Chapter 60: Memories

Perhaps seeing an old acquaintance had involuntarily stirred up some annoying memories of the past.

She had already lain in bed ready for a good rest, but as soon as she closed her eyes, the past flooded back; she struggled to empty her mind, forcing herself into a state of utter mental blankness, until finally she drifted into a hazy sleep.

Yet even this dream was about the past.

If her relationship with Chen Huanyue had held anything worth remembering for him, for her it left only one word: humiliation.

Of course, this humiliation did not come from Chen Huanyue himself—he had never intended to humiliate her, and had he known, he would have done everything possible to shield her from any person or thing that might cause her shame—but sometimes things simply do not go as one wishes…

Chen Huanyue treated her well—he was a gentle, considerate, and self-controlled young man; even at just twenty-one, still bearing the awkwardness and student-like innocence of youth, he was already polished and thoughtful in every action, and once something was entrusted to him, there was never any need to worry about what came next. Professors and classmates alike adored him—he was everyone’s idealized campus god.

Moreover, he was good-looking, spoke and acted with elegance and courtesy, radiating an innate superiority cultivated by a prominent family—this superiority was never deliberate; to blend in, he sometimes went to great lengths to conceal it, lest others feel uncomfortable.

Someone like him should never have crossed paths with her, yet that was precisely the strange thing—still now, she found it incomprehensible.

One day, while working a part-time job at a milk tea shop—it was early morning, and there were hardly any customers—he suddenly walked in and said to her: “Yang Yi, I’m Chen Huanyue, a senior one year ahead of you, majoring in Business Administration, and Professor Li Mingwei is my advisor. Here’s my student ID.” He handed her his ID; she took it in confusion, not understanding what he wanted.

After she finished reading the ID, Chen Huanyue took a deep breath and said to her with solemn seriousness: “Yang Yi, what I am about to say comes entirely from my heart—it is not the result of a lost bet, nor a truth-or-dare game, nor a sudden whim, but the outcome of careful deliberation.”

Chen Huanyue was a campus celebrity; even though Yang Yi was introverted and had a tiny social circle, she knew him well—his solemn declaration left her nearly stunned.

“Uh… please go ahead…” she remembered stammering, even using formal address.

Chen Huanyue looked earnestly into her eyes, his tone sincere and gentle, almost tender: “I’ve liked you for some time now. Will you be my girlfriend?”

At that moment, she wore a 19.9-yuan T-shirt bought from a street stall, 49-yuan jeans, and worn-out sneakers—her entire being reeked of poverty.

For reasons unknown, perhaps vanity, she accepted him.

In their subsequent relationship, he was gentle and considerate—he never intruded on her life or forced her to change her will; he never acted like those inexperienced straight men who threw tantrums over absurd little things, nor like the arrogant, patriarchal heroes of clichéd romance novels.

He respected her intense, even unnecessary, sense of pride.

When she said she had to work and might have little time for dates, he gently recommended a part-time job available to university students—well-paid, and when she started, she discovered he worked there too.

When she said she was slow to warm up and didn’t yet know him well enough for intimate gestures, he behaved with restraint and politeness thereafter—even before holding her hand, he always asked for her consent first.

Sometimes she even suspected he had investigated her in advance—how else could he seem to understand her habits better than she did herself?

Sometimes, she cynically believed Chen Huanyue was with her to mock her—to watch how a poor girl with extreme pride struggled to get by, like a clown trying to hide a ball of poverty beneath her clothes, convinced no one noticed, unaware the ball had long since bulged out visibly.

Though Chen Huanyue never deliberately displayed his family background, there was no doubt—his speech, demeanor, clothing, and lifestyle all revealed he came from exceptional wealth, far beyond ordinary means.

Yet he continually accommodated her: he ate with her in the cafeteria when no one else was around, worked alongside her, studied with her in quiet corners of the library, and walked with her in public parks—all low-cost activities, because she didn’t want to spend his money, nor was she accustomed to assuming the man should pay for everything on a date.

Moreover, back then she was overly cautious, miserable in temperament, and offered him almost no emotional value—instead, Chen Huanyue was the one consistently tenderly caring for her, supporting her, praising her.

Sometimes she truly believed he was an angel.

At other times, she thought he might be a demon, one day to tear away this gentle veil and reveal his true intent.

She wanted to draw near him, like someone in the bitter cold seeking warmth from a fire.

Yet she also wanted to push him away, fearing that if she grew accustomed to this warmth, and the fire suddenly went out, she would feel colder than she ever had before.

With him, everything was good. Outside of him, everything was bad.

She usually went to the cafeteria later, after the peak rush—she disliked crowded places, and another reason was that the cafeteria ladies served food more steadily when fewer students were around.

Back then, she was always hungry and treasured every morsel of food; she ate every grain of rice soaked in broth clean—but the girls in her dormitory competed to waste food, taking pride in eating less, as if eating more was crude, vulgar, and beneath them.

They ordered takeout, ate a few bites, then threw it away; when hungry again, they ordered another.

Once, she saw her dormmate Han Jiao order a barbecue rice bowl, eat only a few bites, and prepare to toss it in the trash; Yang Yi thought it wasteful and stared a little longer. Han Jiao seemed to sense her gaze and smiled: “Yang Yi, I’m full, and there’s so much left—it’s a waste. Why don’t you finish it for me?”

Yang Yi had just returned from work, ravenous and exhausted; she needed to pay tuition, earn living expenses, phone and data bills—though the school offered subsidies for impoverished students, it was utterly insufficient.

