He hadn’t originally planned to get involved in any of this.
Qian Lang and Huo Xia Tong had parted ways amicably—it wasn’t some pure misunderstanding straight out of a melodramatic soap opera. No outsider had the right to meddle in their emotional history, and Wen Jiang had no idea how Huo Xia Tong truly felt about Qian Lang now, if there were any lingering affections left.
Actions driven by love didn’t always lead to happiness. The birth and sustenance of a beautiful relationship depended on the mutual will of both parties. If only one side felt unwilling or pitied the other and charged ahead unilaterally, it was just a self-satisfying performance. That was a truth anyone should understand.
So when Qian Lang had sobbed and wailed on the ferry that night, looking like he was on the verge of death from heartbreak, and even afterward seemed clearly unable to escape the sea of love’s torment, neither he nor Huo Xia Tong had sent each other a single message. Wen Jiang hadn’t done anything either.
But on the day he met Lin Xun at Aili Bakery, Wen Jiang had glimpsed Huo Xia Tong through the window by chance.
It didn’t take him long to observe and analyze her situation, and he made his decision quickly. The reason? The scene he witnessed hadn’t strayed beyond what he’d imagined.
Sometimes, you didn’t need someone to spell out their feelings right then and there to understand their heart. With that in mind, Wen Jiang presented his first piece of evidence: Chocolate.
The snow-white dog she was walking back then hadn’t had its walks routed through this area before she started dating Qian Lang. And the person who usually took it for walks wasn’t Huo Xia Tong either—that was a habit they’d picked up only after getting together.
The route looped in a big circle, letting Chocolate enjoy itself while giving Qian Lang and Huo Xia Tong more legitimate time to stick together.
Huo Xia Tong frowned, arms crossed, but she didn’t seem angry or annoyed. She averted her gaze and defended herself stiffly: “I was just exercising.”
Can’t you take a longer route for exercise?
“You have a gym membership,” Wen Jiang said flatly.
Huo Xia Tong whipped her head around, staring at him in shock. “You even know that?”
Wen Jiang looked back at her innocently. “You two were obsessed with posting gym selfies together for a while.”
The boomerang of flaunting their romance struck without warning. Huo Xia Tong puffed out her cheeks slightly, and Wen Jiang followed up with his second piece of evidence: the dessert she’d bought that day.
Twin Fish Playing with Lotus, the couple’s cake from Summer Tea Dream, had been a massive hit last year. But Huo Xia Tong didn’t really like the flavor of Twin Fish Playing with Lotus.
It suited Qian Lang’s taste perfectly, so after trying it once, the couple would only order singles when passing the dessert shop—her one, his one. Her phone still held a video of Qian Lang scooping away more than half the “lotus leaf,” looking up at her in bewilderment while he ate.
Breaking up with your boyfriend, then walking the same fixed route you’d taken together every week, and buying a cake only he liked?
“It’s not that great, but it’s not bad either…” It wasn’t like she was torturing herself with allergy-inducing food. What was wrong with a little cake? Huo Xia Tong twisted a strand of hair hanging by her shoulder with her finger. She seemed to give up rebutting, mumbling listlessly: “My tastes have just changed.”
Wen Jiang silently stared at the final piece of evidence on her wrist.
The Red Rope Bracelet they’d handmade for each other—worthless in monetary terms but worn in the exact same way. It was like once you put it on one hand, nothing else could go there; all other rings and trinkets had to go on the other.
“Mine is—” Huo Xia Tong pressed her lips together, held back for a moment, then sighed. People’s excuses had their limits. She switched to offense, laying her cards on the table candidly: “Fine, whatever! That’s totally normal, right? We weren’t faking our relationship!”
They’d dated with genuine passion, no heartbreak from cheating, no moral issues, no cringey moments. It just ended. Didn’t everyone have a low period after a breakup like that? Can’t I have time to get over it? That’s just being harsh!
She huffed indignantly (though she couldn’t say exactly why) and turned her head to look at the street outside. Her eyes immediately caught the bookstore across the way—the one she’d visited with Qian Lang twice.
Oh god. Huo Xia Tong couldn’t stand herself and pulled her gaze away, only to lock eyes with Wen Jiang again. He blinked once, seizing the opportunity to add calmly: “Qian Lang wears his the same way.”
“……”
Is Wen Jiang Milk? For a moment, Huo Xia Tong thought of the cat she and Qian Lang had shared. She didn’t deny that his words instantly lifted her mood, only for a subtle, inexpressible ache to bloom alongside it—like a tender sprout pushing through soil, where even a light touch tugged at its roots.
