[Those warm and brilliant feelings don’t so easily turn into abandoned scraps.]

Yan Lin’s college entrance exam was an overwhelming success, probably the only good news in over a year.

He became the top science student in City A and ranked seventh in the entire province. When the admissions officers from Tsinghua and Peking University came to recruit students, they joked with the teachers at No. 1 High School about how their school’s top students always seemed to repeat their senior year. The teachers laughed along, but privately, they were heartbroken for these children.

Yan Lin’s username had always been “QingBeiQiangWo” (Tsinghua and Peking Fight Over Me). This time, his dream finally came true. Both universities fiercely competed for him. The Tsinghua admissions team discovered that he had earned a 60-point reduction in their university’s admission criteria the previous year. They immediately seized on this fact to build rapport, claiming that his connection with Tsinghua was predestined and urging him to sign the agreement quickly.

In the end, Yan Lin chose Peking University’s Law School.

Milan didn’t expect Yan Lin to make this choice and thought her offhand comment from before had influenced him. She lamented that she had missed the cutoff score for Renmin University’s law program by just a few points in 2014; otherwise, she could have studied the same major as Yan Lin.

The real reason Yan Lin chose law was deeply painful: His family had already been shattered by illegal harm. When he tried to fight back, he realized he had nothing—no connections, no backing. If he wanted those who committed crimes to face justice, the law was his only weapon.

It was his tool for self-preservation.

They were finally no longer living apart.

Peking University and Renmin University were very close—just four bus stops and twenty minutes from Renmin’s east gate to Peking’s east gate. Milan felt that their relationship had finally overcome its crisis, and everything would gradually improve.

Unexpectedly, even under these circumstances, they still couldn’t meet often.

Yan Lin remained extremely busy, spinning like a top from morning till night. Like Milan in the previous school year, he maintained the habit of returning to City A once a week to care for his father, who had lost a leg. He also took on private tutoring jobs, going out to teach whenever he had free time to earn money. After finishing tutoring sessions for children, he returned to school to complete his own homework. Like a senior high school student, he worked tirelessly, memorizing legal articles until the early hours of the morning.

He had no time to see her, let alone spend time dating. Milan had no choice but to wait for him under his dormitory building or directly at Peking University’s gate. In summer, her legs were covered with mosquito bites; in winter, she waited until her hands and feet went numb and her teeth chattered. Eventually, almost everyone at Peking University knew about her—a Renmin girl who came every day to look for a law student, enduring all weather conditions without complaint, like a paragon of devotion.

Milan indeed had a big heart and wasn’t like other girls, but did that mean she didn’t feel wronged or hurt?

She felt pressure when passing Peking students looked at her with teasing eyes. On special days like Valentine’s Day or May 20th, she hoped someone would accompany her. When she was alone, she wished to receive an active message from her boyfriend.

She wasn’t asking for much… just to be cared for like any ordinary girl.

Over time, even small issues accumulated into significant conflicts. They eventually started arguing, though it could hardly be called an argument since Yan Lin didn’t even have time to argue with Milan. At most, she spoke while he listened, ending with just one sentence:

“Milan, let’s break up.”

Yan Lin was an extremely clear-headed person.

He knew Milan’s personality and what she wanted. He also knew he couldn’t meet her hopes. He had no money, no time, and now not even the energy to be with her. Their interactions were limited to brief meetings at Peking University’s east gate or hurried meals together in the cafeteria lasting less than ten minutes. Could this really be called a relationship?

He couldn’t make her happy… because he himself was so unhappy.

Milan had heard this proposal many times before. Initially, she reacted strongly, crying and making a fuss to force him to retract his decision. Later, after hearing it repeatedly, she became somewhat numb. Although she still asked him to take it back, she no longer cried.

Until the final time… she finally agreed with his proposal as he wished.

Everyone gets tired, everyone feels wronged. Her inability to continue wasn’t because she no longer liked him or lacked determination and courage. It was simply that she gradually began to realize… perhaps, he had never liked her.

Everything between them was her relentless pursuit. She had to steal someone else’s QQ account to contact him, had to wait outside Class One’s classroom to see him, had to threaten to kiss him in front of Old Pan to get a promise from him, and had to follow him eagerly to an internet café for what was called a “date.”

All forced efforts.

But had he ever said he liked her?

Never.

He didn’t like her at all… He was just tired of being bothered and reluctantly agreed to be with her. Without emotional support, how could a relationship last? Because he didn’t like her, he refused to accept her efforts and had no intention of giving anything in return.

He hadn’t done anything wrong—it was simply that… he didn’t like her.

