Humans can’t be flawless—that’s what I’ve always believed. Someone wrapped in an angel’s guise might be a bone-swallowing devil, while a gruff old priest who scares off neighbors daily could hide a heart brimming with compassion.
Hmm, I’ve strayed off-topic. What I mean is: perfection demands a price, and that price is often extreme.
Since "perfection" is judged by others—just as a thousand people see a thousand Hamlets—wouldn’t someone praised by a thousand voices need a thousand faces? Twisted, grotesque, yet utterly mesmerizing.
Jiang Xiaoyu, brilliant and beautiful, isn’t perfect. Ouyang Qian, smooth-talking and manipulative, isn’t perfect. Even Xu Xian, whose fame echoes across campuses, has long stopped pretending to be sunny and cheerful around me. They all show me their true selves, making my own flaws feel slightly less shameful.
Once, a girl slipped through my moth-to-flame devotion, her true face forever hidden. She carved a gaping wound into my naive young heart. Yet I still haven’t learned my lesson—I keep chasing the closest thing to flawlessness: Mrs. Nalan.
Wait… does that make me a masochist? Staring blankly at the bathroom mirror while brushing my teeth, I recalled Bao Yu’s perpetually gloomy face. A chill ran down my spine. I can stomach being called a freak for past mistakes, but "masochistic freak"? That’s crossing a line. Time to visit the old priest for spiritual comfort.
No time like the present—today it is!
Slipping on my slippers, I shuffled to the living room. Empty. No thwack-thwack of wooden dummies from the dojo next door either. Xiaoyu was really gone. Off on her school trip…
So why the secrecy? What was she hiding behind such a clumsy lie?
My stomach growled. A trace of fragrance hit my nose. I turned toward the small square table. A bowl of noodles steamed gently—freshly cooked. Beneath it lay a note.
Neat, square characters read: *"Leftover vintage 1982 cooled boiled water and discount-store dragon whisker noodles. So—enjoy your sister’s love! Don’t miss me. Mua～ ♪"*
*Mua*… When did these three letters become the new "kiss"?
Well, recalling her playful, pouty face this morning… it was undeniably cute. But that cuteness felt heavy. Ominous.
My first thought: *Poison in my sister’s noodles!*
If any other girl—even Xu Lingzhu—wrote this, I’d just be surprised. But this saccharine, otaku-novel dialogue came from *Jiang Xiaoyu*? The demon who wouldn’t blink at murder?
Noodles cooked by my sister?
Ignoring the "sister’s love" bit, this felt like a wife leaving breakfast for her late-for-work husband. How could I not panic? My slave-driving master—who alternates between clinging to my bed and sneering coldly—was acting bizarrely today!
Nervous? No. Her handwriting danced with excitement, as if she’d been humming while writing it.
Whether she was overjoyed or heartbroken, this "honor" left me wary. Even when Dad was alive, he never tasted her cooking.
What to do? No silver needle to test for poison, and my stomach roared. Anxiety warred with hunger.
*To eat, or not to eat—that was the question.*
A soothing voice whispered: *"What are you waiting for? Xiaoyu’s grown up. She’s showing brotherly love. Isn’t this the harmonious sibling bond you’ve always wanted? Even if there’s a hint of ‘sister juice,’ it’s harmless!"*
No—that’s *not* the issue…
A stern voice cut in: *"Are you insane? When has Jiang Xiaoyu ever cooked? ‘Ten fingers never touch dishwater’ barely describes our little tyrant! Don’t judge her like Nan Dongye—that naive fool! This is probably another prank. Haven’t we suffered enough?"*
Like the time she poured menthol oil in my underwear?
…Yeah, elementary school held some painfully minty memories.
The voices bickered in my head. Just a simple note from our spoiled, capricious Xiaoyu had me spiraling.
Finally, hunger won. I lifted my chopsticks, dipped them into the broth, and tasted. Plain. No soap powder. No weird "sister juice." Just… bland. Suspiciously bland—had she forgotten seasoning?
After a few bites, I stared blankly at the ceiling lamp. The result was unexpected yet inevitable.
It was just noodles. Noodles cooked by my sister. A plain, unseasoned bowl of broth.
*"As tasteless as chewing wax…"*
Though it felt like swallowing raw flour, I finished the entire bowl. Boiled in genuine 1982 cooled water. My sister cooked for me—I’d choke it down on my knees if I had to.
*"But… she really has changed. What’s she up to? Why’s she so excited—like a different person?"*
