CS - 43

Lin Zhe Xia snapped back to attention. “Oh.”

Chi Yao lowered his hand and added, “Hold onto me.”

The aisles were crowded with people.

Lin Zhe Xia knew his words likely didn’t carry any hidden meaning—he was probably just worried she’d get swept away by the flow of the crowd again.

She reluctantly grabbed onto Chi Yao’s sleeve. “I’m not incapable of walking on my own.”

Chi Yao walked ahead, leading her. “So you can walk? I thought you were sleepwalking.”

“…”

All around them, couples held hands as they entered the theater. She and Chi Yao were squeezed in the middle.

Once inside the screening hall, the lights dimmed, leaving only the glow of the large screen at the front.

Lin Zhe Xia lowered her head and glanced at her hand gripping Chi Yao’s sleeve in the faint light.

Chi Yao had always dressed without much consideration for warmth, and today’s jacket wasn’t particularly thick either. As a result, she could faintly feel the warmth of his body and even sense the outline of his bones through the fabric.

She nervously moved her fingers.

Though she and Chi Yao weren’t holding hands like the others, this... rounding up, could it count as holding hands?

Lin Zhe Xia clung to Chi Yao’s sleeve as they made their way up the side steps, eventually finding their seats among the three reserved for them.

He Yang stretched his arms and said, “Since they’re playing ads now, I’ll quickly edit the photo.”

“I’m not in a rush,” He Yang explained. “I just want to get this over with as soon as possible. The longer I think about that picture, the more goosebumps I get.”

Lin Zhe Xia paid no mind to what He Yang was saying.

She sat beside Chi Yao, feeling awkward.

“You—” One of her hands was still buried in the popcorn bucket, trying to ease her nerves through conversation. “Do you want some popcorn?”

She assumed Chi Yao would decline.

But to her surprise, he leaned back slightly, turned his head casually, and reached out his hand.

Her hand, still buried in the bucket, hadn’t had time to pull out yet, so their hands briefly touched for a fleeting second inside the popcorn container.

Her fingertips brushed against the back of his hand.

When Chi Yao’s hand entered the bucket, hers lightly grazed his.

Lin Zhe Xia hastily pulled her hand out, the air suddenly heavy with the sweet scent of popcorn.

She coughed lightly and asked, “Was it too crunchy?”

“It’s alright.”

Chi Yao rested his elbow on the armrest, his hand supporting his chin as he chewed on the popcorn. After a moment, just before the movie’s opening theme began, he suddenly remarked, “It’s pretty sweet.”

Thankfully, the lighting in the theater was dim.

Otherwise, she feared her unusual reaction might have been exposed.

The movie officially began, and Lin Zhe Xia, her face flushed, grabbed a handful of popcorn for herself.

Today’s popcorn…

Seemed sweeter than usual.

The tickets were bought by He Yang, and she had no idea what the movie was about. She hadn’t asked beforehand, nor did she care to.

After arriving at the cinema and seeing the Valentine’s Day poster, she guessed it was likely a romantic film themed for the holiday.

Thinking about it now, she glanced down at the crumpled ticket clenched in her palm.

The title on the ticket read: I Really Want to Be With You.

Before the movie’s soundtrack grew louder, He Yang put away his phone and sighed. “Finally finished editing. You know, my Yao-ge’s hand is surprisingly easy to Photoshop. Just a little tweak, and it looks slimmer—but after editing, his fingers look excessively long.”

“But it’s fine. No big deal.”

He nudged Chi Yao with his elbow. “Thanks.”

Chi Yao ignored him.

The movie lasted over an hour. At first, because Chi Yao was sitting beside her, Lin Zhe Xia found it hard to focus.

The images on the big screen felt like rapidly flickering silent film reels.

Though the scenes played one after another, and she stared intently, her mind was blank—nothing registered.

After a while, she gradually began to follow the story.

It was a Valentine’s Day teen drama about a pair of desk-mates who secretly harbored feelings for each other during their school days. The ending wasn’t happy—it was likely crafted to heighten the drama—as the girl inevitably got diagnosed with cancer, and the two ended up missing each other in the end.

