small “Hmph” and shoved the money into Yao Qiyun’s hands. “I still don’t like that girl, for the record. You can just donate it on my behalf — four hundred to Xiao Gen, and the rest… it’s up to you. Give it to whoever you want.”
Yao Qiyun took the money, a little helpless, and murmured, “You, honestly…”
After a wave of enthusiastic giving, the donations were winding down when Qu Xiaowan, carrying one of the collection boxes, walked over to Wu Jiang.
Wu Jiang looked at her, eyes and brows lit up with a smile. “I don’t think you should be the one collecting donations.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” Qu Xiaowan arched one thin eyebrow. “I’d love to hear your reasoning.”
Wu Jiang lowered her voice. “You don’t look the least bit pitiable holding that box. If anything, you look like some merciful bodhisattva come to save the masses — people would practically beg through tears just to offer up their incense money.”
A faint, unreadable smile touched the corner of Qu Xiaowan’s lips. “Oh… so the humble nun has come begging in these parts. And how much would benefactor Wu care to donate, then?”
“You’ll have to let me pay my respects first — I’ve got a wish to make before the bodhisattva.”
“Let’s hear it, then,” Qu Xiaowan said, tilting her chin up slightly.
Wu Jiang quickly pressed two pieces of paper into her hand. “It’s all written down there.”
Qu Xiaowan unfolded them without any change in expression — two tickets to a musical.
“I’m being extremely devout here, O Bodhisattva.”
“Well, since I’m the one who delivers all beings from suffering, you should know — sincerity moves the heavens.”
Wu Jiang’s face lit up. “Of course. And I should do even more good deeds. Talk is cheap, though, so here — I’ll cover this classmate’s tuition for the entire first year!”
A few seconds later, everyone heard Qu Xiaowan’s clear voice ring out. “Everyone, listen up — Wu Jiang here has volunteered to cover Tan Shaocheng’s tuition for the whole year!”
Before the words had even finished echoing, the whole place erupted into commotion, everyone buzzing with questions, trying to figure out who exactly Wu Jiang and Tan Shaocheng even were.
Wu Jiang wore an expression of complete indifference, unbothered by all the eyes now turning toward her, showing neither pride nor a hint of showing off — only once Qu Xiaowan closed her hand tightly around those two tickets did she allow herself a bright, radiant smile.
Tan Shaocheng, suddenly thrust into the center of attention, looked as though she were caught in a dream. Just a minute earlier she’d been sulking quietly in a corner. She hated ceremonies like this, hated having her wounds put on display in front of everyone — but there was nothing to be done, and she’d even found herself anxiously waiting to hear the total amount raised, because she needed that money so badly. She’d assumed few people would bother donating to her, and even if some did, it would only amount to a drop in the bucket — and yet, in an instant, she’d become the lucky one, freed for the coming year from the burden of a tuition sum that had felt to her like an astronomical fortune. And it hadn’t come from just anyone — it had come from Wu Jiang, a boy she’d never even dared to dream about. He had everything she could only look at from a distance, someone whose close friends were the kind of golden children like Situ Jie — she’d never even hoped he might remember her name…
On the other side, Situ Jie herself had been struck utterly dumbstruck by the sudden announcement. She grabbed Yao Qiyun’s hand and pressed it to her own cheek. “Pinch me. There’s no way that idiot Wu Jiang didn’t take the wrong medicine or something.”
Yao Qiyun could hardly bring himself to do it, laughing instead. “Maybe he just had an awakening.”
“Even an awakening needs some discretion! There are plenty of people out there who need help.” Situ Jie had plenty more to say and had half a mind to go find Wu Jiang and demand an explanation — but the moment she caught sight of Tan Shaocheng, tears streaming down her face, whether from joy or something deeper, she swallowed the rest of her words. As much as Situ Jie would never come to like that girl, she had to admit Yao Qiyun had a point — life wasn’t easy, and neither was this. No one got to choose the circumstances they were born into; if fate hadn’t steered things differently, perhaps even Yao Qiyun would be scraping by at the edge of hardship just as she was, breaking down in tears over a few thousand yuan. The thought softened even Situ Jie’s fierce temper.
