AUS Chapter 10: I Don’t Want to Wait for Liu Jiang Anymore

Of course I went to look for him.

The milk tea shop wasn’t far, just around the corner from their house. I strolled to the street corner wearing Liu Jiang’s short-sleeve shirt that proclaimed my ignorance to the world, and it didn’t take much effort to find the shop.

The area was lined with storefronts: a seafood shop, a dumpling restaurant, a fruit stall. The milk tea shop was the only place with a touch of youthful energy, situated at the corner.

I didn’t step inside because from a distance, I spotted a flash of Number Twenty High School’s uniform. Liu Jiang was there.

I stood by the corner wall of the milk tea shop, pressing the I can’t tell you why phrase on my shirt between myself and the glass door. At this hour, the shop was nearly empty, or perhaps the residential area didn’t attract many milk tea customers to begin with. It didn’t take much effort to hear Liu Jiang’s voice.

His voice, slightly deeper than his appearance suggested.

Unfortunately, the glass door’s soundproofing kicked in at that moment, and I could only catch fragmented words, along with another voice mixed in with Liu Jiang’s.

It was the brother.

His brother, who had nothing to do with me.

Before leaving, I’d asked Liu Jiang’s grandma a bit more about this “brother.” His name was Gu Tongyu, a year older than Liu Jiang, studying at an arts high school—details she’d shared from the start. But as our conversation went on, I noticed a blind spot.

This Gu Tongyu seemed to be the same type as me.

Clean-cut, well-liked by teachers, trusted by parents. These were all positive traits, yet for the first time, I felt deeply irritated by them.

What irritated me even more was that I had no memory of this person, not even an inkling that he existed.

Through the glass door, I finally made out a few of Liu Jiang’s words: “these few days,” “after school,” and “performance.” Just as I held my breath, straining to hear more clearly, a delivery truck carrying seafood roared past on the street in front of me.

It wasn’t a large truck, but the noise was substantial. I frowned, closing my eyes to wait for it to pass, only to hear another sound instead.

Liu Jiang emerged, sipping his milk tea, holding another cup in his hand. Seeing me leaning against the wall with my hands in my school uniform pockets, he asked, “Hey, what are you doing here?”

I opened my eyes calmly, blurting out a lie. “Grandma was getting worried and sent me to check on you.”

“No way,” Liu Jiang said, chewing on tapioca pearls. “She’s always fine with wherever I go.”

Then he handed me the milk tea. Judging by the color, it was the same kind as his, also loaded with half a cup of pearls.

I took it for a second before handing it back. “You drink it. I’m heading out.”

He looked puzzled. “You’re not staying for dinner?”

I replied, “Eat with your brother. My mom’s getting worried.”

There was a hint of jealousy in my tone when I said it. But structurally and semantically, it was just a normal refusal, so Liu Jiang only let out an “oh,” holding the milk tea in one hand as he watched me walk away.

I didn’t look back. I assumed he was watching me go, but I didn’t dare turn to confirm. If he wasn’t, I’d look pathetic.

In the empty city rail carriage, after some reflection, I decided to seek external help. I looked up and called out, “System, are you listening?”

The system responded quickly. “Dear tester, I’m listening.”

I asked, “Is everything in this world based on my memories? No original content?”

Like inventing a “brother” to increase the difficulty of my mission and worsen my experience.

The system replied, “The simulation is entirely based on your real memories. If you have no recollection, it only means you have no recollection.”

I raised my eyebrows, taking a deep breath, but I didn’t argue. Not because I was generous, but because the train had reached a station, and a few passengers boarded. I couldn’t exactly keep talking to the sky in a crowded carriage.

The train started moving again. I sat at the edge, leaning against the armrest, the system’s words echoing in my head—just because I had no recollection.

Was my memory really that bad?

Returning to high school classes after all these years, I’d forgotten much of what I’d learned, but keeping up now wasn’t too hard. I still remembered my peak, the period leading up to the college entrance exams. If someone mentioned a theorem, I could recall the textbook page number with decent accuracy.

Back then, my homeroom teacher’s evaluation of me was, “If Yang Pingsheng wants to remember something, there’s nothing he can’t.”

Perhaps because I’d reverted to a high schooler’s identity, I could easily find joy in praise I’d heard countless times as an adult. Thinking back on that glowing review, I raised a hand to rub the tip of my nose.

