Xia Jiuli’s departure didn’t surprise Chen Dao.

After all, that silly girl didn’t even know to step outside before putting on her shoes.

So he’d seen the whole thing clearly.

But he had no intention of following her.

Why?

Who was she to him?

And who was he to her?

He simply watched her tiptoe away, blankly. That was all.

Time drifted until morning. He kept staring at the entrance hall until the alarm rang, then got up to cook noodles.

Breakfast was buckwheat noodles with a boiled egg. After neatly packing Gu Lian’s red tracksuit, he arrived at school unusually early—probably the first time in his memory.

His early mornings had always been for buying Bai Qiaoqiao breakfast and waiting at her apartment gate.

Sometimes he’d spot Zhao Lexuan biking to school right on the dot.

This time, he skipped picking her up and headed straight to campus.

Across Grade 11, there were 18 classes. Classes 1 through 4 were all top-tier.

Chen Dao went straight to Class 1 beside the main office on the first floor. Peeking through the back door, his gaze swept over puzzled students—but no Gu Lian.

He’d planned to return the tracksuit before morning reading.

Too bad she didn’t give him the chance.

Guess he’d wait till break.

He trudged up to the third-floor classroom. A few students were already there: half reciting or copying homework, half chatting.

Spotting Chen Dao frozen at the back door, someone glanced over. One guy muttered:

“Did those two really break up?”

A buzz-cut boy tsked, leaped up with deliberate noise, startling the girl reciting up front.

“Yo! Heard you snatched some girl’s milk tea yesterday?”

He hopped, trying to sling an arm around Chen Dao’s shoulders. Short guy reaching tall guy? Either tiptoe or make him bend.

But Chen Dao couldn’t recall his own seat—let alone this guy’s name.

A cold glance. The boy instantly let go.

“Hey… don’t give your buddy the cold shoulder just ‘cause you broke up?”

He was clearly backing down.

Chen Dao genuinely didn’t know his name. Time to bluff.

“Ah! Pulled an all-nighter. My bad, bro!”

He forced a smile, patted the guy’s shoulder, and asked for his seat.

Hearing “bro,” the guy puffed his chest. “Right in front of Bai Qiaoqiao.”

“Where?”

“Next to the class rep.”

Chen Dao looked—and recognized the startled girl from earlier: his desk partner and Chinese class rep.

“Thanks, bro!”

A few “bros” later, the guy strutted back to his friend, grinning.

Students were like that—call someone “bro,” and they’ll move mountains for you.

Chen Dao’s seat was third row, one of the two by the window.

Most desks were paired, but between his and Ding Yun’s (the round-faced girl with a high ponytail reciting classical texts) sat a five-centimeter gap.

Seeing empty space, Chen Dao pushed his desk flush against hers.

“Aren’t you worried Bai Qiaoqiao will get mad?” Ding Yun turned, eyes flicking nervously behind her, expression helpless.

Chen Dao paused. *She actually cares about this?*

He didn’t pull back. Yanked textbooks onto the desk, stuffed his bag inside.

“She won’t talk to me anyway.”

“So you really gave up? The class group chat blew up last night.”

Girls loved gossip. Ding Yun was no exception.

But when Chen Dao pulled out the red tracksuit—clearly women’s, smelling faintly of lavender laundry soap—her eyes widened.

Last night, Li Zhiqiang claimed he’d “cheated.” Found someone new.

“Yeah. I let go.”

No need to save face. His rebirth wasn’t for revenge on Bai Qiaoqiao—it was to fix regrets.

He wasn’t narrow-minded. In this world, nothing cleared paths like money.

Even to reach your “superego,” you needed basics first.

“Whoa~ Finally moved on—wait! I mean… my condolences?” Ding Yun flustered, nearly blurting her real thoughts.

Truth was, the class knew their dynamic. Some saw inevitable coupledom; others felt Chen Dao deserved better.

Ding Yun was the latter. He’d always yielded to Bai Qiaoqiao’s tantrums. Even this “man-made rift” between desks was her doing.

“Oh right—homework done? Lend it to copy!”

Chen Dao knew he’d never solve exponential functions or recall ancient poems.

“Huh? But you always do your own?” Confusion in her clear eyes. Still, she handed him a dark green worksheet.

“Aw, no time!” He grinned wryly, pulling out his own pristine paper.

“The rest too, please?”

Shameless. Ding Yun sighed, stacking six assignments—big and small—on his desk.

Chen Dao sighed inwardly: high school homework, tedious and painful.

“Thanks for letting me—”

“CHEN DAO! YOU SHAMELESS JERK!”

A shrill cry cut through the room. Both turned.

Bai Qiaoqiao stood there, face pale, glaring fiercely at them.