Shuiming Park, nestled in Shuiming District of Xiangcao City, is the largest local park—a favorite filming spot for college micro-movies and graduation apps, a romantic haven for young couples, and home to the city’s most complete recreational facilities and scenery.
As the capital of Guiyuan Province, Xiangcao City spans nine districts: Shuiming, Sanjing, Central, Rong, Craftsman, Dadong, Nanfeng, Beiyang, and Xinxi. My college, Xiangcao Vocational and Technical College, sits just south of Central District—the city’s bustling heart. Shuiming lies slightly northwest of it; Rong District rests southwest, its southern coast still undeveloped by the city, now a beloved spot for beachcombers. My “hometown”? A tiny village east of Dadong District.
I grew up rural. Finished elementary school in that village, then moved with Grandma to a rented room in an urban village within Dadong District for middle school. That’s when my aversion to studying began.
Poor as we were, my clothes were mostly Grandma’s hand-knits or secondhand finds. Though Xiangcao mandated unified school uniforms citywide from 2020, my urban-village-adjacent school stayed lax—students could wear what they liked. So I became the class laughingstock.
Especially second semester of seventh grade. Whether from better cafeteria meals or puberty’s estrogen surge, my chest developed fast—surpassing every girl in grade. PE class turned nightmare. Every run made it bounce; boys snickered and whispered behind my back.
Back in the village, I’d helped Grandma—whose legs troubled her—with rice planting, harvesting… sunburnt, dusty. My skin stayed dark through middle school. So my image? A girl with tanned skin, an embarrassingly large chest that jiggled when running, “rustic” speech, zero clue about trends, wearing ugly, worn-out clothes, sharing no common ground with classmates.
Grades hovered barely average. Teachers barely noticed me. My inferiority deepened.
Then came high school. Mediocre exam scores landed me at a Craftsman District school as a boarding student. Boys, now deep in puberty, had “learned” that “big chests on girls are an asset worth fawning over.” Their teasing softened. No farm work, no sun—my skin lightened. I even became a noted “cute beauty” there.
Still, I remained “clueless in conversation,” “unable to fit in.”
Why? Grandma’s phone only called and texted—hopelessly out of place among seas of smartphones. I barely grasped the “internet.” All tech knowledge came from IT class. Online slang? Total mystery.
While peers scrolled phones, soaked in digital culture, I stood lost. Hearing phrases like *“It’s not about what you think, it’s about what I think,” “I’m eating lemons, you go ahead,” “Why are you wearing Pinru’s clothes?”* debating *“Ji Ni Tai Mei”* or *“What even is an international movie star?”*—I’d just stare blankly.
Sophomore year, two boys confessed, asked for my QQ. My first thought:
“What’s QQ?”
Both replied identically: “You don’t have QQ?”
“No.”
“I don’t even know what QQ is.”
“Understood.”
“Thanks. Guess I’m just not good enough.”
Now I see—I was rejecting them. I just didn’t know it.
Later, “helped” by delinquent classmates, I snuck into black-market internet cafes, made a QQ account, learned QQ Show Dance and QQ Speed. Back at school? Still silent. Still alone.
The thought—*“I must buy a high-end branded smartphone”*—took root. Became the seed of tragedy.
My suicide wasn’t just crushing debt—juggling loans, watching interest snowball into despair. Worse: realizing even a new phone wouldn’t make me belong.
College classmates? Far less forgiving than high schoolers. University: paradise of freedom, soil of decadence. Students from every province, lives worlds apart. If I couldn’t connect with citymates in high school… how with outsiders?
Bi Xinxue’s life? Never touched the so-called “queen” persona. She didn’t even know what “queen” meant.
[Before jumping off that bridge… she’d silently cried in her heart: *“Anyone… please save me.”*]
Bathed in crimson sunset glow, I walked a cobblestone path through Shuiming Park’s heart—skirt fluttering, black sheer pantyhose, delicate school shoes—gazing at Wang Lei’s retreating back.
[Now… those memories are mine too.]
[A bittersweet, utterly ordinary girl’s coming-of-age.]
During hospital days, I’d revisited Bi Xinxue’s memories countless times.
Elementary school: Dad secretly took “me” for a paternity test. When results showed I wasn’t his, he divorced Mom. Custody went to her. Our family became single-parent. Overnight, “maternal grandmother” became simply “Grandma.”
After crossing over, I wondered: What truly happened when Mom gave birth to me? Why no blood tie to Dad? Why no explanation from Mom? Why did Grandma and Mom fall silent whenever I asked about my real father? Mom never seemed the type to… you know.
“It’s already this late,” Wang Lei said, turning at the giant Ferris wheel’s entrance. “Can we… ride that?”
“That?”
Pulled from thought, I blinked, then offered a faint smile. “Which ‘that’?”
“Well… you know…” He kept his head down, too shy to meet my eyes. “The Ferris wheel!”
I stood backlit by sunset; my shadow stretched diagonally across this 180cm “big boy.”
“Ara… how cute. So eager for one-on-one time with me?” I kept the disdainful tone I’d held three hours straight, striking a haughty pose. “Oh, I see perfectly. Those filthy, vulgar thoughts in your head.”
From 2 PM to 5:30 PM, we’d covered nearly all of Shuiming Park—roller coasters, pirate ships, spinning chairs, bumper cars, go-karts, forests, lakes.
My prior check revealed Wang Lei also came from a single-parent home. No records of his mother. His father, Wang Yajun, showed zero mentions of “partner,” “wife,” or “spouse.”
No wonder he clung to the “queen” fantasy.
A longing to fill childhood’s maternal void… perhaps?
Three hours of walking left my legs numb, socks soaked. Bi Xinxue’s frail body ached with exhaustion, yet I forced alertness—maintaining the queen act, hiding every trace of fatigue.
Truth? Playing queen for three hours felt… weirdly satisfying.
An 180cm lackey trailing you—treating you, enduring insults without protest, even seeming to enjoy it, begging for more—it made me feel like *I* was the boss. Wang Lei? Just a rented “boyfriend” to take the heat.
This… must be the legendary ultimate masochist trait.
First time meeting someone who literally pays to be insulted.
How did I treat him?
“Walking all afternoon in pantyhose—they’re drenched. Step into that sealed Ferris wheel cabin together, and the scent will fill the whole space… That’s what you pictured, right?”
I leaned close to his ear beneath the sunset glow, breath soft. “Pervert.”
“I…”
“Admit it. You’re a hopeless foot-fetish pervert—mind swimming in filthy thoughts.”
I smiled faintly again, straightened up, and stepped past him toward the wheel.
“After you, Mr. Pervert.”
