That year’s affiliated middle school arts festival—Jin Zhao’s “Goddess of the Luo River” won first prize; Meng Yanxi’s sword dance, and Si Tian and Luo Heng’s crosstalk took second and third place respectively. Those were the official awards.

In addition, the forum—where traffic was king—also slapped Meng Yanxi with a “Best Popularity” award.

There was no trophy, only a full week of nonstop buzz and discussion.

Everyone lavished praise on his sword dance, which he had performed with a blank expression from start to finish, as if he were merely checking off a set of movements. They even attached photos from every possible angle, going over them with a magnifying glass, highlighting key points in 360 degrees and talking him up to the skies.

Meng Yanxi wanted to delete the post.

Lu Jingyue was rotten to the core—every time someone was kicked while down, he was there. With an arm slung over Meng Yanxi’s shoulder, he wore a look of sympathy and said, “From the moment you agreed to go onstage, you should’ve known this would become your eternal black history. Take it as a lesson learned. Be more cautious next time, think twice before you act, Meng-shen.”

Meng Yanxi brushed his hand away and stuffed the trophy into his arms. “If you’re jealous, just say so. I’m giving it to you.”

Lu Jingyue glanced at it once, then chased after him, hooked an arm around Meng Yanxi’s shoulder again, and asked with an infuriating grin, “First time in your life getting an award that starts with ‘two,’ huh? Gotta say, it actually suits you.”

Meng Yanxi snapped and kicked at him. Lu Jingyue reacted fast and dodged, but Meng Yanxi was dead set on beating him up. He avoided the first kick, only to get hit harder by the second—right in the back of the knee. Lu Jingyue failed to dodge and dropped to his knees on the spot. Unfortunately, the two brothers were equally stubborn with their mouths—despite that, Lu Jingyue still carefully cradled Meng Yanxi’s trophy, smiling at him in a way that made him eminently punchable. “Good thing it didn’t break.”

Now Meng Yanxi didn’t just want to delete the post—he wanted to silence witnesses.

Fortunately, there were still normal people on the forum. Right beneath the post blindly hyping him up was a discussion thread about the Goddess of the Luo River.

The Goddess of the Luo River was Jin Zhao.

Young people always seemed especially fond of giving others nicknames—often just an offhand remark or a brief episode, and from then on, there was an extra name. After the arts festival, Jin Zhao became the Goddess of the Luo River. Acquaintances and strangers alike all called her that.

Divinity was an extremely high form of praise, at such a lofty dimension that it even made emotions like jealousy hard to produce.

Those days, Meng Yanxi would open that thread from time to time. No matter the gender, everyone’s comments about Jin Zhao were purely praise—admiring, yet restrained.

Even when Zhao Yu returned to class, she greeted her with a smiling, “Goddess of the Luo River.”

That title made Jin Zhao so embarrassed she wanted to flee the planet. Blushing, she said, “No, no, everyone’s just here for the spectacle. You of all people should know—I only did a simplified version.”

Zhao Yu had come back to classes, but her foot was still wrapped in gauze. During breaks, she unceremoniously propped her leg up on her deskmate’s chair to rest, and said cheerfully, “Who cares if it’s simplified or traditional—if it’s beautiful, it’s beautiful! If there’s a chance in the future, let’s do a duet.”

Jin Zhao smiled and agreed. Back at her seat, she continued to worry about how she could get everyone to stop calling her that.

“Goddess of the Luo River, your test paper.”

Meng Yanxi poked right where it hurt, handing her the monthly exam math paper, and took the opportunity to call her that with ill intent.

Jin Zhao was so embarrassed her scalp went numb. She stared at him blankly. “Can you call me Cuihua instead?”

Meng Yanxi: “?”

Jin Zhao reasoned with him. “I’d rather be called Cuihua than the Goddess of the Luo River.”

Meng Yanxi couldn’t help laughing. “Is it really that bad?”

Jin Zhao gave an analogy. “If I called you ‘Crown Prince,’ would you be happy about it?”

