In the end, Yun Mingxin relented under her persistent coaxing.

It wasn’t a big deal—just a few meetings so she could grasp his physical likeness.

After setting a time, he hung up.

Hearing that voice too long was dangerously addictive.

Finally free of distractions, Yun Mingxin turned to his writing.

He pondered youth, recalling some dead-fish-eyed character lamenting its tragedy, wishing all "real-life fulfillers" would explode.

While he himself had held his little sister close, popular among several beauties.

His story would dance between a raven-haired girl with porcelain legs and another round-faced, chest-cushioned cutie.

Inspiration struck.

His fingers flew across the keyboard:

*"A certain teacher once said: youth is a lie, a sin. Those who sing its praises only deceive themselves and others..."*

Words flowed like a river. Six thousand characters materialized in hours.

The contest required twenty thousand. Too short to flesh out the protagonist.

To grab attention? Start with a seismic event.

Pull readers in fast.

Like *I Want to Eat Your Pancreas*—that title alone hooked them. If the content delivered, acclaim followed.

His tale was an unusual youth story.

He’d drawn from his own life.

Page one: the boy initiates the breakup.

Their fates began as parallel lines.

High schoolers.

They collided in the library at closing bell.

Her math textbook slipped from her hands.

The top student—brilliant but lazy—picked it up.

Four problems filled the page.

He noticed she’d solved two. Only one was correct.

The other? Utterly wrong.

"Why’s this wrong, dummy?" he teased, a rogue grin spreading. "Draw two parallels. Apply geometry."

Her eyes lit with realization.

Their steps fell into sync.

But as Yun Mingxin wrote: parallel lines never meet.

This story was doomed from the start.

Two days later, he finished.

Final scene: the boy waits at the train station, clutching a worn math textbook.

The girl leans from the window, unable to meet his gaze.

Their secret love, exposed.

Parental wrath tore them apart.

Even if that were all—miracles were scarce. Her grades never improved.

Their cities pulled them in opposite directions.

She was leaving.

He gently lifted the textbook.

Flipped to the last page—supposedly blank.

Instead, two parallel lines crossed the paper.

One drawn by him. One by her.

Wind tousled his black hair. He smiled—the same smile from that library day.

Yun Mingxin typed the title:

**They Were Parallel Lines That Briefly Crossed.**

His tense shoulders relaxed. A deep breath escaped him.

This girl he’d written? Her clumsiness was different from Su Xiaoyue’s.

Su’s was emotional clumsiness. His character’s was self-betrayal.

Loving deeply yet surrendering to parents without a fight.

Believing they belonged to separate worlds.

Emotionally rich, yet hopelessly inept at life.

Su Xiaoyue was the opposite—always orderly, never impulsive.

Writing this contrast felt like a message to her.

He and Su Xiaoyue? Parallel lines.

Lines they’d drawn themselves.

It was over.

Exhausted but satisfied, Yun Mingxin closed his eyes.

He woke to morning light.

After emailing his manuscript, he dashed out—late for Bai Ziyi.

He’d promised to model for her. No backing out.

His cola-eroded body protested as he sprinted.

*Huff... puff...*

He skidded to a stop beside a park bench, sweat soaking his shirt.

"Ten minutes early," he checked his watch, smug.

Then his eyes caught the date.

A cold dread prickled his spine.

*What did I forget?*

Sitting in the shade, he scrambled through memories.

Big-bear maid? No.

White-haired girl, hypnotic voice, legs like porcelain? No.

The twin-tailed monkey’s daughter with... *ah!*

Zi Mountain hike—in two days.

*Damn it.*

Days glued to his desk. Today’s sprint guaranteed tomorrow’s agony.

Climbing a mountain? Might as well dance in the underworld.

He raised a hand to wipe sweat from his brow—

A cool, soft touch covered his eyes.

Delicate fragrance filled his senses.

A snow-white handkerchief appeared before him, already damp.

He blinked.

Bai Ziyi stood there, long legs straight, snow-white hair gleaming, a playful smile on her lips.

That flutter in his chest?

Trouble.