Zhang Yan cradled a cup of honey pomelo tea, head bowed as she flipped through the old books Lin Feifei had collected, her cheeks glowing with an adorable flush in the warmth of the heater;
Lin Feifei hugged that wooden guitar, plucking the strings as she softly sang the folk song she'd loved most back in college;
Cheng Xiaoyue leaned back in the beanbag chair, humming along while filming the cozy scene with her phone.
In that moment, it was as if they'd slipped back into those carefree university days.
End of Song.
Lin Feifei set the guitar down and joked, "Yanyan, you're really just the same—you get so absorbed listening, but you never sing along."
Zhang Yan's face went red as she murmured a defense, "I-I don't sing well…"
"Hey, it's already eight-thirty." Cheng Xiaoyue glanced at the time, blatant gossip written all over her face. "Yanyan, that 'gentleman' of yours—why isn't he here yet? If he doesn't show up soon, we're going to run off with you."
