To the outside world, Lu Jin’s life appeared frozen in time. He left for school early, returned later than most, and occasionally ventured out under the guise of walking his cat.
As long as he didn’t do anything to “lose face” [丢脸 Diūliǎn: A critical Chinese concept where bringing shame to the family is considered a major transgression] for the Lu family, his parents, Lu Huiming and his wife, couldn’t care less where he spent his hours.
That evening, Lu Jin found a quiet, dimly lit corner of the neighborhood—a place where the shadows were deep enough to hide a boy in a wheelchair. But he wasn’t alone.
Xia Zhen was already there, waiting. She had traded her baggy school uniform [运动校服 Yùndòng xiàofú: The loose, tracksuit-style uniforms common in Chinese schools] for a white skirt that hit just above her knees and a pair of flat sandals that showed off her toes. She looked vibrant and soft, radiating a youthful charm that the stiff school fabrics always managed to hide.
“Lu Jin, good evening!” she chirped, waving a hand.
The kitten in Lu Jin’s lap meowed and leaped toward her. Xia Zhen scooped the creature up with a giggle. “Good evening, Xiao Bai!”
The cat wagged its tail lazily, its eyes gleaming in the dark. Xia Zhen carried the kitten back to Lu Jin, tilting her head playfully. “I greeted you. Aren’t you going to say anything back?”
“Good evening,” he replied, his voice thick with a familiar, quiet awkwardness.
Xia Zhen’s eyes crinkled into a mischievous smile as she pressed a folded piece of paper into his palm. “I’ve decided how you’re going to repay your debt to me. I’ve written it all down. Take a look.”
The paper was a list of “clauses” for their budding relationship:
He had to wait for her every morning to go to school together, barring emergencies.
When she spoke to him, silence was forbidden; he had to respond.
He was never allowed to bottle up his grievances or thoughts; he had to be honest with her.
The list went on, filled with trivial, everyday demands. At the very bottom, she had even written that, when asked to choose between her and a flower, he must always admit she was the prettier one.
Lu Jin scanned the lines, his expression unreadable—until his finger stopped on a specific sentence: If they had a conflict, he would directly express his dissatisfaction.
“What? You don’t like that one?” she asked.
Lu Jin’s finger shifted, pointing to a specific Hanzi [汉子: Chinese character]. “There should be three horizontal strokes inside this radical,” he noted calmly. He was pointing at the character “直” [Zhí: Meaning “straight” or “direct”].
Xia Zhen bent down, squinting at her own handwriting. “I did write three strokes!” she insisted, sounding slightly wronged.
“It looks like two from here,” he countered.
“That’s just because I was writing fast! I swear there are three!”
“Oh.” His response was blatantly perfunctory [敷衍 Fūyǎn: Doing something half-heartedly or just to get it over with].
Xia Zhen set the cat down and braced her hands against the armrests of his wheelchair. She leaned in until they were inches apart, her gaze burning with mock indignation. “I get a 120 out of 150 on my Chinese exams! I know how to write a simple word!”
She was so close he could feel the warmth of her breath against his skin. It was a high-tension distance, yet Lu Jin’s face remained a mask of cool indifference. He looked away, offering a quiet, “Hmm.”
“Fine,” Xia Zhen huffed, her cheeks flushing. “I admit my handwriting isn’t exactly… calligraphic.”
“A little?” he teased.
The “Goddess” of the school, it seemed, had the handwriting of a primary schooler—crooked, messy, and a little bit stubborn. She muttered something about printing a copy next time and tried to snatch the paper back, but Lu Jin was faster. He folded it neatly and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket, right over his heart.
“No need,” he said softly. “I owe you. I’ll do my best to follow your rules.”
Xia Zhen blinked, then grinned. “Lu Jin, you’re actually quite arrogant, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“Why won’t you look at me?” she challenged.
He forced his gaze back to her face. “I’m not afraid to look at you.”
“Liar.” Xia Zhen leaned even closer, her voice dropping to a silken, dangerous whisper. “You might want to loosen your grip on your armrests before denying, Lu Jin. You’re going to prick your own palms.”
His knuckles, white from tension, stiffened.
She was like a little devil who had finally cornered her prey. Her eyes curved into a charming, feline shape. “Lu Jin… do you want to kiss me?”
