The Lin estate was as elegant as ever—sterile marble floors, fresh lilies in porcelain vases, sunlight painting soft gold on spotless windows. Nothing was out of place.

And nothing, Zhiwei thought, had ever felt more false.

She descended the curved staircase with quiet steps, dressed in the pale blue school uniform she’d been assigned only yesterday. Her hair was pulled back neatly. Her bag was light.

She carried only what she needed.

No hopes. No weight of expectation.

Just survival.

The dining room was already lively by the time she stepped in.

Qin Yiran sat across from Mother Lin, her long curls draped over one shoulder, pink lips curled into a soft smile as she spoke.

“…I told the teacher that Zhiwei might need more time to adjust. You know, just so no one pressures her too much.”

She looked up, all sweetness and innocence. “Good morning, Zhiwei!”

Zhiwei’s gaze flicked over the table—porcelain bowls, folded napkins, steaming porridge.

And one seat, carefully left open beside Yiran.

She took the farthest chair instead.

Father Lin looked up from his newspaper, but didn’t comment. Lin Chen, chewing silently, barely met her eyes.

Only Yiran smiled wider, like they were playing a game only she understood.

“I had the kitchen make your favorite,” she said, pointing to the porridge.

Zhiwei picked up her spoon, stirred it once.

Still pretending you know what I like. Still pretending we’re close.
You were always best at pretending.

Across the table, Mother Lin tensed, the spoon in her hand pausing mid-air.

Zhiwei didn’t touch the food.

Yiran reached over, brushing her fingers lightly against Zhiwei’s wrist. “Let’s go to school together today. I’ve already told the driver.”

Zhiwei turned her hand away.

“I’ll walk.”

“Walk?” Yiran blinked, then laughed gently. “Don’t be silly. It’s too far—”

“I don’t mind.”

If I get hit by a car on the way, at least I know it wasn’t you this time.

The room went dead still.

Father Lin’s fingers crumpled the edge of the paper.

Yiran’s smile faltered.

Zhiwei stood up. Her voice was even. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait.”

She walked out before anyone could speak.

The front door closed with a soft click.

The walk to Lin Academy was long and quiet.

Zhiwei liked it that way.

The streets were clean, lined with trees that had just begun to bloom. She passed coffee shops, uniformed students, and the occasional gossiping auntie with grocery bags.

But no one knew her here.

No one stared.

No one whispered, “Isn’t she the real one?”

And no one tried to fix her with forced smiles.

Qin Yiran was already waiting by the gates when Zhiwei arrived.

Perfect hair. Perfect uniform. Perfect timing.

She waved brightly. “Zhiwei! You made it.”

Zhiwei didn’t respond.

Yiran caught up beside her. “Let’s walk in together. Everyone’s really curious about you, but don’t worry—I’ll handle it.”

Zhiwei stopped walking.

She turned, slowly, and looked Yiran in the eye.

There was no smile. No malice.

Just tired truth.

“You’re not handling me, Yiran.”

Yiran’s eyes widened slightly. “What do you mean?”

Zhiwei looked away.

This time, I’m not playing your game. And that scares you, doesn’t it?

She walked through the school gates.

And left Yiran staring after her, her fingers curled tightly around the strap of her bag. 

The whispers started before lunch.

Zhiwei hadn’t even spoken a full sentence in class.

She came in quietly, answered the roll call, sat down in the back row, and kept her eyes on the blackboard. No dramatic entrances, no cold glares, no scathing retorts.

Just silence.

And somehow, that made people nervous.

“She’s kind of… intense, right?” someone whispered behind her.

“Yiran says she’s just adjusting.”

“I don’t know. She didn’t even thank Yiran when she lent her a pen this morning.”

Zhiwei closed her eyes for a moment.

You really don’t waste time, do you, Yiran? A pen? That’s your play?

In the seat beside her, Lin Chen shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said anything to her all day. But every time she thought, “So this is what a bystander looks like,” he twitched.

Good.

She wanted him to hear it.

At lunch, Yiran appeared with two trays and a smile that could win awards.

“I got you your favorite,” she said sweetly, placing one tray in front of Zhiwei. “They had steamed egg again today!”

Zhiwei stared at the tray.

Last time you brought me lunch, you switched the soy sauce with vinegar. I nearly threw up in the courtyard.

Across the table, Lin Chen’s eyes flicked to the tray. Then to Yiran. Then away again.

Zhiwei pushed it back gently.

“I’m not hungry.”

Yiran pouted. “You have to eat something…”

Zhiwei stood.

You’re not worried about me eating. You’re worried I’m not performing.

She walked away.

Behind her, Yiran’s expression hardened for a split second—just long enough for one student at a nearby table to catch it.

“…Did you see that?” they whispered.

“Huh?”

“Her smile dropped.”

“No way. Yiran? She’s always perfect.”

The seed was planted.

And Zhiwei never said a word.

That night, she sat on her balcony with her laptop open and a spreadsheet pulled up. Her eyes scanned columns: tuition estimates, scholarship deadlines, estimated freelance income, a moving-out timeline.

Just numbers.

Just escape.

Fifteen thousand yuan. A year and a half. Then I’m gone.

Her door creaked behind her.

Mother Lin stood in the doorway, holding a tray.

“I brought tea.”

Zhiwei didn’t move.

“I’m not thirsty,” she said without looking.

The woman hesitated.

“I… saw your spreadsheet.”

Zhiwei finally turned her head, just enough to see her mother’s pale face, hands white-knuckled on the tray.

“You’re planning to leave.”

There it was.

Zhiwei’s voice was calm. “Yes.”

“You’re our daughter.”

Zhiwei’s lips curved slightly.

You ignored me when I was dying. Now you hear every word, and still don’t know who I am.

“I’m still leaving.”

She turned back to her screen.

Behind her, the tray rattled softly.

And then Mother Lin left, silent and defeated.