Chocolate was the same way. Qian Lang had never been stingy with praise for the people and things he loved. He’d gush over Huo Xia Tong, over Wen Jiang, over the cats and dogs at home. Ever since Qian Lang left, Chocolate and Milk had grown listless.
They ate normally, drank normally, played with toys normally—but there were fixed stretches where their spirits flagged. Some nights when Huo Xia Tong got home, she’d glance at one, then the other, bag of not-bad-but-not-great cake in hand, and mutter in frustration that they weren’t living up to their potential: “Look at you two. Can’t you pull yourselves together?”
Meow. Milk responded listlessly.
Woof. Chocolate lay nearby and echoed the same.
“……” Wen Jiang blinked lightly in front of her, his expressionless ice-king poker face giving nothing away.
Huo Xia Tong somehow read emotions into that stoic facade—a skill she’d probably picked up from Qian Lang’s influence.
…Yeah, Qian Lang wouldn’t befriend someone with bad character. No one like that would do something like this. Her gaze fell on the black notebook, and she sighed inwardly.
Huo Xia Tong twirled her hair for a bit longer, then dropped a sugar cube into her coffee. For a long stretch, she and Wen Jiang sat in silence.
The clock hands ticked onward indifferently. Crowds ebbed and flowed on the street outside. Wind chimes tinkled twice briefly before falling quiet. The golden spoon swirled in the dark liquid, forming a tiny vortex in the cup’s center. Finally, Huo Xia Tong stared into its heart and announced: “I’m about to vent to you.”
“……Fine.” Wen Jiang obliged. “Go ahead.”
“I—” Huo Xia Tong opened her mouth, then shut it quickly. She hadn’t figured out how to phrase it. She sized up Wen Jiang, then frowned and asked: “Has he told you… about the issue with his Supernatural Ability?”
“……No.” Strictly speaking, the gripes Qian Lang had shared were just about instability and such. But in a flash of sudden inspiration, Wen Jiang met her eyes and ventured: “I guessed it. The problem—is him using his ability on himself to deceive himself?”
Using Absolute Trust on himself, convincing himself he was more ordinary, shunning deeper thought, abandoning his potential—and becoming “mediocre.”
“Yeah, exactly that.” Huo Xia Tong nodded, then added in a casual, offhand tone: “He never told me.”
Wen Jiang wasn’t surprised. He sipped his coffee and speculated: “He was probably too scared.”
After all, Qian Lang had decided to live out his life in his current “state.”
In the elementary school diary they’d swapped, the handwriting in the first half was impeccably neat, the content far beyond a child’s. Then, from a certain page, it abruptly turned childish—or rather, “age-appropriate.”
Xie Qi, Wen Tianlu, and the others probably knew why. Wen Tianlu had even said Qian Lang “was way smarter as a kid.” And Qian Lang still remembered self-washing his brain—a half-baked “performance” that Wen Jiang had sensed as off from their very first meeting on opening day.
How much of a genius had kid Qian Lang been? Neither Wen Jiang nor Huo Xia Tong knew. But one thing was clear: he hated those days. The pain outweighed the joy, leading him to slap his ability on himself so this less-sharp, more ordinary Qian Lang could “live” on.
A rare case of self-control, sustained for years, striking that bizarre balance of “I know I’m deceiving myself” and “Knowing won’t make me stop.” No wonder it was called Heaven’s Jealousy. Even a specialist in psychological hypnosis might not replicate Qian Lang’s self-brainwashing.
During ability adjustment processes, there was a chance it’d forcibly break his long-held self-suggestion—for minutes, hours, days. In that window, how Qian Lang felt and how he saw the world would flip upside down.
A vibrant, fascinating world and rich emotions might crumble to ash like dust, plunging him back into that tasteless, agonizing void. And afterward—could he and everyone else just pretend nothing happened?
…I don’t really care about that, Huo Xia Tong and Wen Jiang both thought quietly.
The odds of it happening weren’t high anyway.
“He knew I knew he was scared, so he wanted to break up with me.”
People with obsessions feared the moment of truth more the deeper it ran—fearing their own disappointment, and others’. Huo Xia Tong griped: “I get it, but I’m still mad.”
“And he doesn’t even hide it that well,” she added, spreading her hands frankly to vent at Wen Jiang. “His acting sucks sometimes.”
True. He handed over that super weird diary without a second thought. Wen Jiang agreed: “Yeah, it does.”
Or maybe he let it slip on purpose. Humans were endlessly contradictory. Part of them wanted loved ones to see only the current self; another part yearned for full understanding and acceptance.
