MW CH21

Chapter 21: No Need Means No Need

Freshman year, second semester—I’d resolved to cut ties with Mochuan. But with Yan Chuwen in the mix, it was like divorced parents linked by a kid: dodge all you want, you’ll still bump into each other picking them up.

That day, Yan Chuwen called—his family sent a crate of sweet plums, Aunt Wan said split it with me, come grab them.

May weather, spring breeze just right—I shuffled over in slippers. Took a lazy shortcut near their dorm and caught Mochuan mid-confession.

Friday night—locals gone home, party crowd out, campus quiet. Main roads had some life; side paths, barely a soul.

Dim light—I couldn’t see clear. The girl had thick, wavy hair, slim build, sweet voice—vaguely like that curly-haired archer.

“…Really won’t consider it?” Her hands twisted behind her, nervous.

“Sorry.” Mochuan looked down, shook his head.

Maybe dragged from his room, he wore just a thin white tee—chilly to see.

She shivered, pulled something from behind, handed it over. Too far—I caught a glint under the streetlamp, metal maybe.

“I made this myself… could you take it?” Her voice turned pitiful—I softened just hearing it.

But Mochuan’s heart was steel. Same two words: “Sorry.”

His tone wasn’t harsh, his vibe gentle—but distant, firm. Softened the sting of rejection, left no room for hope.

“Made it for you—can’t give it to anyone else. If you don’t want it… toss it.” Bold, she grabbed his hand, shoved the gift in, then bolted—afraid he’d shove it back.

Mochuan’s hand hung mid-air, watching her flee—no chase. After a bit, he glanced at it, no attachment, set it on a nearby trash bin.

“It’s a gift—don’t want it, fine, but toss it?” I couldn’t stand it, pushed a flower branch aside, stepped from the shadows.

Closer now—a handmade bracelet. Silver cord, intricate knots, beads, tags—stylish, thoughtful, a real effort.

He eyed where I’d popped out. “Eavesdropping?”

I bristled. “Don’t make it sound sleazy—you’re blocking my way, how could I not hear?”

“I don’t need it.” His face glowed cold white under the lamp.

Took me a sec—he was answering my jab about tossing it. He didn’t need it.

“It’s just a bracelet—take it, don’t wear it. Why trash her effort?”

Maybe my upbringing—girls hit me different. I like guys, but they get no free pass; I don’t like girls, but I go soft for them.

I’d tell a guy I’m with him ‘cause I’m bored, no sweat. But a girl’s heart stepped on? Can’t watch it—reminds me of Bai Qifeng, too close to home.

A rogue breeze swept through, shaking loose pear blossoms, showering us both.

A pink petal stuck to his head—he didn’t notice, smiled sudden. “Then what’s the difference from tossing it?”

I choked—how’s it not different?—but that flash of a smile scrambled my comeback.

His lips eased down, eyes darkened. “No need means no need. You Xia love your vague games, lingering ties—but we Cenglu don’t.”

“Pointless things shouldn’t spark hope.”

A jolt yanked me from sleep—dreams of that flower-strewn night lingered. Plane announcements droned.

“Dear passengers: We’ve safely arrived…”

Out the window—hours ago, Cuoyansong’s snowy peaks; now, Haicheng’s skyscrapers. Less than a month gone, yet it felt lifetimes away.

“Mr. Bai, plane’s stopped—you can disembark,” a flight attendant smiled, nudging me—I’d zoned out.

“…Thanks.” I grinned back, grabbed my bag from the rack, headed out.

Back in Haicheng, life snapped to normal—Cuoyansong a fleeting, weird dream, surfacing only in idle moments.

“Feather of God” was a beast—each feather a saga. I ran to factories, hovered over craftsmen, ensuring every curve matched my vision. Days locked in there, weekends too.

Huangfu Rou seemed to drop it—no more meddling. Miss Gu didn’t push either, giving me breathing room for new designs.

The studio’s frail orchid sat unchanged—same as I left it, no bloom in sight.

