Yunxiang Residential Compound was built in the mid-1990s—exactly twenty years old now. Most units were two-bedroom, one-living-room or three-bedroom, two-living-room layouts.

No elevator. Top floor was only the seventh. Stairs came in two types: one with steps around ten centimeters high, gentle for elders.

The other—roughly fifteen centimeters—was the kind beneath Chen Dao’s feet right now.

“I’m still not ready for you to meet my aunt… Maybe next time?”

The stairwell was too narrow for two to walk side by side. Xia Jiuli led; Chen Dao followed close behind.

Thanks to the fifteen-centimeter rise, she stood nearly eye-level with him—maybe even a hair taller.

Dim light barely touched her fair face, yet her delicate features still glowed softly even in this humble space.

Chen Dao actually felt a quiet nostalgia for these stairs, this kind of home. Back in college, hustling his startup, he’d lived in places like this—cramped two-bedroom units shared with partners.

“How about waiting till I hit my first hundred million?”

Chen Dao was joking, of course. He knew he couldn’t—and shouldn’t—keep avoiding Xia Baixiao.

Xia Jiuli had dodged Xia Baixiao at the school gate purely out of consideration for Chen Dao’s feelings.

“By then I’ll be an old lady. Will you still come find me?”

She asked with a smile as she turned the corner onto the fifth-floor stairs.

She didn’t mourn the wait, nor blame his hesitation. She simply, gently, said she’d wait.

She was sure he’d catch her meaning. Or else she really would’ve—

“I can’t wait that long.”

Annoyed, Chen Dao’s words froze Xia Jiuli mid-step. He nearly bumped into her back.

“I’ll confront our aunt way before then—”

He knew exactly what she meant. He just wanted to tease her.

“Next time, don’t pause like that!”

She gritted her teeth, stomped once, and kept climbing.

“Alright, alright… don’t be mad.”

Chen Dao sensed her flustered frustration. *Whoa. That line hit harder than I thought. Better lock it away.*

While she pouted, they reached the fifth floor—Xia Jiuli’s real home.

“We’re here. Don’t mind the size… it’s just how my family is.”

With a wry smile, she nimbly unlocked the security door and pushed open the dark red inner door, faded nearly brown with age.

The light switch sat by the wall. Her palm slid along the surface and landed precisely on the well-worn button. Light flooded the room.

Meanwhile, Chen Dao had slipped off his shoes, tiptoed inside, and darted to the shoe cabinet.

He opened it naturally, spotted the uniform guest slippers—but deliberately pulled out one red pair and one black.

Casually, as if by accident, he set the red pair at her feet.

*Thud.*

The soft sound pulled her gaze from the unchanged room down to the slippers.

Her mother’s.

The black pair on Chen Dao’s feet? Her father’s.

Such a tiny, simple gesture—but a lump rose sharply in her throat.

She never thought her carefully built composure would shatter like this. Watching Chen Dao change shoes with quiet familiarity, then stand waiting by the door—she turned away.

Outside: pitch-black stairwell. Inside: blinding light.

She remembered helping her aunt replace the light tube—laughing together, barely feeling the ache of coming home.

But seeing *those* slippers… it struck her: no one would ever fit them again.

The narrow stairwell, the modest apartment—suddenly vast. Too vast to hide a single muffled sob.

Xiangzhou was huge, yet held no space for her quiet weeping. Car horns, dripping water on metal, distant chatter below—all tried to drown her grief.

Chen Dao stood frozen, listening. Since afternoon, he’d sensed something off.

Even when he asked if she cried alone at night, she’d smile and say, “I’m fine.”

At Right Turn Malatang, he’d heard Yu Xin and the class monitor praise her strength—how she studied hard, laughed with classmates.

Even bringing him home, her smile stayed stiff. Not one plea escaped her lips.

She buried herself in funerals, inheritance, school, classmates—anything to mask the sorrow.

Normal?

How could she not grieve?

How could she walk out of this damp sadness?

She shifted her backpack to her chest, hugged it tight, buried her face, and crouched against the moth-speckled outer wall. Her shoulders trembled.

She couldn’t cry before her aunt. Xia Jiuli—two suicide attempts, no, *three*—feared her selfishness would hurt them again.

Not before classmates like Yu Xin. They were passing acquaintances. Her small emotional platform couldn’t carry so much pity.

Maybe… only beside a man who called himself her best friend—a carefree, seemingly heartless guy—could she finally relax.

No fear of burdening him. He’d already stepped into her world, claimed her solitary platform, stamped it with “Chen Dao.”

No fear of showing weakness. He called himself *just* a friend—not responsible for her tears.

But her sobs swelled. Louder. Louder. Until they broke into raw, heart-wrenching wails.

Chen Dao didn’t move to comfort her.

What good would stopping do?

After a moment, he pulled a water bottle from his bag, rinsed two cups in the kitchen, and handed one to Xia Jiuli—rubbing her blurry eyes.

Before tears fully blurred her vision, she stole a glance and whimpered:

“Waaah… Why’d you take Mom’s cup! Don’t make me cry, you idiot!”

“Then you take Dad’s. I’ll use Mom’s.”