The deep secret that had stunned and fascinated adjustment-center doctors got tossed out casually in this coffee chat between his friend and ex. Wen Jiang set down his cup, realizing Huo Xia Tong sharing all this meant she wasn’t “mad” anymore.
He nudged her: “So, you want to talk to him?”
If you do, you’ll have to see him.
“……I’m not done yet.” Huo Xia Tong squirmed. But after this silence, she dropped the ability topic. As Wen Jiang had implied, if she wanted deep talks about “are you still you?” or “trust and courage,” Qian Lang was the one.
She fell quiet again, recalling that day’s events, toying with the tender leaves of that inner sprout.
“We parted amicably, you know?” When she spoke again, Huo Xia Tong sounded calmer, more logical—even a bit cold: “I never pushed it because there was no need. We’d already decided to break up.”
“Too far apart, hard to meet, tough to keep going.” She stated bluntly: “Better a short pain than a long one. I don’t see the problem.”
Breaking now left only good memories. Even if it took six months, a year, two years to move on—or ten, twenty—people always looked forward. “Forever” and “till death do us part” were illusions young lovers in the honeymoon phase clung to; older folks just smiled and let it be.
Campus romances like theirs didn’t need dramatic destruction. Time and distance wore them down bit by bit until they faded quietly.
Qian Lang and Huo Xia Tong knew this. They’d been bubblegum-sweet idiots in love; their end was more rational than most.
“……I do want to see him, and I could. But not because—” Huo Xia Tong paused, eyeing Wen Jiang’s notebook. Thin as it was, it felt heavy in her mind. She looked up at him: “How can you be so sure we’d even work if we got back together?”
“……” Wen Jiang looked back at her calmly, sensing Huo Xia Tong’s scrutiny and her plea for answers. After a moment of silence, he told her the truth: “I’m not certain.”
Truth be told, it was entirely possible they’d face a second breakup soon. The excitement of reuniting after such a long distance might make their heads hot with emotion, leading them to decide to get back together—only for reality to set in quickly, revealing they weren’t quite right for each other. They’d burn through their feelings amid the petty squabbles of daily life, struggle on for a while, and then choose to part ways again.
Every couple swears solemnly before reaching that point, “We definitely won’t end up like that.” But who could say for sure what the future held?
Wen Jiang glanced at his notebook, understanding Huo Xia Tong’s concerns. He’d been secretly egging her on just moments ago, but now he took the initiative: “The tickets can all be fully refunded.”
He seemed to have thought this through already, speaking smoothly: “If you turn it down, I’ll just buy whatever I like with the money as usual—no waste. This plan we’ve made can become my future travel itinerary.”
“I can’t offer any guarantees. If things go wrong later, the one who suffers the loss definitely won’t be me.”
In the end, he was still just an outsider in this. The decision of whether to move forward with Qian Lang, and how, would cost the person who agreed the irreplaceable time, energy, and emotions—and that wouldn’t be him. So, naturally, “Don’t worry about me,” Wen Jiang said flatly. “Even if you refuse, you won’t owe anyone anything.”
He thought for a moment, then tried a joke: “You can think of it as a resume. Anyone who wants the job has to make their resume look good.”
By the same logic, the boss wouldn’t hire everyone just because they put effort into their resumes. That was only natural—no need to feel guilty.
And… Wen Jiang lowered his eyes, still telling the truth: “If you’re only going because I pushed you, then it wouldn’t mean anything.”
Huo Xia Tong pressed her lips together, thinking this was really “cheating.” Relationships were always like this—logic unresolved, no foolproof rules in place, yet somehow the words moved you, heated your blood, and kept you going forward.
“So you’re not certain of anything, and you think it might not last,” she asked one last time, mustering her final bit of resistance. “Then why insist on pushing us together?”
Wen Jiang answered honestly: “I just want to give it a try.”
Because they still liked each other, still missed each other—so why not try?
There were passionate romances in the world, and ones that fizzled out without result. There were endings where everyone gave their all, yet it still didn’t work out.
If he had to name it, Wen Jiang’s greatest confidence was actually in Qian Lang’s character. At least he knew coming to Huo Xia Tong wasn’t maliciously pushing her into a fire pit. But could he guarantee that Qian Lang and Huo Xia Tong would sail smoothly from here on, everything going their way, every wish fulfilled, forever wrapped in sweet happiness?
None of them was an expert on emotions, none had the power to foresee the future. Whatever they did could be wrong.
But precisely because no one knew the outcome, Wen Jiang said: “After all, whatever you do might be right.”