In their youth, they had made a naive promise—to meet again ten years later.

At the film’s conclusion, a decade later, the boy returned to the classroom but found no trace of the girl. Instead, he discovered a letter she had left behind: Let me tell you a secret—I really like you. If there’s a parallel universe, I wish we could be together.

Lin Zhe Xia had a low tolerance for emotional scenes, and halfway through the movie, she began to tear up.

At first, she tried to hide it, discreetly sniffing.

She hadn’t sniffed more than a few times when the person beside her handed her a tissue. Chi Yao wasn’t watching the movie; instead, he rested his chin in his hand, observing her. As he passed her the tissue, he remarked, “Why are you crying again?”

“Don’t call me a coward,” he added. “Call me a crybaby instead.”

Lin Zhe Xia accepted the tissue, wiping her tears and nose. Her voice quivered. “I’m not a coward.”

“And definitely not a crybaby.”

“This movie is touching,” Lin Zhe Xia said. “I just have strong empathy skills, unlike certain cold-hearted individuals.”

Chi Yao leaned back in his seat, cracking his knuckles casually. “Cancer plots were already outdated a decade ago…”

Lin Zhe Xia shot him a glare.

Chi Yao coolly amended, “Alright, it’s touching.”

Lin Zhe Xia didn’t care what he said. “You’re still heartless.”

“I’m heartless,” Chi Yao sneered. “But the fact that I’ve managed to sit through this far is already a sign of respect for the movie.”

With that, he shifted slightly, giving her more space to see the screen. “Look at the even colder-blooded one over here.”

Through the gap Chi Yao created, Lin Zhe Xia saw He Yang slumped awkwardly, fast asleep.

“…”

“He must’ve had a tough time,” Lin Zhe Xia wiped her nose again. “Coming to the cinema just to nap for a social media post.”

Perhaps half-asleep, He Yang suddenly woke up when he heard someone talking about him. He sat upright and asked, “Who called me? Is this boring movie finally over?”

Lin Zhe Xia: “… …”

The movie was indeed nearing its end.

Though the tone of the film was tragic, it still highlighted the Valentine’s Day theme.

At the very end, the screen suddenly went dark, and then a line of text appeared:

May all unspoken confessions of love bloom and bear fruit. Even without parallel worlds, we will still be together.

Although Lin Zhe Xia had cried earlier over the plot, what truly moved her throughout the entire movie was this final message.

All.

Unspoken confessions of love.

She stared at the words, frozen in place, forgetting to stand up as the credits rolled.

He Yang, growing impatient, urged her. “Xia-ge, what are you spacing out for? Let’s go!”

He Yang glanced around, realizing he was the only one standing. “And you, Yao-yao, why aren’t you moving either!”

Following He Yang’s comment, Lin Zhe Xia looked at the person beside her. Maybe it was her imagination, but Chi Yao seemed to be staring at the same line of text.

The boy leaned back in his seat, his pale irises deepened by the glow of the screen. Then he lowered his eyes, concealing the murky emotions within. When he raised his gaze again, the previous expression was gone, as if it had never existed. He stood up, hands stuffed into his pockets, resuming his usual demeanor. “Let’s go.”

The three of them walked back to the lobby.

Lin Zhe Xia suddenly said, “Wait, I want to take a picture too.”

After she spoke, both of the others turned to look at her.

“I mean, let’s take a group photo—the three of us. For memories.”

“After all,” she said slowly, “… it’s unlikely we’ll ever experience something this unforgettable again. I couldn’t resist capturing your embarrassing moments today.”

When she mentioned taking a photo, neither of them objected.

Most of the time, these two were quite accommodating toward her.

“Hurry up and take it,” He Yang pulled out his ticket stub. “I almost threw it away just now when we left.”

Lin Zhe Xia glanced up at Chi Yao.

Chi Yao didn’t say anything but took out his ticket stub as well.

Lin Zhe Xia opened the camera app and quickly snapped the photo. “Done.”

Back home, she sat at her desk, reviewing the photo she had taken at the cinema.

Her reason for taking the picture was simple: opportunities like today, where things happened by chance, might never come again.

But she couldn’t take photos like He Yang, so she settled for a group shot.

