Although Zhao Youyue was well aware that her sense of presence was indeed paper-thin, hearing this guy casually say, "Zhao Youyue? She doesn't exist," still made her want to snap back. She wondered if Han Leng had simply lost his mind from lack of sleep.
She took a deep breath, the quiet air of the classroom settling around them, and said calmly, "Fine. If you don't recognize me, then you don't. Let's get acquainted again. My name is Zhao Youyue, and I'm also a member of this class. Han Leng, did you remember it this time?"
Han Leng narrowed his eyes slightly. The girl's profile was bathed in the warm, orange glow of the setting sun streaming through the window, making her look strikingly beautiful in the soft light. Her tone was unruffled, almost flat, and her voice was gentle.
This girl's temper was still as good as he remembered. He even caught a faint trace of fragrance drifting from her—a light, distant scent like fresh soap or spring rain, the same scent that lingered in his memories from middle school.
Han Leng hadn't truly forgotten Zhao Youyue. He had only said that on purpose to maintain his aloof persona. What he couldn't figure out was why a girl as pretty as Zhao Youyue, with such an easygoing personality, could have so little presence in a room.
Maybe if she were a bit sharper or more willful, people would actually notice her.
"Sorry. I never remember ordinary people's names because there's no meaning in it. Ordinary people have no pursuits of their own. After growing up, they only live ordinary lives, with no individuality at all. Living a whole lifetime is no different from not living. The meaning of life should be wandering and drifting everywhere, searching for different kinds of brilliance." Han Leng yawned again, his voice carrying an infuriatingly smug tone.
"That's just an excuse for not finding a place you are willing to stay," Zhao Youyue replied, her expression remaining calm. "You dress it up as the meaning of life being wandering and exile."
Han Leng looked at her in surprise, his irritation momentarily replaced by curiosity. He vaguely felt that this girl wasn't as simple as she appeared.
Then he heard her continue, "It's fine if you can't remember my name. I'm used to it anyway. I just want to ask you something. Can you help me ghostwrite a self-criticism? Three thousand characters. About playing with my phone during morning reading."
Han Leng kept a cold expression, his jaw tightening as if she had personally insulted his artistic integrity. Was he the kind of person who helped others write something as mundane as a self-criticism? He had ghostwritten love letters before, but that was romantic and meaningful. It showed off his literary talent, and if it brought him a few more admirers, even better. He wanted to read all the books in the world and sleep beside the one he loved.
He refused decisively, shaking his head. "Even if I die and jump out of this window, I won't help anyone write a self-criticism. That would be wasting my life on trash."
Seeing how firm his refusal was, Zhao Youyue felt her hope dim. As expected, she still had to do it herself.
She probed one last time anyway. "Three hundred yuan. I'll pay three hundred for you to write it."
Han Leng's icy demeanor instantly collapsed. He replied briskly, "I will write it. When do you need it?"
Seeing Zhao Youyue look stunned at the sudden pivot, he cleared his throat, turned his head away, and spoke with his eyes fixed on a dust mote in the air. "I will definitely become a great writer whose words are worth a fortune. I'm just a bit short of polish right now. The web novel I'm serializing only earns fifty yuan per thousand characters. But a self-criticism is a special genre. If you offer one hundred per thousand characters, I think that's reasonable. I'm quite confident when it comes to writing self-criticisms."
Zhao Youyue really wanted to ask who it was just now that said they wouldn't do it even if they died. Instead, she smiled faintly and said softly, "The sooner the better. If it's finished today, I'll give you five hundred."
"Then it's settled so happily, Zhao Youyue." Han Leng was no longer cold, grinning like a profiteer who had just struck gold. "If you had valued me this much back in middle school, I definitely would have remembered you."
He reached out as if to pat her shoulder in a friendly gesture, but when he saw her clean blue and white sports uniform, he pulled his hand back, suddenly self-conscious.
Only then did he realize how different Zhao Youyue was from the other girls in their grade. Her skin was fair and delicate, almost translucent in the sunlight. Her eyes were large and crystal clear. Her jet-black short hair was glossy and healthy. Yet this also made him feel a little regretful. If she grew her hair long, she definitely wouldn't be this unremarkable. Wherever she went, she would draw the eyes of every man in the room.
Some girls were simply more suited to long hair. Sometimes changing just one hairstyle could elevate their entire presence from a passerby to a lead.
"This counts as valuing you?" Zhao Youyue smiled with her lips pursed together, looking even cuter. "Shouldn't you literary types be unbending when it comes to money?"
"No. You respected my ideals."
"What ideals?"
"I often forget the world, forget the brevity of life, forget beautiful emotions. I contemplate living a despicable and shameless life. That's my ideal."
"Françoise Sagan's Bonjour Tristesse?" Zhao Youyue replied calmly, her voice steady. "'To think freely, to imagine freely, to think little freely, to choose my own life freely, to choose myself. I can't say 'to become myself,' because I'm merely a malleable lump of dough that refuses every mold.' Talking to you literary people is really exhausting."
Han Leng was completely stunned now. He stared at her, his face practically screaming: Someone like you actually read her books? He had to admit that he would never forget this girl named Zhao Youyue again. He even regretted not getting to know her sooner. What an insightful girl. Yet why did she show none of that artsy aura at all? Where was this supposed internal glow of poetry?
Zhao Youyue didn't mind his shock. She took out her phone casually, the screen reflecting the sunset. "Do you have your phone with you? I will send you the three hundred first. WeChat or Alipay?"
"Damn, can you not treat this like buying vegetables on the street? Be discreet. Also, wasn't your phone confiscated?"
"So I bought another one that same afternoon," she said simply.
"Rich. Want to be friends?"
"Sure. WeChat or QQ both work."
"My phone is in the dorm…"
"I saw that cold, unruly look on your face and thought you were brave. Turns out you are pretty timid."
"Wow, rich. That really stabbed me. Believe it or not, I will stop writing your self-criticism."
"Oh? Then I will just save some money."
"Rich, don't do that. I'm a man whose words are worth a fortune, and so are my promises."
"Stop calling me 'rich.' I'm about to be eating dirt. Also, remember my name. It's Zhao Youyue."
"I will remember it for my entire life."
Zhao Youyue watched Han Leng turn from aloof to goofy and smiled again, her lips pressed together. She looked like an elegant young lady. No, she had always been one.
She picked up a pen from his desk and wrote her WeChat ID on his draft notebook in neat, fluid strokes, then turned and left without hesitation.
Han Leng sniffed the air lightly where she had stood and muttered, "Smells good."
Staring at the neat, graceful handwriting on the notebook, he patted his slightly heated cheeks. He had completely lost any desire to sleep.