Chapter 24: "I Just Didn’t Pay Attention"

“Yu Tu, the hunter’s belt is so clear!”
“Yu Tu, can you find it?”
“Yu Tu, wow—you’re actually doing this fast. You never used to care about stuff like this before. It was Zhang Chi, Qiu Wen, Li Ming, Zhou Zhou, Qin Shaoyang—they all helped me set it up.”
“How do you remember *this* so well, Miss Qiao?”
“Yu Tu, too bad this model’s outdated. Can’t upgrade to a higher eyepiece anymore…”
“Miss Qiao, you still haven’t answered my question…”
“Because… on the paper award list, they were right behind you, and ahead of me…”

“Jingjing, I just took a look at Proxima Centauri. I’m back now…”
“Jingjing… is it okay?”

The wooden stairs on the rooftop creaked, paused, then creaked again—until the final step. By then, the girl had gone limp, dissolving like water.

She was carried, though she didn’t know where. She didn’t know why. She didn’t need to. As long as she was in Yu Tu’s arms, that was enough.

Gently, tenderly, he laid her down. Before her: the starlight lamp she’d chosen after hours of deliberation. The stars painted on the ceiling—had vanished into darkness while she wasn’t looking.

Her body felt the soft, cool texture of fabric. Felt the faint calluses on his fingers. Felt the sharp, defined planes of his chest.

Yu Tu had become the hottest boy alive—so hot he feared burning her, afraid his own fire might scorch the one he loved.

Jingjing’s eyes fluttered shut, trembling. Occasionally, she opened them—her gaze wet, shimmering with unshed tears.

He kissed her eyelids. Sucked in her tears. Swallowed her quiet sobs.

He knew—he could cross through the black barrier and return to where it all began.

In the vast universe, countless stars burned. But tonight, they were the closest two souls in existence.

What was that sound by his ear? Was it the tide? Rising, falling, rising again, falling once more…
Or was it storm? Wild and fierce, then soft and gentle, then wild again, then gentle…
Or was it the sound of a lover returning home?

Horses galloping. Songs pouring in. Riding across the plains, singing loud, free, unrestrained.

The night deepened. A breeze lifted the curtain’s edge—just enough to let out a few stifled whimpers, then silence returned.

A soft rustle of cotton brushing against cotton. The air in the room swayed, trembled, stirred.

Whispers so light they were nearly lost beneath heavy breaths.

No one knew how long it had been. The stars, too tired to stay awake, had finally drifted off to sleep.

It had been years since Yu Tu slept so deeply. He woke when Jingjing pushed him gently.

His eyes snapped open—there she was, eyes glistening, face pale with emotion. He was awake in an instant. Rolled toward her, brushed her cheek with his thumb. Voice rough, low: “Jingjing… is it hurting?”

She pushed harder, tears spilling freely. “My hair… it’s tangled…”

He untangled her long locks from her shoulder, couldn’t help himself—he pulled her close, buried his face in her neck, laughed until his chest shook, laughing like a boy again.

“Jingjing… I’m sorry. I’m just not used to this yet…”

She relaxed slowly, the tightness of shyness melting away. Now, only discomfort remained. Her big eyes filled again with moisture. “Yu Tu… I hurt…”

“I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry. How can I take the pain for you?”

When he tried to get up, she curled into a cocoon.

By the time he brought breakfast, she was still wrapped tight. All she said, over and over: “Go out. Go out. Please go out.”

The porridge cooled, then warmed again. He’d already packed up the telescope left alone on the rooftop yesterday, brought it down.

Then—finally—she staggered out of the bedroom. Silk pajamas in the softest blush pink. Hair jet-black and glossy. Skin pale, glowing. She looked like a fairy come down from the sky.

Yu Tu set down the box, walked over, leaned her against him. “Jingjing,” he said, “I bet Song Yu must’ve seen you.”

“Who?”

She looked confused.

“The one who said *a little more would be too long, a little less too short; a touch of powder too white, a dab of rouge too red*…”

“Ohhh…”

“And *the farmer forgot his plow, the laborer forgot his hoe*…”

She smiled—finally satisfied. “Alright. I accept your compliment.”

It was harder than solving one problem three different ways to praise a single flower from three angles. Especially today.

Nowhere to go. No desire to move. Just wanted to stick together like Siamese twins, measuring every second by the warmth of his skin.

Jingjing ate breakfast. Yu Tu became her chair. Sometimes she fed him a bite.

He boiled water. She became his pendant—sometimes even helping, kind-hearted and sweet.

They gathered scattered books—Yu Tu found the spots, Jingjing arranged them.

Hand in hand, whispering softly about which vase to buy, what flowers to put inside.

Yu Tu forgot his data. Jingjing forgot her lens. All that mattered was being wrapped completely, tightly, around each other.

The bookshelf wasn’t full yet. Jingjing had already decided—she wanted the one closest to the sofa. Now she directed him from the treasure chest: “Put these scripts here. This doll there. That photo over there…”

“Someday, I’ll fill it all up…”

“Jingjing, why are your scripts all broken pieces?”

The logic nerd couldn’t help but ask.

“Oh, I only keep the best parts—the meaningful lines. Some classic scenes. I made notes. Want to see?”

Sunlight poured through the window, casting their silhouettes onto the table. Black eyes. Colorful scribbles. Underlines. Blank spaces dotted with doodles—clouds, tiny flowers, rabbits… all unmistakably *Jingjing*.

So many lines she still remembered. She performed the one from Yang Tongtong’s freshman year—full of fire and youth: *“All days, all days come to me…”*

Yu Tu pulled her close, finished it: *“Tears, laughter—first times, all first times…”*

She flubbed it.

Time for dinner. Jingjing said she wasn’t hungry—just sleepy. He wouldn’t hear it. Tried to lecture her on *food comes first*, but she gave in.

Still, the bowl that came was the same as morning: eight-treasure porridge.

“Yu Tu, this is too sweet. High in calories. How about plain congee?”

“How about boiled egg in plain water?”

“No… I still want porridge…”

“…Jingjing, I’m sorry. I forgot to buy rice…”

She was utterly exhausted. Leaned into his arm, and fell asleep almost instantly.

Yu Tu watched her. She looked almost like a girl again—innocent, peaceful in sleep.

He tried to picture her at eighteen: in school uniform, picking wildflowers, singing at the party, firing a rifle during training camp…

She’d once looked up at him, bright-eyed: *“Yu Tu, teach me math. I’ll treat you to crispy fried chicken.”*

And another time, stubbornly asking: *“Why?”*
*“What’s wrong with me?”*

*“Jingjing… you’re perfect. It’s me—I was careless. I missed you.”*