But my smile soon froze as I mentally replayed my teacher’s words.

If I wanted to remember something, there was nothing I couldn’t.

That meant I’d never bothered to remember who was around Liu Jiang.

No wonder I used nicknames like “Fatty,” “Skinny,” or “Mouse” for everyone I met at school. I’d never memorized their names.

The train had just stopped at Liancheng Ocean University, where a college couple boarded and sat across from me. They shared a pair of earphones, one in each ear, but sat at a subtle distance—either newly together or still in the late stages of flirting.

The guy took off his earphone and leaned in to say something. The girl lowered her voice, playfully scolding, “Why are you like that?”

I turned my head to look out at the direction the train was heading. That numb feeling in my arm, like someone had pinched it, returned.

I reached my apartment complex at 6:30 p.m., just as the sky began to glow with the red of sunset. I swiped my card to enter and waited for the elevator. But as the elevator floors ticked closer, I noticed something off. Peering out at the lobby, I saw a familiar car parked outside—my mom’s Audi A6L.

And I was wearing Liu Jiang’s short-sleeve shirt, one that screamed “not respectable” at first glance.

I immediately shook out my school jacket, slipped it on, and zipped it up from bottom to top.

If it was my dad, I could brush it off, but my mom’s eagle eyes would spot that this wasn’t my shirt in a second. Why would her kid change clothes in the middle of a school day? Something was up, and for that uncertain “something,” she’d dig until the truth came out.

I stuffed the freshly sewn short-sleeve into my backpack, tucked my chin into my collar, and planned to head straight to the bathroom to pretend I was showering as soon as I got in.

The keypad lock clicked open, and I stepped inside casually, only to find my mom in the bathroom.

She said, “You’re back?”

I mumbled a response, glancing at her nonchalantly. She was checking the expiration dates and opening dates of the supplements and medications in the medicine cabinet, bottle by bottle. She had OCD and periodically inspected her inventory.

I put on the act of a student exhausted from a day of studying, rubbing my forehead as I changed into slippers. But the moment I was out of her sight, I yanked open my backpack, stripped off the short-sleeve, stuffed it inside, and pulled out my original shirt to put on—all in under five seconds. When my mom emerged from the bathroom, I was performing the act of just coming out of my room.

As I said, my mom had OCD, so she couldn’t stand me not changing clothes immediately upon getting home. She urged me to change.

Exactly what I wanted.

I grabbed a freshly washed shirt from the balcony and headed toward the bathroom when my mom suddenly called out to me, her gaze lingering on my short-sleeve.

No way. Could her eyes see through to the stitching on my sleeve?

Of course not. Just as my heart raced faster than it did before a quarterly report, my mom asked, “Why is that shirt so wrinkled?”

An easy answer—laziness explains everything.

I said, “I slept on it during my nap.”

Her expression was pure disdain, no suspicion. I sidestepped her, tossed the shirt into the washing machine, and heard her talking to me from the living room as she slipped on her high heels.

She said, “Stay away from that crowd at Number Twenty High School.”

The same thing my dad said. No surprise—they were a couple, united in thought.

But her words were more pointed. She started reasoning, “Some people might seem glamorous now, but they won’t help your future at all. School is only three years, but work is for a lifetime. Think about who can impact your life long-term, then decide your actions.”

I crouched in front of the washing machine, where two shirts lay side by side in the drum: the one I’d just taken off and the one I’d worn back from Liu Jiang’s. I didn’t know brands or materials, but I felt that these two shirts together were like the two of us standing side by side—out of place to outsiders.

I stood up, dumped the rest of the dirty laundry from the basket into the machine, and pressed start. The water began to fill, drowning out my mom’s nagging.

The sound of the front door opening came from outside the bathroom, followed by my mom shouting for me to lock it. I stood up slowly, the washing machine’s churning accompanying me as I walked to the entryway.

She asked, “Did you hear what I said? Study hard, and don’t end up like those students.”

That one sentence ignited something I’d been suppressing all day, nearly making me laugh in frustration.

“No need for the future,” I said. “The world’s ended, and everyone’s the same. Same outcome.”

Suspicion finally appeared on my mom’s face. She asked, “What are you talking about?”

I shut my mouth, blinking hard once, refusing to explain. I was waiting for the system to kick me out, because I’d clearly just broken the fourth wall.