What does a secret crush taste like? It’s a one-person play whispered behind the curtain, a private sweetness tucked like candy under the tongue.

Why take the stairs by Class One, morning and night, like a swallow homing by habit?

Why jog to the trash bin outside Class One, pretending the wind pushed you that way?

Why insist on the basketball court nearest Class One’s field during P.E., as if orbit pulled you there?

Because only by doing that could he drift a little closer, like a moth inching toward a paper lantern.

He staged each “accident,” crafting chance like paper cranes, so their two parallel tracks would nudge together for a heartbeat, a flicker of crossing eyes.

That single heartbeat was enough; joy burst like Pop Rocks, filling his chest with bright crackles.

So, secret love seems easy to satisfy, like sipping rain off leaves.

From another angle, its root is hunger and lack; love is a road aiming to meet, even if shyness and fear lay rice-paper over the path.

Yexiaobai was the same; he was willing to go on, pushing fate’s long lines a millimeter closer with each planned chance, like moving chess by moonlight.

He knew if it stayed like this, his crush would remain a crush, locked in a black box, to be pried open in a dusty cabinet years later.

He might never even know whose hand that girl finally held, like a letter never delivered.

But life’s fates are like drifting clouds; many hopes fade without rain, and secret crushes are as common as street sparrows.

Don’t underestimate that “little thing” called a crush; it’s hidden and murky, yet strong and changeable, like an underground spring.

Give it a rush of blood, a spark from a romance novel, or a chance that seems flawless to you—and the bud called “secret love” will bloom fast in a way no one can predict.

Yexiaobai believed he’d found that chance, a glint like a firefly under dusk leaves.

When Xu Yanfang said, “We can invite students from other classes to act in the play,” his mind filled with one girl’s silhouette, like a film run on a white wall.

That sentence was a tiny spark; it ignited his feelings sunk in deep water, and he stopped hearing whatever the teacher said next.

In his ears, a firework rose piercing the night, the hiss before it burst into flowers.

With just over a hundred days left till the gaokao, the big exam, the air felt tight as drum skin.

After three years of high school watching from afar, Yexiaobai made a bold decision, like stepping off a known shore.

…

At the sound of Yexiaobai’s voice, Mu Xiaowei closed her lips, like a bird folding its wings.

She wasn’t angry anymore; after hearing from Zhaomingming, her small blame had thinned like mist under sun.

Yet embarrassment still pricked her heart, and a nameless feeling nipped her chest like a tiny fox; she couldn’t face it cleanly.

But Xiaowei was Xiaowei; winding maiden worries didn’t suit her, so she scolded herself—idiot—like snapping a twig.

“I’m the one who should apologize,” she thought, steadying her breath as if smoothing water, and she lifted her head plainly.

Their eyes met and struck like flint.

A face she’d seen a thousand times shone today like polished jade; her mind went blank, and her apology stuck at her throat like a peach pit.

Yexiaobai startled too, then he steadied, took two steps, and came near her like a shadow crossing sun.

It was almost class; the landing’s corner felt hollow, the air still as a pond. Only three of them stood there.

Zhaomingming, sensible as a cat, slipped back to the wall and made space, yet stayed to watch with serious eyes.

The childhood pair stood only a fist-length apart, their breaths weaving like two threads.

“Xiaowei.” She reached only to his chest; he raised a hand and set it on her head, gentle as rain on bamboo. “About yesterday, I’m sorry. That was on me.”

Xiaowei looked up at him; under the messy fringe, her eyes caught his face and went wet, clear as autumn water in sunlight.

“Yesterday—” She bit her lip; a soft voice fluttered out like a moth.

“Mm.”

“I twisted my ankle.” Once she said it, Xiaowei heard her tone and thought it wasn’t like her—too tender, like milk tea with extra honey.

He blinked; it had been ages since he’d seen her show that kittenish look—maybe back in primary school.

He smiled, warm as a quilt edge. “It must’ve hurt. Blame me.”

Her pupils tightened; a quick anxiety flashed—she should be the one apologizing. She wanted to explain why she hadn’t crossed the intersection today, but he’d spoken first.

Facing his soft, apologetic smile, her open mouth found no words; she only lowered her head and murmured like a mosquito, “It’s always like this…”

“Hm?”

“Let’s make up!” She raised her gaze again; the light returned to her eyes, clean as morning. “Xiaobai, let’s make up! Let’s go back to before last night!”

Yexiaobai paused, rubbed her messy hair like fluff, and laughed. “Go back to yesterday? We didn’t even fight.

No need to rewind time that hard; we’ve been through this plenty, my childhood friend.”

Xiaowei blinked, then she smiled too, pushed his hand away, wrinkled her brow, and showed a sharp little tiger tooth.

“Fiercely,” she said, “I’m not your childhood friend, dummy Xiaobai!”

“Hey! You really made ‘dummy’ my whole character?”

“Hee-hee-hee…”

The bell rang like a silver line; reconciled, they chased each other back to class, feet light as swallows.

Only Zhaomingming stayed alone in the corner, wrapped in shadow like night water.

“How nice,” she whispered.

Her slim back met the cold wall; she spoke softly, a pale face holding a faint smile like a crescent.

“This calm daily life with small ripples is so good. If it could stay like this—it would be even better.”

From the bottom of her heart, the girl prayed, quiet as incense smoke rising.

…