Meng Yanxi thought about it. “It’s not like it wouldn’t work.”

Jin Zhao: “……”

Although she suspected he was just being stubborn, in the end she still underestimated how thick-skinned he was.

Even Lu Jingyue, passing by, couldn’t stand it and cut in, “Then call him King Xiang.”

Jin Zhao froze and asked, “What King Xiang?”

Lu Jingyue smiled without quite smiling. “The King Xiang from ‘King Xiang has a dream, but the goddess has no heart.’”

Meng Yanxi’s face darkened on the spot.

Having learned his lesson last time, Lu Jingyue nimbly bolted before Meng Yanxi could kick him again. When he got back to his seat, he just happened to spot a boy who was “passing by” the window, eyes glued straight inside. Lu Jingyue tipped his chin and added fuel to the fire. “The competition’s pretty fierce, another King Xiang.”

These past few days, there really had been boys passing by Jin Zhao’s window from time to time, but someone with luck this bad was the first—caught on the spot by Lu Jingyue’s malicious callout. Just then, the class bell rang, and the boy seized the chance to flee at top speed.

By the second break, Meng Yanxi and Jin Zhao had switched seats—Meng Yanxi took the window seat, and Jin Zhao sat on the outside.

Meng Yanxi’s reason was that he liked looking at the scenery; he had always sat there before.

Jin Zhao had no way to refute it, and at the same time silently let out a breath of relief.

She had been used to keeping a low profile since childhood. This sudden attention really did make her feel constrained and awkward.

Fortunately, June 7th and 8th arrived quickly, and the entire country was immersed in the tense yet fervent atmosphere of the college entrance exam. The arts festival, as an interlude, was gone in the blink of an eye. Although after that, on very rare occasions, students from other classes who didn’t know her name would still call out “Goddess of the Luo River” when she walked by, at least Meng Yanxi never called her that again.

What troubled Jin Zhao more now was how she was supposed to return that dress to Meng Yanxi.

After the performance that day, Chen Shu had said there was no need to return the dress. By convention, costumes like that could indeed be taken home. Jin Zhao didn’t think much of it—after changing out of it, she neatly folded it back into the box and brought it home.

Because of the feathers, it wasn’t suitable for washing with water. Jin Zhao temporarily placed the box in her room, planning to take it to the dry cleaners when she had time. But Lin Yao saw it and one day asked her with a smile who had given her the dress—it was quite pretty.

Jin Zhao said it was a performance costume from the arts festival, that the teacher had allowed them to bring it back, and that all seven girls who danced had one.

Lin Yao paused for a moment, then smiled again. “Your school is pretty well-funded. I’ve seen something similar at the boutique counter—one dress like that sells for tens of thousands.”

Jin Zhao’s heart skipped a beat. Keeping her expression steady, she said, “Ours should be a knockoff.”

Lin Yao didn’t say anything more. She handed the child in her arms to Aunt Niu and went back to her room, supporting her waist.

Recently, Lin Yao often complained of back pain and spent most of her time lying in bed. But Jin Zhao had once overheard her grandparents talking in low voices, and Lin Yao’s phone lock screen had also been changed to a very pretty internet-famous baby girl. She guessed that Lin Yao was pregnant again. It was just that, for some reason, everyone in the family was on guard around her, as if afraid she might do something bad.

Although Jin Zhao would feel sad occasionally, she had always been the type to prefer fewer troubles to more. She told herself that as long as she made it through next year safely, it would be fine.

This time next year, she would be taking the college entrance exam.

After weighing it over and over, she found a break between classes and, while Meng Yanxi hadn’t gone out, whispered to him, “I should still return the dress to you.”

Meng Yanxi was typing with his phone hidden in the desk drawer. Ever since they switched seats, Jin Zhao hadn’t seen him look at any scenery at all—if anything, she felt he’d become even more brazen about sneaking phone time. To be fair, he’d always been brazen, openly bringing his phone to school and sometimes even keeping it in his pants pocket, but he’d still exercised some restraint. Since changing seats, with the window blocking one side and her blocking the other, it was simply a perfect setup.