She smiled, her pink lips looking dazzlingly soft in the moonlight. Lu Jin’s Adam’s apple bobbed. The calm mask shattered.
“No!” he blurted out, his voice cracking and rising several decibels. The sudden volume was a dead giveaway of the “ugly,” yearning thoughts he was trying to bury.
He expected her to tease him, to push her luck as she always did. But she simply gave a perfunctory “Oh” and straightened up. Even as she drew back, her scent—sweet and clean—lingered in his senses. He didn’t dare breathe too deeply.
“The doctor said you need rehabilitation,” Xia Zhen said, switching gears as she pulled out her phone. It was filled with bookmarked videos and medical texts. “You’ve been in that chair too long. I found some simple exercises we can start with…”
“I know,” he interrupted softly.
Xia Zhen paused. Lu Jin lowered his head, his voice barely a whisper. “For years, I’ve secretly hoped for a miracle. I’ve collected my own materials.”
He was a man of contradictions—everyone told him he was a “cripple,” yet having once known the freedom of running, he couldn’t help but rebel against his fate in the dark.
“Lu Jin.”
He looked up at her.
Xia Zhen’s face was soft, her smile deep and full of a promise that seemed to chase away the night. “The day you stand up on your own… I’ll give you that kiss. Okay?”
Whether it was her smile or the biting wind, Lu Jin’s vision blurred. For one heartbeat, his world went silent, and his heart simply forgot to beat.Xia Zhen’s smile widened as she pivoted to the bench, retrieved a thermos, and popped the lid. The savory aroma of toasted dough and ginger filled the air. “You need to fuel up if you’re going to survive this workout,” she said, handing it over. “These are Shengjian-style [生煎 Shēngjiān: Pan-fried pork buns/dumplings with a crispy bottom and juicy filling] made by my aunt. I accidentally brought a mountain of them—help me out, okay?”
Watching her, Lu Jin felt his heart—which had only just regained its rhythm—begin to hammer against his ribs with a violent, erratic force. He pressed a hand to his chest, his lashes casting long shadows as he looked down. He was terrified; this unfamiliar, soaring emotion was the kind of thing that could drive a person to madness.
Friday dawned as a picture-perfect day.
Xia Zhen stepped out of the elevator, mid-bite into a crisp pear. Seeing the boy in the wheelchair waiting at the lobby entrance, her pace quickened into a light jog. “Lu Jin, good morning!”
She leaned down, her face inches from his, her smile so radiant it felt like a physical warmth. Lu Jin’s gaze caught on her for a fraction of a second longer than usual before he managed a stiff, “Good morning.”
Xia Zhen did a playful pirouette, the hem of her jacket fluttering. “How do I look? I’m in the uniform [校服 Xiàofú: Specifically the ‘blue and white’ tracksuit common in Chinese public schools] today. Do I pull it off?”
The oversized, functional blue-and-white No. 1 High School tracksuit usually made students look like shapeless sacks, but on Xia Zhen, paired with clean white sneakers and her high ponytail, it felt fresh and spirited. She had lost the “noble” air of her private school days, replaced by a glowing, youthful energy. She stood there expectantly, the ends of her ponytail swaying like a pendulum.
He remained silent.
Xia Zhen narrowed her eyes. “I’m waiting. Do. I. Look. Good?”
“So-so,” Lu Jin replied coolly.
Xia Zhen, a girl who had likely never been called “average” in her entire life, gasped in mock outrage. “Average? Lu Jin, do we need to get your eyes checked during the next rehab session?”
He didn’t take the bait. With a quiet “Hmm,” he turned his chair and began to push forward. Xia Zhen caught up in three strides, finished her pear, tossed the core with a perfect arc into a bin, and took over the handles of his chair.
She was a master of emotional regulation; within seconds, she was chatting again as if the “average” comment hadn’t happened. “You went so hard on the training last night, I was worried you’d be a zombie today. Don’t go falling asleep in class.”
“I won’t.”
“So confident! How come?”
He paused, then said seriously, “I have to pay attention.”
For Lu Jin, education wasn’t just school; it was his Gaokao [高考 Gāokǎo: The grueling National College Entrance Examination] lifeline. It was the only way to earn enough to escape the Lu family and start a life where he wasn’t a “disgrace.”