Normally, her fierce pride would have made her refuse without hesitation—but then, exhaustion and hunger left her no room for thought; she thanked Han Jiao, took the bowl, forced herself not to wolf it down, and ate every last bite.

At that time, her pride and shame were terrifyingly strong; she feared owing anyone anything, because she had nothing to give in return. She dreaded group activities most of all, because she couldn’t afford to chip in.

After eating, to repay her, she carried both her own and Han Jiao’s thermos to fill with hot water. Just outside the dorm, she heard Li Ningxin giggling: “Look at her pitiful look—eating someone else’s leftovers like she’s never tasted good food in her life…”

Han Jiao said softly: “Don’t say that—not everyone has a good family background…”

The rest she couldn’t hear; she only felt blood rushing to her head, dizzy and numb, not even knowing how she walked out of the dorm building.

Halfway there, her stomach churned violently—the once-delicious barbecue rice now felt like a pile of feces; her whole body trembled, then grew weak and limp, her vision blurred, ears ringing—she could only set down the thermos and sit by the flowerbed to recover.

Yes, she knew she reeked of poverty—not because of cheap clothes, low-cost cosmetics, or insufficient monthly allowance, but because of a loose thread on her sleeve, an old, limp bra, a secondhand phone always dead, and in every avoiding glance, every shrinking motion, every timid word.

She never believed poverty was a fault, yet poverty truly distanced her from her peers, making her feel as if she lived in a different world despite sharing the same room with them.

Li Ningxin’s words stung like a needle, but Han Jiao’s pity hurt even more. She could accept others’ contempt, but could not endure their condescending pity.

That pity made her feel lower than them, her dignity diminished—as if she were a slave unable to raise her head before her master.

She desperately tried to find some area where she surpassed them.

Family? Though none of them were wealthy, most were middle-class or comfortably off, loved and cherished by their parents. As for her—she didn’t even dare mention it.

Academics? Tragic academics—she barely kept her grades average, too busy working.

Personality? She was introverted, timid in speech, had a narrow social circle, lacked their poise and ease.

Appearance? All of them were beautiful, youthful university students in their twenties; with a little makeup, they were lovely. She couldn’t even afford makeup, and still couldn’t apply it.

After racking her brain, the only thing she felt slightly superior in, the one unique thing—she had a boyfriend, a boyfriend everyone admired.

How many times had she heard them in the dorm at night, gossiping about the school’s top male students, secretly ranking them—and Chen Huanyue was almost always number one.

That was why she had accepted his confession without hesitation.

Think of it: the campus god they secretly discussed and quietly admired was, in reality, the dorm’s most unremarkable, poorest girl’s boyfriend! It wasn’t just a satisfaction of vanity—it was an invisible revenge.

Yes, you look down on me. Yes, I have no money, no family background. Yes, I’m introverted, can’t speak well, and even eat others’ leftovers—but the boy you whisper about, the one you secretly love—he loves only me, he doesn’t care for any of you—he belongs to me alone.

Sitting by the flowerbed with two thermoses, none of the students passing by knew the ordinary girl with her head bowed was filled with such wild thoughts.

She imagined darkly, basely, tragically, madly—imagining herself storming into the dorm, kicking the door open with a cold laugh, feigning casualness and triumph: “Li Ningxin, I heard you voted for Chen Huanyue on the campus forum yesterday? Han Jiao, I heard you loved the piano piece he played at the school anniversary? Zhou Beibei, I even heard you murmur his name in your sleep!”

She would feign shyness, deliberately theatrical, in a sweet, boastful tone: “Huan Yue says thank you for your admiration, but he has a girlfriend now—his girlfriend is Yang Yi—so please show some self-respect!”

If they didn’t believe her—if they were shocked, mocked, or cruelly ridiculed her for thinking a toad could eat swan meat—so much the better! Let them curse her bitterly, call her delusional, say she dreamed too much, that she was mad for men, that she should piss on a mirror and see what kind of trash she was—better still!

At that moment, she would tremble with excitement, her face flushed with fervor—because she knew, what followed was the real show, the perfect climax of revenge, the moment her barren, ugly duckling life would shine brightest.

She would walk into the dorm, arm in arm with Chen Huanyue—she deliberately ignored the fact that boys couldn’t enter the girls’ dormitory—she would walk in boldly, head high, triumphantly, theatrically clinging to his arm, waving to everyone she knew or didn’t know, like a victorious general displaying medals, greeting every stranger, every rival, every acquaintance, every classmate, every peer, every senior.

If someone asked, “What’s your relationship?”—perfect! Perfectly in line with her wishes! She would even silently thank the questioner, feigning nonchalance, casually pointing at Chen Huanyue with a faint smile: “My boyfriend. Chen Huanyue.”

Then, amid stunned silence and murmurs, she would walk into her dorm beside Chen Huanyue, and before Li Ningxin, Han Jiao, and Zhou Beibei, introduce him in the most casual, indifferent tone: “Sisters, this is my boyfriend, Chen Huanyue. He heard you didn’t believe he was Yang Yi’s boyfriend, so he came himself to prove it.”

What would their expressions be then? What would her own feelings be?

By then, she was too excited to imagine it.

Chen Huanyue, Chen Huanyue—back then, he wasn’t even a person; he was merely a tool for her to show off, the only gleam in her dull life, the boundless, overflowing vanity in her dark, inferior heart.