CHAPTER 568: 386.

The sisters gathered in a circle, each one wide-eyed, listening intently.

As Sun Xin spoke, the popularity of the live broadcast slowly increased on the statistics board.

The goddess spoke sincerely, and the audience’s reactions were equally genuine.

These days, the feeling of contrast is as precious as gold.

Who doesn’t like to see beautiful girls caught in unrequited love?

The pain, tears, and fate nailed to the ground under the goddess’s mask, are rare on usual days but highly favored by the crowd.

One by one, the contestants began to speak freely and opened their hearts.

However, due to their experiences and personal limitations, none of these goddesses told a story that truly moved everyone.

But that’s quite normal.

A beautiful woman and unrequited love are inherently two words that sound contradictory.

"It’s my turn~"

Until the camera and gaze focused on Mou Keyan.

After joining the show, Miao Miao perhaps had seen a bigger world and met more outstanding peers, which made her appear much more reserved.

"When I experienced unrequited love, it started one hundred and seventy-three days ago."

"..."

"The first time we went out alone was when we curled up in the office and finished watching La La Land.

The first time sitting close to him, between us were thick layers of clothing; it was raining outside, yet the shoulders next to each other remained scorching hot.

I turned my head and whispered to him that this was my favorite movie.

I deliberately leaned close to his ear, speaking while subtly blowing air.

He remained motionless, his hand reaching over the blanket to tightly hold mine.

The time when I most admired him began that night and lasted for one hundred seventy-three days.

This wasn’t enough to cross the chasm between him and me; I chased forward with all effort, hoping to tell him that the impulse at that moment was worthwhile.

I didn’t dye my hair; he said it looked pretty; I didn’t get a third ear piercing; he said there’s no need to endure pain; I didn’t smoke or drink; he said it’s good for my health; I didn’t wear revealing clothes going out; he said this way I wouldn’t catch cold.

He said, if you dyed your hair, you would find that black hair is still more enduring.

I gradually became calm and collected, saving money to watch performances in a small pouch, scrolling through reviews on DaZhong to find suitable dating places while waiting for him at the laboratory entrance.

Not going to the cinema, since he doesn’t like movies; not playing arcade games, since he’s not interested; not strolling West Lake, as it’s perceived as a meaningless waste of time.

I sifted through options, careful explorations piled up in my favorites folder.

I asked him a week in advance which day he could spare an afternoon for our date, knowing he was busy, I withdrew from his daily life graciously, not initiating meals or evening walks.

If he said a meeting was canceled, even if I was already in bed, I’d run downstairs to joyfully walk back to the residential area with him from the teaching building.

When not seeing him, my heart itched as if ants were crawling; like an addict, I repeatedly flipped through albums of his photos, viewing countless images of him working, debating, attending class.

Before sleep, closing my eyes thinking of his figure, even with blurred features, there always was a beam of light behind him, like a faint halo.

He said that relationships require upkeep, to tell him everything I did, as he’d read it.

Thus, our chatbox filled with my scattered green bubbles interrupted by numerous gray timestamps.

He responded when he had time, but typically it was one message at the bottom, out of fifty.

When he replied, I’d wonder, what was he doing now?

Was it during a break in writing a paper, or waiting for experiment results?

I never asked what he was doing, transforming my life entirely into text for him, hoping to let the busy him envision a small version of me doing all sorts of things.

Wasn’t dating me meant to be his spiritual solace amidst a hectic life?

I am the lover, needing to provide him with that.

I waited, accompanied, and changed for him.

I always found myself walking alone, carrying takeout, friends asked where my boyfriend was since they haven’t seen him for so long.

A proud and happy smile would appear as I said he was busy, I too had plenty to do.

Loving him for three years, the sharing desire for a lifetime is drained.

I avoided going out with friends, fearing he might suddenly finish work and need me; if I weren’t there, how unfortunate.

Our encounters felt like stolen from someone’s hands, seemingly decreasing by the meeting, and each was one I wished to savor for a long, long time.

I loved every iteration of him in memories, every moment of feeling immensely in love with him often wasn’t when he was beside me.

I thought love should be like this: independent, self-assured, not longing for meaningless meetings and companionship, encountering at the summit.

The year he got into his PhD program, I was just preparing for my grad exam.

Sometimes, I wouldn’t send a message for a week when I had no time or content to share; our chatbox turned blank.

While clearing my tablet’s memory, the record with the file transfer assistant takes up 4GB; chats with him lay far behind, similar to when I first knew him, beyond the twenty-four top work group chats needing two slides to see.

I applied to the school where he was doing his PhD; on the day results were out, we both were happy.

He invited me for a meal by West Lake, making me feel unexpectedly pampered.

It had been four months since we last met across the district.

At the dinner table, he asked what I’d been up to in this half year.

I rarely found myself tongue-tied, having nothing to share except studying, so he started talking.

I watched him grip the chopsticks, his hair fluttering under light, untrimmed brows, speaking of his thesis progress, and occasionally playing school sports.

I didn’t comment, he could speak long by himself, the top light fleetingly moved to his back, leaving his features blurred as the light continued to shine, his brilliance drew me, a silent moth, irresistibly to the flame.

I thought, if life could always be like this, how wonderful it’d be.

I could be his everlasting audience, never needing him physically close, never needing him to step off the stage to hold my hand, he shouldn’t.

Just standing there suffices; so long as I’m by his side, he will have a stage and spotlight, eternally speaking, with me forever listening.

Nearly three years apart, whenever he looked back at me, I’d feel like a stray cat touched by a human; how could he be with me?

How am I worthy of being with him?

What must I become to stand beside him?

To keep his attention on me fresh?

Even attending the same school, we barely met.

I had papers to write, as did he, with even heavier workloads.

Yet he would spare one lunch a week to eat together; sitting in silence devouring food, then going separate ways.

This felt great; both lives filled with work, striving together for a better future.

But... what would our future be?

Would we have an endpoint?

What if we had a family?

Would it be a life still of sparse meetings, scant communication? Would I fail to remember your face despite constant closeness?

That day leaving the teaching building, I messaged you, capturing the night sky adorned by a crescent moon.

You didn’t reply as always; I figured you were probably busy with experiments.

I pocketed my phone and headed back, a whirlwind passing, three bicycles racing past before abruptly braking.

You turned to look at me, asking why I was there.

I stared at you, with streetlights behind, still a halo unfurling from your back; the helmet hid your wild hair, you’re only three meters away, yet it’s as if I saw you for the first time.