Suddenly, he felt a soft, rhythmic patting on the top of his head.
“Our Lu Jin is such a hardworking boy,” she cooed, her tone brimming with affection.
Lu Jin: “…”
It was the exact way a doting grandmother might pat a toddler.
Because both had been absent the day before, the classroom was a beehive of gossip [八卦 Bāguà]. The girls were whispering about “secret dates,” while the boys looked like they were mourning a national tragedy—their goddess had been snatched away by the “Wolf Boy” in the wheelchair.
The Math Rep nudged the Language Arts Rep. “Go ask her. Find out where they went.”
“Why me? You go!”
“You’re a girl! You can play the ‘new friend’ card and get the melon [吃瓜 Chī guā: Get the juicy details].”
“Heh, when my desk broke and you made me carry the new one, you didn’t seem to care I was a girl.”
“Why weren’t you here yesterday?”
The classroom went dead silent. The question hadn’t come from a gossiper, but from the class monitor—Gao Ling, the school’s “Inaccessible Snow Beauty.”
Xia Zhen didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she dug a fresh pear out of her bag and shoved it into Lu Jin’s lap. Her bag was like a magical pantry—always stocked with bread, candy, and now, fruit.
Lu Jin tried to hand it back, but she fixed him with a wide-eyed, innocent stare. “I can’t finish it. If you don’t eat it, it’s going in the trash. You wouldn’t waste food, would you?”
Lu Jin’s jaw tightened, but his hand retracted. He kept the pear.
Then, Xia Zhen turned to Gao Ling with a breezy smile. “I caught a nasty cold and had to hit the hospital. Lu Jin was there for a check-up too, so we just decided to take the day off together.”
To prove her point, she pulled out a bottle of pills and her pink thermos. She blew on the water, took her medicine with a dramatic wince, and swallowed. Shaking it off like an old man finishing a shot of Baijiu [白酒 Báijiǔ: Strong Chinese grain liquor], she beamed at the monitor. “Since we missed so much, could we borrow your notes to copy?”
The surrounding students held their breath. Gao Ling was famous for being a cold, unreachable academic machine.
Without a word, Gao Ling reached into her desk, pulled out her notebook, and slid it over. “Return it when you’re done.”
The class nearly fainted. The Snow Beauty is… an easy touch?
The bell for Morning Self-Study [早自习 Zǎo zìxí: A standard period in Chinese schools for quiet reading or memorization] rang. Ms. Wen, the homeroom teacher, swept in, and the murmurs died down.
Xia Zhen opened Gao Ling’s notebook and placed it exactly on the line between her desk and Lu Jin’s. She reached over, her slender fingers tugging gently at the sleeve of his blue uniform. “Hurry up and copy,” she whispered.
Lu Jin froze for a second.
“Weren’t you the one who said he had to study hard?” she teased under her breath.
He realized then—she hadn’t borrowed the notes for herself. She knew he was too proud to ask for help, so she had played the “shameless” role to get him what he needed. He closed his eyes, exhaled, and whispered back, “Thank you.”
Xia Zhen’s smile in response was blinding.
As the sun climbed higher, golden rays began to slant through the windows. Their corner remained in the shadows, yet it felt warmer than the rest of the room.
During the quiet memorization period, the heat and the medicine finally caught up to Xia Zhen. Her chin rested on her palms, her head bobbing lower and lower as she drifted off. Finally, her head dropped completely.
It didn’t hit the wood.
Lu Jin had slid his hand across the desk just in time. Her forehead landed softly in his palm.
Xia Zhen’s eyes fluttered open. She didn’t move; she simply tilted her face, her cheek pressing into his calloused hand. Looking up at his calm, focused profile, she let out a tiny, sleepy sigh and smiled.
Lu Jin felt a sudden, profound ache in his chest—a melting sensation that reached his very soul.
Across the aisle, the Language Arts Rep suddenly buried her face in her hands, vibrating with silent energy.
“What’s wrong with you?” the Math Rep whispered.
“I’m… I’m dying!” she squealed into her palms. “The CP [CP: ‘Coupling,’ slang for a romantic pair]… it’s too sweet! I’m going to have a heart attack!”