A boy’s worries swarm like sparrows.

At dawn, he frets over shoe colors, like choosing petals.

Digital watch or mechanical one, tick versus blink.

Meet the girl across the hall—wave like a leaf, or play stone and don’t see.

Homework unfinished; how to face the teacher, like stepping onto thin ice.

PE in the afternoon; physics will swallow it like a gray wave. What a headache…

Because they’re countless, none lingers long, like rain sizzling off a hot road.

After two awful math classes, Yexiaobai forgot the eerie scene.

He even forgot that flash of the silhouette he longed for, like a crane crossing clouds.

He chalked it up to a stress dream, strange and gaudy as mirages.

“Just a dream.”

He still remembered Li Hang’s words, a pebble in a full fist of worries.

It deserved a half-hour of fretting, but more problems crowded in like ants.

Like now—another problem loomed, more real, more direct, and hitting hard like a hammer.

“Hey. Xiaobai. Someone’s here… for you.”

He was half-asleep on his desk, like a cat in sun.

Annoyance stirred first—he’d told Li Hang no more spy-style meetups.

He followed her stranger gaze, and a chill ran like ice water down his back.

He snapped upright; sleep vanished like mist.

The half-sunlit doorway framed a tall girl.

Black hair to her waist swept into a ponytail, like ink tied with silk.

She watched with those beautiful, officially cold eyes, like frost on glass.

Sun poured over her porcelain profile, glowing like glazed jade.

Her indifferent face felt like winter sunlight on snow.

Suzhiaoyao’s light was a cold blaze.

At her first step into the doorway, the boys went quiet, like waves holding breath.

Noise returned, but with a fake gentleman breeze.

Some smoothed hair like birds preening.

Some laughed loud on purpose, like drums calling stares.

Some “went to the restroom” by the front door, like moths drawn to a lamp.

The girls felt a threat fall from the sky, like a golden lion’s shadow over sheep.

She didn’t enter the pen, but that gaze alone rang like a bell.

That was Suzhiaoyao, a name like a bell.

Known or unknown, same grade or junior high, in Qingya School you’ve heard her name, like wind through halls.

Looks, grades, sports, talents—each shone like a medal.

And the one she came for was—

“Xiaobai!”

A hard slap landed on his shoulder, like a sparrow peck.

Bad feeling thumped in his chest, like thunder.

Before he reacted, an arm cinched his neck like a scarf.

Behind him, Mu Xiaowei’s slender arms locked him.

Her head pressed near his cheek, like a warm peach.

Under messy bangs, her eyes flickered like fireflies. “Hey! I haven’t heard about this!”

A familiar scent from their shared childhood swirled like soap bubbles.

She’d used the same shampoo and body wash since forever.

The smell never changed, like a song stuck on repeat.

“I haven’t heard either!” he shouted.

He didn’t know why the little tigress snapped, but denial was best, like tossing sand on a flame.

Mu Xiaowei puffed her cheeks; light rippled in her eyes like lake water.

She stared at his profile, held it in like steam in a kettle, then said, “Too— too much!”

“What?” Xiaobai blanked, like a deer in headlights.

“You’re too much!”

“You knew Suzhiaoyao without a word!”

Mu Xiaowei let him go and fell back into her chair; the legs screeched across the floor like chalk.

Her right hand grabbed her shirt hem and twisted, like wringing wet cloth.

She nearly ground her teeth, like a millstone. “Suzhiaoyao! A super super super amazing beauty!”

“How could a mere Xiaobai know her—and I didn’t know a thing.”

“You hid a huge secret from me, sneaking and silent, stuffing it away like a moon under your coat!”

Yexiaobai fell silent, like snow after wind.

So that’s why she was raging—because of the secret.

Fits Xiaowei’s nature like a bell to a bell rope.

“Actually, I—”

He turned to explain with a rueful smile, like offering an olive branch.

A test paper met him instead, slapped onto his face like a leaf.

The girl had picked it up and pasted it there, voice sharp as a knife. “Actually, my foot. How long will you keep her waiting?”

Yexiaobai peeled off the paper, stunned like a fish lifted from water.

“Aren’t you—”

“I’m what?!”

Mu Xiaowei glared like a cat about to swallow him whole.

He could only shut up, like a book snapped closed.

He looked at the girl barricaded behind her temper, helpless as dust.

He nodded and stood, ready to go out like a reed bending to wind.

In the turn, a sudden chill pricked his heart, like a needle of ice.

He slowed. At that moment, the pale-blue curtain lifted like a wing.

It was as if an invisible hand pinched a corner and raised it.

Wind poured in from some high, far place, smelling of blue sky and green leaves.

It brushed Yexiaobai like water over stones.

Something tingling bloomed in his chest, like a flower opening.

It crept down to his soles, rooting him to the floor like moss.

At last, Xiaobai turned back to Mu Xiaowei. “Xiaowei.”

“What!” She hid her face behind a raised language book, like a shield.

“Later.” His eyes and voice were both soft, like dusk.

“I’ll tell you in detail what happened.”

She hid behind the book in silence, then muttered, “Tch. Who cares.”

He waited for that answer like a fisherman for a tug.

He smiled, said nothing else, and headed for the door like a river flowing.

…

…

Have you ever kept a cat?

A cat is a knot of contradictions, like silk threads tangled into a ball.

Sometimes she’s aloof, batting aside your flattery like frost.

Sometimes she’s syrup-sweet, curling on your belly and refusing to move, like honey settling.

Sometimes even her yawns carry elegance, like a slow fan.

Sometimes she pounces on the yarn in your hands, showing claws, like a storm in a teacup.

Sometimes she leaps boldly between rooftop edges, like a shadow over tiles.

Sometimes she’s lazy, tucked into a low corner and won’t budge, like a loaf of bread.

Those opposing notes knead together, and a cat is born, like moonlight and shadow mixed.

Yexiaobai loved cats since he was small, like a boy chasing fireflies.

But Yexiaokong was the opposite; allergic to cats, memory deep as scars.

From her first memories, she avoided cats; even seeing one made her skin crawl, like nettles.

So, though Yexiaobai loved them, he never kept a cat at home.

He knew that if he insisted, his sister Yexiaokong would agree, like a door unlocked.

But it meant nothing—he didn’t live alone; the house was a shared forest.

Maybe later, after work, living out on his own, he’d keep a cat, like a lantern in a new room.

For now, it was impossible, like snow in summer.

That only deepened his love for cats, like thirst deepens the taste of water.

And it deepened his liking for Mu Xiaowei, like the moon draws the tide.

He’d never said it—or maybe never dared.

But if he had to choose an animal for his childhood friend, it’d be “cat” without doubt.

Every time he reached out and mussed Xiaowei’s short hair, like ruffling a field—

She’d round her eyes, puff her cheeks, a little angry, like a sparrow offended—

And he’d feel he was secretly keeping a cat outside home, like a hidden hearth.

That feeling filled him with quiet satisfaction, like tea warming the chest.

And made him want to pat Xiaowei’s little head again and again, like rain tapping bamboo.

Because—the hand feel was really good, like silk under palm.

…

…

“What feels really good?”

“Uh.”

He faced the girl across from him; her brows knit faintly, like a willow.

In a heartbeat, Yexiaobai snapped back to the real world, like waking from a lake.