“Cuoyansong fun?” Zhao Chenyuan topped off my drink.

I thanked him, grabbed a bite. “Eh, so-so.”

Shen Jing laughed beside him. “You’re not built for quiet—few days, sure, for the novelty. Long haul? You’d burn out.”

Second week back, they’d invited me over for dinner. I triple-checked with Zhao—no extras—just to avoid Shen Jing hauling in Jiang Boshu or some blind date trap.

He teased if I feared a setup—nah, just dodging awkward.

“Life there… not exactly convenient,” I admitted. “Good for a getaway, not living.”

City habits die hard—300 kilometers round-trip for a tetanus shot? Didn’t faze me then; now, exhausting to recall.

Friends catch up—work, life, love.

Post-grad, Zhao and roommates launched a gaming startup—decent mobile hits, no blockbusters, but steady cash. Love-wise, Shen Jing—six years older, rich, gorgeous, chill—gave him a double win. Life’s champ.

Me? “Trended online” was my edge.

“Remember that uni game I made—‘Quiz Island’?” Zhao asked out of nowhere.

My cup froze mid-lift. “Yeah.”

How could I not? My longest fling sparked there—married in-game, even got a pet dragon “kid.”

“It stayed in beta—crashed for random reasons. Always regretted it. Recently pitched Old Xu and them to revive it…” Xu, a partner, ex-roommate.

My heart twitched. “Revive it—can old data come back?”

“Nah, too long—servers wiped clean when it shut down. Want a nostalgia hit? I’ll hook you up with a new account,” he offered, generous.

No data, no point—a clone account’s not the same.

“No thanks,” I sipped. “No time for games now.”

He nodded. “True. So, Cuoyansong—just Yan Chuwen, no one else?”

I raised a brow. “Who?”

“Mochuan’s from there, right? Cenglu live around those parts.”

If his face wasn’t so blank, I’d swear he knew something.

“Who’s Mochuan?” Shen Jing, clueless, cut in.

“Oh, uni guy—Little Yan’s roommate, minority folk. Man, even I’d say… he’s something,” Zhao gushed, flailing to paint Mochuan’s college glory for her.

“That hot?” Shen Jing doubted his taste, pointed at me. “Hotter than Bai Yin?”

“Bai Yin’s hot—TV-hot, media-hot. Mochuan’s… you won’t find his type out there.”

I chipped in, “No substitutes.”

Shen Jing got it—curiosity spiked.

“Got pics? Let me see this unsubstitutable beauty.”

Zhao turned to me. “Did you see him? Snap any? Show my wife!”

Shen Jing’s eyes begged too.

Facing their hungry stares, I sloooowly fished out my phone, scrolled, landed on Mochuan with a devotee.

A dark-robed believer knelt, bowing deep. Mochuan leaned down, hand out to lift them—thick lashes veiled his eyes, blurring his face. Hall dark, a stray beam from the door lit the frame.

Shot it three days before leaving Pengge—no framing, no tweaks—just saw beauty, clicked. Later, it’s damn near an oil painting.

“Something alright,” Shen Jing marveled, clutching my phone.

Reluctantly, she handed it back. “What’s he do now? Looks like a temple.”

I mulled it. “Think… civil servant.”

Days rolled—busy, full, steady. A month flew to Lichun, then Spring Festival.

Like every year, New Year’s Eve was at Yan’s.

Other holidays, Yan Chuwen might skip—but New Year? He’s there.

Afternoon, elders cooked; I played cards, board games with him, his siblings. Crowd plus AC cranked high—two rounds, I bailed to the porch for a smoke.

Soon, Yan Chuwen joined.

“Too loud—gotta reply to a message,” he said, waving his phone.

I smoked, he leaned on the rail, typing—each to our own.

“Mochuan’s coming to Haicheng.”

Cigarette pinched, I blanked two seconds, stunned at him.

Head down, fingers flying—no voice message—yet he clocked my shock without looking.

“After Spring Festival, he’ll be here,” he repeated.