“So why do I have to perform with you too?”

“You’re the one who sprayed water.”

They were talking under the covered court beside the teaching building, a patch of shade during lunch break.

March in Qinghai City should have been mild—spring warming the streets, flowers nodding, a breeze like silk on skin. But last week, the thermometer spiked like it swallowed firecrackers. Even the experts called it rare.

The heat jumped a rung, skipping three whole months. It dodged the sweetest weather and landed straight in June’s swelter.

Good thing the ping‑pong tables sat under a broad awning near the main field. That roof was a harbor of shade for the three.

Still, the air was sticky and dull. Even under the canopy, the shadow felt heavy. Bodies sagged; eyelids sank.

“So hot.”

Zhaomingming perched on a ping‑pong table, head tilted back, face wilted like a tired blossom.

“If you’re hot, take off your jacket! I’m sweating just looking at you!” Yexiaobai griped.

“No way. I’m afraid of the cold.”

Her words chased each other in circles. This girl was Zhaomingming.

She was small—barely to Yexiaobai’s chest—and liked a short ponytail. Two habits set her apart: she wore a jacket all year, no matter the heat; and sometimes, she simply vanished.

That “vanishing” wasn’t a label Ye Weibai stuck on her. She’d said it herself when their first year began.

“My name is Zhaomingming. I’m a plain girl with no standout traits, the kind of person whose disappearance won’t cause a fuss.”

The homeroom teacher’s face went odd. The class went blank. And later, life proved her claim: she did vanish a few times, neat as a swallow swallowed by cloud. Everyone only realized after she returned, then noticed a classmate had gone missing for a while, as if the gods had tucked her away.

Yet for all that, Zhaomingming wasn’t shy or mute.

She had presence in class—steady, then suddenly fractured, like this week’s weather.

Zhaomingming shared a desk with Ye Weibai.

“So why do I have to perform with you too?”

Fanning herself with an English textbook, Zhaomingming touched her slightly wavy ponytail. She only wanted a nap.

“You’re the one who sprayed water in class,” Yexiaobai said, lifting his still‑damp book, temper flaring like a match.

Zhaomingming tilted her always‑sleepy eyes. “Ah, blame your childhood sweetheart. I was drinking when she started talking about the teacher’s underwear.”

By “childhood sweetheart,” she meant Mu Xiaowei.

“She’s not my childhood sweetheart.”

Mu Xiaowei sat on the ping‑pong table, rolling her sleeves up. Her arms flashed paler than the white uniform. She raised a finger and countered point by point. “We live a block apart. It’s fifteen minutes on foot. We don’t walk to school together. We just happened to share the same school and class from kindergarten to high school. That’s all.”

“Sure, sure.” Zhaomingming nodded, perfunctory as a fly’s flick. Mu Xiaowei puffed her cheeks, her protest swelling like steamed buns.

The heat made Yexiaobai quiet. He’d seen this play out countless times.

After the class learned of their “twisted fate,” they teased them as childhood sweethearts. At first, Yexiaobai would blush and explain. Later, he stopped caring.

Mu Xiaowei, bold as usual, became oddly serious about that label. From first year to third year, she corrected every joke, like she couldn’t stand being tied to Yexiaobai that way.

Now, Zhaomingming’s disbelief made Mu Xiaowei bare her little canine tooth. She pounced. At about one‑sixty tall, Mu Xiaowei pinned the even smaller Zhaomingming. Zhaomingming’s back hit the table; the two girls tangled like cats in sunlit dust.

“Stop!” Yexiaobai glanced at the clock tower. Time bit at the edge of noon. He raised a hand to halt their play. “Back to business. We’ve got class this afternoon. I want a nap.”

“Tsk.” Mu Xiaowei slid off the breathless Zhaomingming, fingers reluctant, like waves letting go of shore. She muttered, “Silly Xiaobai. You just missed the good part.”

“Huh?” Yexiaobai blinked.

“I was this close to getting Mingming’s T‑shirt off.” Mu Xiaowei grinned, smug as a cat that found cream.

Yexiaobai’s gaze snapped to Zhaomingming, still lying on the table. She wasn’t good at sports; that scuffle had stolen her breath. Damp strands clung to her cheeks. Her face flushed rose. She smoothed her black‑and‑white jacket, undone in the tussle.

As he looked, she tugged her lifted T‑shirt down. For a heartbeat, he saw the pale line of her waist—skin cool as porcelain, a bead of sweat rolling like dew.

“S‑so! Business first!” Zhaomingming shot him a look. Yexiaobai yanked his eyes away. “Let’s talk about our play. It’s for the school anniversary!”

“What should I play?” Mu Xiaowei snatched his book. Pages flicked like wings. She finally looked up. “Xiaobai, what page is the text?”

“Page 126 to 130.” He answered without glancing, the number rising smooth as breath.

Zhaomingming cut him a surprised look—at Ye Weibai—then said nothing.

“Mm.” Mu Xiaowei didn’t notice. She read. “Wow, lots of roles. Han Meimei, Li Lei, their parents, neighbors, and the neighbor’s dog. Oh? A big white Samoyed! Haha, perfect for you, Xiaobai! You can play the dog, and I’ll be your owner!”

Yexiaobai was used to her storms. He didn’t flare up. He rolled his eyes. “You should play the dog food.”

“Give me a role with few lines. One where I can nap,” Zhaomingming yawned.

“It’s not Snow White.” Yexiaobai shot back.

“Ugh. You two are hopeless.” He pressed his temples. Frustration drummed behind his eyes. “We’re performing on the anniversary. The whole junior and senior sections will watch. Tourists too, maybe. Qingya Secondary is like that every year.

I don’t know what Teacher Xu is thinking. We’re exam candidates. But every third‑year has someone on stage, and we got picked. Bad luck. Still… it won’t eat our strength. Call it a break. Things have been tight. Those dreams… dreams…”

He snapped the book shut. The sound cracked the heat.

“More urgent than picking roles,” he said, “is finding more people.”

“Huh?” Mu Xiaowei squinted at him.

“We need classmates to join,” Yexiaobai explained. “Reason one: some scenes have more roles than the three of us. Reason two: there’s a review before the anniversary, so the schedule’s tight. Reason three: we’re prepping for exams; we can’t pour all our energy into this. If it’s just us, the pressure’s too high. So we have to recruit.

Ideally, we fill every role. If not, we cover the scenes with the largest headcount. If it still doesn’t work, we cut useless roles.”

“Huh?” The short‑haired girl tilted her head, curiosity blooming like a sprout.

“Hah—huh my foot!” Yexiaobai snapped. “You get it now?”

“I… kind of get it.” Surprise lit Mu Xiaowei’s wet eyes. She stared at him, like she was seeing a stranger. “So you have this side, huh? Clear, organized, saying a whole string of things. That’s not the dumb Xiaobai I know.”

Yexiaobai froze. The feeling hit like a cold draft: he’d just acted unlike himself.

If not himself… then who?

Fog stirred in his mind. A black‑haired, black‑eyed boy flashed there, smiling faint as moonlight on water.

Was that him? Or—

The thought broke under a small, soft hand.

Mu Xiaowei leaned close and touched his forehead. Her smile curved like a willow leaf. “Did you get heatstroke?”

…

…