Realizing this wasn’t easy. Milan had persisted from her freshman year all the way to her senior year, and finally, during graduation season, she came to terms with this truth. When her beloved boy said “let’s break up” once again, she turned around and walked away, ending that one-sided joy and one-sided sorrow of her first love that had gone nowhere.

After that, Milan and Yan Lin rarely saw each other.

They weren’t in the same university, their professional circles were different, and after graduation, she went straight into work while he continued his graduate studies. For some reason, the television industry and the legal system seemed worlds apart. They never had the chance to meet again, not even by chance. Perhaps they truly had no fate.

But Zhou Leqi insisted on being the matchmaker who forced a connection.

She would always try to arrange meetings between Yan Lin and Milan.

This didn’t happen often—only once or twice a year. It was either her birthday or some other excuse to gather everyone together. Back when Ge Ao was still in Beijing, these gatherings could pass as small reunions. Now that Ge Ao had moved to Shenzhen, their meetings felt awkward and out of place.

Take tonight, for example.

“To be honest, can you stop inviting Yan Lin next time?” Milan sighed, holding her cup of warm milk, her long hair falling over her shoulders. “Look at how uncomfortable he is—he hasn’t said a word all night.”

That was true. Despite the lively atmosphere tonight, Yan Lin hadn’t spoken much after explaining his tardiness upon arrival. He remained silent, clearly out of sync with the joyful mood.

Zhou Leqi smiled faintly, turning to look at Milan. “Is he uncomfortable? Or are you uncomfortable?”

Milan froze for a moment, pursing her lips, momentarily at a loss for words. After a brief pause, she sighed again, tilting her head toward Zhou Leqi with a hint of sadness in her expression. “Well… I guess we’re both uncomfortable.”

She was definitely more uncomfortable than him because she had truly loved him, whereas he hadn’t.

Zhou Leqi fell silent.

Milan shrugged, trying to shake off the wave of sadness that had resurfaced. Her gaze lingered on Zhou Leqi, and after a moment, she added, “Actually, I know why you keep trying to bring us together… Sigh, I thought the provincial top scorer would be smarter, but turns out he’s just as foolish.”

Milan didn’t spell it out, but they both knew what she meant.

—Zhou Leqi’s insistence on matchmaking Milan and Yan Lin stemmed from a subtle, complex psychology.

Seven years had passed, yet she still hadn’t moved on from her past relationship, even though the person she still thought about remained untraceable.

She probably already understood that there would be no future between them, but an inexplicable stubbornness deep within her heart kept her fixated. This fixation left her stuck in high school, refusing to make any changes.

Take tonight’s gathering, for instance.

Why had she invited Milan and Yan Lin? In high school, she hadn’t been particularly close to either of them, nor to Ge Ao. She certainly didn’t have the kind of bond that warranted frequent meetups after graduation. Yet, she actively maintained relationships with them while avoiding making new friends in college. Why?

Perhaps… because subconsciously, she was still living in high school.

Refusing to change, refusing to distance herself from the past, refusing to embrace the future—it was as if doing so could let her pretend she had never lost that person.

Now, she wanted to mend Milan and Yan Lin’s relationship. Why?

Because she didn’t want things to change. She hoped everything could remain as it was when that person was still around. More importantly, she wanted to prove something: First loves could have a happy ending.

Those warm and brilliant feelings wouldn’t so easily turn into abandoned scraps.

Milan hadn’t understood Zhou Leqi’s thoughts before. Back then, she wondered why Zhou Leqi would want to be her close friend—they were very different in personality and worldview, and they hadn’t been particularly close in the past. But after her breakup with Yan Lin, she suddenly realized: That nostalgia for the past could drive someone to make many changes, even compromises.

At this moment, Milan’s words struck a chord with Zhou Leqi, leaving her visibly melancholic. Milan noticed the sadness in her expression, and her own heart tightened. After a brief silence, she tried to change the subject and lighten the mood. Summoning a smile, she teased, “So, how are things going with you and Senior Pei? Still no progress?”

Just as Milan asked this question, Pei Qiming happened to emerge from the kitchen, heading to the dining table to collect the unwashed dishes. The usually impeccably dressed man had rolled up his sleeves to do chores, exuding a unique charm. As he turned to head back to the kitchen, Yu Qing came out, reaching to take the dirty dishes from him. Smiling, he gently avoided her, seemingly encouraging her to rest. Because of the glass door between the balcony and the interior room, their conversation couldn’t be heard clearly.

The warm lighting in the dining room evoked a sense of tenderness, even prompting fleeting thoughts of family. Even Milan, an outsider, couldn’t help but feel comforted and at ease. However, when she turned to look at Zhou Leqi, she noticed her distant expression, as if lost in thought about distant people and events.