If a bug is unpleasant, better to just avoid it — it had already sunk low enough into the dirt; there was no need to step on it further.
And so, with this warm-up complete, university life officially began, unfolding its colorful chapters. Pharmacy was one of the key programs at the medical university she attended, and once classes began, Situ Jie often ran into familiar faces around the department building. Xiao Gen, of course, was her official classmate, but the person she’d rather not run into — Tan Shaocheng — turned out to be in a different class within the same program. As it happened, Tan Shaocheng’s entrance scores had been excellent, second only to Situ Jie’s among the female students, though Situ Jie wasn’t foolish enough to feel proud about it — she knew perfectly well that the two of them had studied under vastly different circumstances, and that scoring only a few points below her, given how difficult Tan Shaocheng’s situation had been, was nothing to underestimate.
As for the “compassionate bodhisattva” Wu Jiang had come to worship, she turned out to be no ordinary figure herself — a star student under Professor Zou Jin, the leading name in the pharmacy department. Zou Jin was a pillar among the department’s already formidable faculty: a doctorate holder from the United States, currently serving as deputy dean of the School of Pharmacy and a doctoral advisor, a nationally renowned expert in microbiology and biochemical pharmaceuticals, whose research center for drug development led the field internationally. Situ Jie had only seen the professor in person once, at the pharmacy school’s opening ceremony — elegant, composed, radiating the wisdom and charisma of an accomplished man in his middle years. Rumor had it that his doctoral program was notoriously difficult to get into, but once accepted, a bright future was practically guaranteed. He hadn’t taken on a master’s student in years, which made Qu Xiaowan’s standing with him all the more remarkable — and enviable in the extreme.
Situ Jie had to admit that her good friend Wu Jiang, who otherwise seemed to drift through life caring about nothing much at all, had surprisingly excellent taste once she finally fell for someone.
Wu Jiang’s pursuit of Qu Xiaowan was, by her own admission, a long and arduous journey — like making a pilgrimage up some famous mountain, all the finest scenery reserved for the most perilous heights. She was determined to reach the summit, even though the peak stayed lost somewhere in the clouds. Anyone else might have given up and headed home by now, but not Wu Jiang — her attitude was remarkably good-natured. Whenever she grew tired, she’d simply pause to rest, and often found that wherever she’d already climbed to had its own kind of view worth appreciating. She’d sit there enjoying the breeze for a while, and once she’d had her fill, she’d resume her climb, unhurried, and before long she’d find she’d left many a breathless rival far behind, drawing ever closer to the one she sought.
It should have been a happy story all around, except for the small matter that mountain climbing, as it turns out, costs money — especially for someone as persistent a trekker as Wu Jiang. At the summer camp, Wu Jiang had made quite the splash, winning both a smile from Qu Xiaowan and a glowing reputation as “deeply compassionate,” coming out ahead on every front — except, in the end, it was Situ Jie, constantly hounded for loans every few days, who ended up paying the price.
Wu Jiang’s father, though his career had been on the rise in recent years, and though Wu Jiang, as the only child, had never wanted for anything material, came from a family with strict standards, unwilling to spoil their son financially without limit. So while he was a bit better off than the average student, his monthly allowance was still finite, and every yuan spent was one less to spend later — hardly enough to sustain his habit of grand, extravagant gestures. To make matters worse, Qu Xiaowan wasn’t exactly low-maintenance; while she claimed no interest in material wealth, the refined musicals and elegant little trinkets she happened to enjoy were anything but cheap. After a few rounds of this, Wu Jiang’s finances hit a crisis point. Asking his parents for more was out of the question, which left Situ Jie as his one and only creditor of last resort.
