As you can see, I’m the kind of ordinary high schooler who’d vanish into a crowd without a trace.

Average looks. Average at sports. Average grades.

The word "mediocre" sums up my life—and most people’s.

My family’s solidly middle-class: no worries about food or shelter, but luxury’s out of reach. I grew up under my parents’ care, with a happy, picture-perfect childhood.

Mom works as a text editor.

She’s always holed up in her room, glued to her computer screen.

She burns the midnight oil constantly, yet I’ve never heard of her writing anything famous. Probably just proofreading and formatting for others.

Thanks to her, I learned to cook young. Her hands were devoted to literary art, after all—her dishes looked like ink-stained pages: presentable, but swallowing them felt deeply unsettling.

Once I grew old enough to understand, my stomach finally found its voice.

"Please, let me handle the cooking from now on. I’m begging you."

After too many dazzling dishes that turned into flavor hell, I finally choked out that plea.

When I volunteered to cook, Mom happily agreed. She gave me stove safety tips, bought me a few cookbooks, and told me to teach myself.

Honestly, I’d only grumbled about her skills as a joke. I never expected her to hand me the reins so freely.

My first attempt? A disaster. The food was pitch-black. Guess the writer’s kid really did surpass the master.

But as they say: nothing’s impossible to a willing heart.

After years of practice, I knew every supermarket discount flyer by heart. I could judge ingredient freshness like a seasoned housewife. And my cooking finally tasted like *food*.

Dad’s an ordinary salaryman, often away on business trips. But whenever he had time, he’d come home to us.

He’d praise my cooking, saying I was almost as good as Mom.

*Almost?* I’d long since left her in the dust. Survival demanded it—for my stomach’s sake.

As for little sisters, childhood sweethearts, or any of those wish-fulfillment tropes for otaku? They don’t exist around boring old me.

Don’t ask why. That’s just reality—not some dreamy anime world.

When I was born, my parents followed the national one-child policy. And in our apartment complex’s icy anonymity, I still don’t know the names of the family living on my floor.

So yeah. No sisters. No childhood friends.

About my studies—I *can* brag a little. I used to shine brightly, after all.

Back in middle school, my photo still hangs on the honor roll bulletin board.

Through relentless effort, I ranked top in my year for the high school entrance exam. Naturally, I got into my dream provincial key high school.

So why call myself "average" now?

That glory was the past. In this sea of geniuses at the key high school, my test scores always hover near the bottom. Still, I refuse to give up. I’m fighting.

But lately, staring up at those permanently top-ranked names on the scoreboards… I’m starting to believe true geniuses exist—people ordinary folks like me can never catch.

"The slow bird must fly early." That’s my life motto.

If I chase the geniuses’ footsteps, I’ll still outpace ordinary people.

I keep telling myself that. Yet sometimes, a quiet sigh escapes: *Why can’t I be the kind of genius who gets everything effortlessly?*

I sighed, swiping sweat from my forehead in the sweltering heat. Then I knocked on my apartment door.

"Xiao Fan! You’re home late today."

The woman who opened the door had dark circles under her eyes.

Who else but Mom? She’d pulled another all-nighter proofreading manuscripts. Just woken up, clearly.

"Got held up by something."

No way I’d tell her about nearly dying. She’d scold me to death.

"Why are you so dirty?"

Her eyes scanned me head to toe.

My pants and shirt were smeared with black grime, like I’d rolled through mud.

"And that bruise on your arm…"

Sharp-eyed Mom zeroed in on the welt left by that girl’s strike.

"My head spun from the heat. Tripped on the front steps. Nothing serious."

I met her worried gaze calmly.

*The person I saved ended up hurting me.* Even if I told her, she wouldn’t believe it.

I wanted a quiet life. To avoid this "heroic deed" blowing up weirdly, I’d even given the police a fake contact number.

No way I’d tell them my name was Lu Fan. No way I’d wait at that confidence-crushing school for them to deliver a congratulatory banner.

People’s stares—no matter their intent—always burned my skin. Honestly, as a high schooler, I just wanted to study quietly.

Mom kept staring, like she could peel back my lies. I held her gaze without flinching.

The lazy atmosphere turned tense.

After a long, icy silence…

"Xiao Fan. Be honest. Were you in a fight?"

Serious Mom finally guessed it.

*Do I look like a delinquent?* My soul screamed internally.

"No—"

I started to deny it.

"Did you win?"

Mom suddenly burst with excitement. She slapped my shoulder hard.

"Huh?"

My brain lagged behind.

"Boys in high school blow off steam sometimes. Fights happen. Back when your dad fought for me—"

She drifted into a blissful memory I couldn’t comprehend.

While Mom passionately recounted her youth, I tuned out completely.

"I won," I finally said, forcing a triumphant grin. "Left that fool searching for his teeth."

"My son! I’m so proud of your victory!" Not exactly parental wisdom.

*Will you still cheer for violence when the teachers show up with my disciplinary record?*

As a modern high schooler, I had zero interest in Mom’s fiery past.

And with dinner to cook for both of us, I had no time for her stories.

"I’m starving, my dear Xiao Fan. Cook Mama dinner?"

At least she remembered her stomach.

"Sure. What do you want tonight?" I asked smoothly.

"Anything you make, I’ll love…" Her face flushed slightly. "I, uh… forgot lunch and breakfast."

Ah. *That* was the real point.

"Mom! Skipping meals wrecks your health!" I scolded.

"I overslept. Sorry. But in my dream… I ate your cooking." She brushed off my concern.

Work was unavoidable. Mom was trying her best for this family.

*I’ll pack extra dessert for her night shift later.*

After dinner, I’d prep tomorrow’s lessons. Monday loomed. Not a second to waste. A good preview might give this slow brain a head start.

After all this, you might think I’m a textbook nerd. Sadly, partly true—but I’m not *just* about studying.

I love anime. I chase new seasons. My allowance mostly buys physical light novels.

Sometimes I write snippets and post them online for feedback. My earnest heart gets shredded by pitiful click counts and poisonous comments. But I won’t quit. I’m building a world I want to live in.

*Just treating it as essay practice. A fun hobby.*

Mom’s a text editor. How did I inherit such clunky writing? Must be Dad’s genes.

After homework, I peeked at my novel site on my phone—then slammed it shut. Afraid staring too long would make me delete that "never give up" promise.

Before bed, I pushed open Mom’s door. She was still frozen, eyes locked on the glaring white screen.

*Maybe I’m not trying hard enough. If I worked half as hard as her, this hobby wouldn’t feel so bitter.*

"I’m just playing around."

"A fool who can’t even play right."

I placed the instant coffee and discounted supermarket chocolate cake beside her statue-still form. Then I slipped out quietly.