This photo could’ve easily been posted on social media.

Yet after staring at it for a while, she carefully posted it as a private story visible only to herself.

In the photo, Chi Yao’s distinct knuckles were close to her hand.

Their ticket stubs were pressed tightly together.

He Yang, eager to leave the melancholic scene, stood farther away, creating some distance between himself and the other two.

Even though no one would see this private story, Lin Zhe Xia still agonized over the caption, writing and deleting repeatedly. In the end, she left only today’s date.

2/14.

[/Picture]

He Yang hadn’t gone home; instead, he followed Chi Yao to his place.

Now sprawled on Chi Yao’s couch, he scrolled through his social media feed and began drafting his own post.

“What do you think I should write for the caption?”

He Yang stroked his chin. “‘Not alone this 2/14,’ ‘Together with her,’ or ‘The movie wasn’t the highlight’?”

“…”

Chi Yao leaned against the kitchen doorway, holding two bottles of water.

He restrained himself from throwing the water directly at He Yang’s head. “Get out of my house. Now.”

He Yang accepted the water. “Don’t be like that. I don’t want to go home and listen to my mom nag.”

“I think the last option works best,” He Yang continued editing his caption. “It has a mysterious vibe and leaves something unsaid, which adds intrigue.”

He quickly finished editing, selected the visibility settings [Classmates], and posted the deceptive status update.

After completing this monumental task, he let out a sigh of relief and collapsed onto the couch. “Today was exhausting.”

He Yang voiced a soul-searching question. “How can a Valentine’s Day movie be so boring? I even deliberately picked one that seemed watchable. There were a few others when I was choosing, but I couldn’t even finish watching their trailers.”

He Yang added, “But now that I think about it, I fell asleep halfway through this one, and I barely understood the parts I did see.”

Chi Yao: “Are you illiterate?”

He Yang: “… No, it’s just that the romance in this movie is really hard to grasp.”

He Yang sat up, ready to dive deeper into the topic. “Why didn’t they confess their feelings to each other? Why didn’t they say it? If just one of them had spoken up, this whole thing could’ve been resolved ages ago. Why wait ten years? It’s weird. I don’t get it.”

Adolescence.

People inevitably begin to quietly explore the concept of “like.”

Though He Yang spent his days pretending to be cool, it was mostly vanity at play—he just wanted to appear grown-up.

But he’d never seriously dated anyone, spending most of his time gaming without even having a crush.

He Yang was utterly baffled.

But he didn’t expect Chi Yao to respond—after all, someone like Chi Yao probably had even less patience for romantic films than he did.

He likely hadn’t paid much attention.

Probably glanced at it briefly before looking down at his phone.

Only someone like Lin Zhe Xia, that fool, would cry her eyes out over such a movie…

Lost in thought, He Yang suddenly heard the person leaning against the kitchen doorway murmur in a low, almost self-reflective voice, “… Because it’s too important.”

Because this person held such a special, irreplaceable place in his life.

More important than “like,” more significant than love.

That’s why he treaded so carefully.

That’s why he couldn’t speak up, couldn’t let it slip.

“What?” He Yang hadn’t caught it clearly.

After returning home, Chi Yao had taken off his coat. As he spoke, his Adam’s apple moved with difficulty. His hand hung loosely, fingers curled tightly around the water bottle, the joints straining white.

But when He Yang sat up from the couch to look at him, Chi Yao loosened his grip and flexed his fingers, as if the earlier tension had been nothing but an illusion.

“I said,” Chi Yao twisted open the water bottle and gestured toward the door, “when are you leaving?”

He Yang hadn’t heard everything clearly, but he hadn’t missed every word. “No, you definitely said something about ‘because.’ What came after ‘because’?”

Chi Yao physically pushed him toward the door. “I didn’t say anything. Your hearing’s messed up.”

He Yang stumbled toward the exit. “I definitely heard it… I definitely…”

The response was Chi Yao slamming the door shut mercilessly.

“…”

He Yang stood outside the door, scratching his head, confused. “Did I really mishear it?”

“Whatever,” he shook it off, heading home. “… It was just a boring movie anyway.”