Every time Situ Jie thought back to the grand gesture of Wu Jiang covering an entire year’s tuition for “a certain someone,” her blood pressure spiked. She understood, of course, that Wu Jiang had done it for Qu Xiaowan’s sake — but the person who’d actually benefited most from it was Tan Shaocheng, while Situ Jie herself had become, indirectly, the one paying the price. What made it even more absurd was that, ever since that incident, Tan Shaocheng had been overflowing with gratitude toward Wu Jiang. Every time she came back to school after a break at home, she’d bring along some small token of appreciation — sometimes a few packets of dried wild mushrooms, sometimes a pair of handmade shoe insoles, once even a jar of homemade chili sauce. She was poor and had nothing fancy to offer, so whatever she gave was likely the very best she had. Wu Jiang was always visibly uncomfortable receiving these gifts, repeatedly telling her there was no need — but Tan Shaocheng would just smile and do the same thing again the next time. Since it clearly came from the heart, Wu Jiang couldn’t bring herself to refuse outright and risk wounding her pride, so she usually ended up sheepishly passing the gifts along to her creditor, Situ Jie — who, every time, felt like hurling them straight back at Wu Jiang’s head.
More than once, Situ Jie railed at Wu Jiang for having “lost her mind over romance,” but after all the complaining, she still came through when it counted. Not only did she lend Wu Jiang every last cent she could scrape together from her personal savings, but even her coin-stuffed piggy bank eventually got smashed open under Wu Jiang’s relentless pleading, and even her food budget wasn’t spared in the end — leaving her thoroughly dependent on Yao Qiyun to get by. Every time she ate in the school cafeteria, she had to wait for Yao Qiyun to swipe his meal card for her, and whenever she spotted a piece of clothing she really wanted, she’d have to go pitifully ask him for financial backing.
She kept up the pretense of “borrowing” from Yao Qiyun too, though in practice she never paid any of it back. Whenever her conscience got the better of her, she’d tell him she didn’t eat that much anyway, and could just pick a few bites off his plate at each meal. Yao Qiyun found the whole tangled web of debts both exasperating and funny, but he never once complained. In truth, far from resenting how dependent Situ Jie had become on him, he felt a small, quiet satisfaction in it.
Though both exceptionally fortunate young women, Qu Xiaowan’s personality was quite different from Situ Jie’s. Situ Jie wore her likes and dislikes plainly — anything she loved, she clung to tightly, and anything she didn’t, she kicked away without a second thought. Qu Xiaowan, on the other hand, was harder to read — even Wu Jiang often couldn’t tell what she liked or didn’t. No matter what Wu Jiang brought before her, she’d smile faintly and set it aside, neither readily accepting nor outright refusing. On top of that, she had a deeply aloof, reserved temperament, carried herself with a sharp edge in her dealings with others, and had little patience for the usual social niceties. She had no shortage of admirers, but she’d offended plenty of people too, and easily left the impression of someone difficult to get along with.
Many friends urged Wu Jiang to give up, telling her not to make things harder on herself. Wu Jiang admitted Qu Xiaowan had plenty of quirks and flaws, but she happened to like her exactly as she was, and however much time and energy it cost, it was a price she was more than willing to pay. And so the cycle of borrowing and repaying between her and Situ Jie went on, round after round. When Situ Jie finally reached her limit, she’d say to her bitterly, “Keep borrowing like this and even the landlady’s going to run out of grain reserves. Wu Jiang, oh Wu Jiang — there’s a blade hanging right over the top of that character for ‘lust.'”
Wu Jiang would just answer lazily, “There’s a blade sitting on top of ‘patience’ too, you know — a knife’s a knife either way. I’d rather take my chances with ‘lust’ than suffer through ‘patience.'”
She had a point, in her way — for young people caught up in the tide of budding romance, who could really claim true restraint? Even Yao Qiyun, whose self-control was practically legendary, couldn’t hold out forever against the repeated pressure of “patience,” against that blade pressing down on his chest again and again.
Ever since returning from the summer camp, the tension between Yao Qiyun and Situ Jie had only deepened, though both of them worked hard, wordlessly, to hide it in front of Situ Jiu’an and his wife. One evening at dinner, Situ Jiu’an casually asked, “So, what exactly did you two get up to at that summer camp?”
Situ Jie and Yao Qiyun answered in perfect unison: “Nothing.”
