Chapter 38.2 - To Shakespeare (2)
Sheng Huainan was caught off guard. “Why would I…” He stopped mid-sentence, paused, then asked, “Why are you asking that?”
“Yes or no?”
“Well, the future is too uncertain. No one can say for sure.” He avoided her gaze.
“I asked if you want to marry me—not whether you can. The future is uncertain for everyone. But what matters is whether you have that intent. What you’re really saying is: Since you like me, let’s try dating first, and then we’ll see if I’ll ‘make it official’ later.”
Her overly cheerful tone seemed to irritate him. Sheng Huainan frowned and waved dismissively, “Okay, I don’t want to marry you. Happy now?”
Luo Zhi actually laughed. Since he’d known her, Sheng Huainan had never seen her laugh like that—so bold, so unrestrained.
“Sheng Huainan, you know what? Shakespeare once said: All love not aimed at marriage is just playing around.”
Then she stretched lazily and added, “So please, get lost. Stay away from me.”
Luo Zhi turned and walked away, trying to appear cool and carefree.
When the door opened, Belle was startled and sat up. The soft hallway light cast across her tear-streaked face—just as it lit up Luo Zhi’s face, also streaked with tears.
Belle’s mouth fell open in surprise. Luo Zhi rarely came back late—let alone crying. But she said nothing. She lay back down and tried to fall asleep again. The rustling beside her slowly faded into background noise.
Luo Zhi, at last, fell seriously ill at just the right time.
Memories always hit the hardest in the dead of night. That night, she caught a slight cold and fever from the chill. At the same time, her insomnia worsened. Her daily schedule became fragmented. She’d nap for two hours at noon, fall asleep at 8 p.m., wake naturally around 1 a.m., then spend the rest of the night studying, reading, listening to CDs. She still attended classes during the day.
Belle tried to persuade her to stop pushing herself so hard. Luo Zhi only smiled and said, “I sleep during the day. Who do you know that never sleeps at night? I do sleep, really.”
“But you still go to class like normal during the day—when do you actually rest?”
“I sleep whenever I have free time. If I’m tired, I sleep. If I’m not, I don’t.”
“Luo Zhi… are you unhappy?”
“Yes. I’m extremely unhappy.” Her answer was blunt, but her face was so expressionless that Belle didn’t dare ask anything more.
She didn’t last long before falling sick—feverish and weak, her whole body aching, her voice too hoarse to speak. No matter how she lay—on her side, back, or stomach—she struggled to breathe.
She often dreamed of high school. And every time she woke up, her pillow was soaked with tears.
It turned out people could cry in their sleep—so much that even sunlight couldn’t dry the pillow.
Originally—yes, originally—she thought that someday, when she looked back, that time could become a beautiful story. Lost in a sea of Huanggang test papers, prep booklets, and exam drills, there were scattered memories that, if carefully pieced together, could form a portrait: a pale girl with a ponytail, harboring a silent, repressed crush—half born of inferiority, half from pride. Always following behind that boy, walking through sun-drenched corridors in the morning light.
She could have had a youth that was bittersweet and whole.
Even if her story wasn’t beautiful or pure, at least it honored her pride. It might not have been joyful, but it was a sincere, pure kind of love—something she could hold onto in the depths of the night, warming herself with the strength of her imagination and memory.
But now, that once stubborn and harmless crush had been turned into a ridiculous sequel, like a greedy director forcing a second-rate continuation. She couldn’t bear to think about what had happened over those short three months. There had been no reason, no ending—just a trampled mess. Every time she thought of it, pain swelled in her chest.
Real pain.
And yet… she finally confessed.
Not the breathless, red-faced girl running up six flights of stairs to confess at the classroom door.
Just a girl standing in the cold wind, facing a pair of impatient eyes, quietly and tragically admitting: Yes. I do like you.
It wasn’t a confession. It was a surrender.
Late at night, coughing until she nearly choked, she dragged herself out of bed to drink water. It was then that she realized—Lin Daiyu had been helpless too. She should never have mocked her.