Hearing her, Meng Yanxi lifted his head from his phone as if he hadn’t heard clearly. “Return what to me?”

Jin Zhao wanted to say that the dress was very expensive and that it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to keep it, but after thinking it over, saying that seemed even worse—as if returning something that rightfully belonged to someone else would somehow make the other person seem stingy. So she only repeated simply, “The dress. That silk dress with feathers.”

Meng Yanxi tilted his head, his pitch-black eyes fixed straight on her, his face revealing no emotion.

Being stared at by him for no reason made Jin Zhao nervous. She clearly hadn’t done anything, yet it felt as if she had somehow made him angry.

After a few seconds of silence, Meng Yanxi suddenly let out a soft laugh. “Sure. As long as you don’t mind.”

Jin Zhao was bewildered. “Is there something I need to mind?”

Meng Yanxi stuffed his phone into the desk drawer, propped his head with one hand, and looked at her as he spoke unhurriedly, “Giving me a dress you wore next to your skin.”

Jin Zhao had never thought of it that way before. When he suddenly spelled it out like that, her face instantly burned.

But then again—why did such a perfectly proper thing as returning something sound so off once it came out of his mouth? How did it, how did it become so ambiguous?

Next to your skin. Worn. A dress.

Giving it to him.

What kind of words were these?

“A dance costume is worn like that…” Jin Zhao felt inexplicably wronged and defended herself in a small voice. “It’s not like I could wear thermal underwear underneath, right?”

Meng Yanxi nodded magnanimously. “I know. That’s why I said, as long as you don’t mind.”

Jin Zhao: “……” What a vicious mouth.

You’ve put it like that—how am I supposed to return it now?

It makes it sound like I’m deliberately trying to seduce you.

Jin Zhao didn’t know how a perfectly normal matter had been twisted into something else by her own words. She bit her lip unconsciously, barely coming up with an excuse to explain herself. “I just thought you’d borrowed it too, and needed to return it.”

Meng Yanxi said, “No. I bought it. No need to return it.”

Jin Zhao: “……”

Since when did someone else’s generosity become a burden to her?

Still unwilling to give up, Jin Zhao asked, “Was it expensive?”

Meng Yanxi: “Not expensive.”

Jin Zhao: “……”

What kind of stupid question was that? Their frames of reference weren’t even the same—what did expensive or not mean here?

With difficulty, Jin Zhao dragged the conversation back on track. “Whether it’s expensive or not, I suddenly brought a dress home. I can’t explain that to my family.”

A sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girl, her skin fair and soft, teased by him until her face was hot, apricot eyes glistening with moisture, pitiful yet unyielding—like a gardenia drenched by rain, yet still breathtakingly beautiful.

Meng Yanxi’s Adam’s apple rolled unconsciously as he thought: That’s exactly because it’d be hard for you to explain that I gave one to every girl who danced—otherwise, do you think I really have so much money I don’t know what to do with it?

He tapped the wooden desktop lightly with a finger and said thoughtfully, “It wouldn’t be easy for me to explain if you returned it.”

Jin Zhao: “Why?”

Meng Yanxi: “Everyone in class who danced has a dress. If you’re the only one without one, others will think you’re being ostracized at school.”

Jin Zhao: “……”

Fine. You win. I can’t argue with you.

Jin Zhao didn’t bring up returning the dress again. After all, she didn’t want to be “ostracized” by Meng Yanxi either—and she was still counting on him to explain problems to her.

After the third-years finished the college entrance exam, it was soon time for the end-of-term exams for first- and second-years. Under the pressure of the streamed class system, every final exam meant reshuffling—and that meant someone might have to leave.

Jin Zhao had originally stabilized at rank 20–25 in the grade, but perhaps because she’d been distracted by the arts festival, or perhaps because beneath Meng Yanxi’s absolute first place, everyone else in Class A had always been packed tightly together—often a single point meant a shift of one or two ranks. In last month’s mock exam, her rank had slipped back to 36th, the same rank she’d had when she first arrived.