The moment the words left their mouths, both of them remembered exactly what special significance that particular phrase now held between them, and it took real effort, heads bowed over their rice, not to let their reddened faces and racing hearts show. Situ Jie, in particular, threw all caution to the wind, keeping her face perfectly composed while, under the table, she carried on a secret little campaign of her own, occasionally tapping her toes against Yao Qiyun, who sat across from her. When she tapped lightly, his face reddened; when she tapped harder, his eyes flashed with a clear warning, though he didn’t dare make a sound about it.
His restraint was like a drop of glue on Situ Jie’s hand — she couldn’t help wanting to peel it right off, just to see what would happen. The worst moment came when Yao Qiyun quietly pulled his foot back, and Situ Jie, unaware, ended up hooking her foot against Situ Jiu’an’s instead, who was seated beside her. Situ Jiu’an immediately demanded to know what on earth she was doing, unable even to sit still through a meal. Situ Jie had no choice but to claim her legs were sore and she needed to stretch them. Situ Jiu’an eyed her suspiciously, leaving Yao Qiyun’s heart practically suspended in midair — thankfully, he didn’t press further, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Most fortunate of all was that Xue Shaoping had already finished eating and left the table by then — had she still been there with her famously sharp eye for detail, there was no way she’d have missed what was going on.
The whole incident left both Yao Qiyun and Situ Jie thoroughly rattled. They both understood that carrying on something secretly under the roof of parents who hadn’t given any clear approval was a genuine risk — if it were ever discovered, the consequences would be hard to predict, especially for Yao Qiyun, whose position in the household was already delicate enough. From then on, they both made a conscious effort to rein things in whenever the adults were around.
Back in high school, at Xue Shaoping’s own instruction, Yao Qiyun had shadowed Situ Jie everywhere, practically inseparable — but now that they were in college, they’d started deliberately keeping their distance. Even when they both came home late on the same night, they made sure to arrange it so one of them arrived first and the other followed some time later, and Situ Jie no longer lingered as openly in Yao Qiyun’s room the way she once had. At first they’d worried Xue Shaoping might grow suspicious of the change, but as it turned out, she said nothing about it at all — if anything, she seemed quietly pleased to see the two of them growing naturally more distant and careful with each other as they got older. But this only made Yao Qiyun realize something else — that as they’d grown older, even though he showed no outward sign of any improper feelings toward Situ Jie, Aunt Xue no longer wanted them growing too close either. Her wariness toward him had always been there; she’d never once entertained the idea of him becoming the Situ family’s son-in-law. This wasn’t news to Yao Qiyun — he’d expected as much all along — but the clearer his understanding of it became, the more hopeless it left him feeling.
For Yao Qiyun, living carefully had long since become second nature; precisely because every step forward cost him so much, he had to protect himself all the more. In his world, anything destined to remain forever out of reach was something he should let go of from the start — should never even begin, never even allow himself to hope for. And yet how was he supposed to refuse Situ Jie? She was his opium, a poison sunk into his very bones, a craving and a tenderness woven all the way into his marrow.
He couldn’t retreat — every step back only made him lunge two steps forward instead.
He couldn’t quit her — the more he tried to restrain himself, the more maddeningly he wanted her.
He and Situ Jie found themselves, more than once afterward, caught up in moments of closeness just like that night in the tent. Once, the two of them had gotten into an argument trying to verify the exact details of that camping night, and, unable to settle it any other way, ended up simply reenacting the scene. Another time, Situ Jie had come downstairs at midnight for a glass of water, and the two of them found themselves pressed close together in the darkened kitchen. And once more, tucked away in a corner of the school library, they’d been in the middle of a fierce argument over some trivial matter, and he’d silenced her sharp tongue in the simplest way he knew how…
Situ Jie simply couldn’t understand it — why did his happiest moments always seem shadowed by such obvious pain? Why, even when she could sense him drawing closer, reaching out toward him, would he hesitate every time?
She didn’t know that, like every addict, what tormented him most wasn’t the falling — it was the contradiction: guilt when he had her, and an equally guilty longing when he didn’t.