Qin Yiran was unraveling.

Not that anyone could see it yet.
She still smiled at teachers, still tucked her hair behind her ear with practiced grace, still waved sweetly in the halls.

But she could feel it.
In her chest.
In her skin.
In her control.

It was slipping.

Zhiwei hadn’t exposed her.

Zhiwei hadn’t screamed or fought or cried.

She had done something worse.

She’d removed herself.

She didn’t push Yiran off her pedestal—she walked away from the stage.

And without an audience, the performance began to rot.

She noticed it first in the cafeteria.

She approached a group of classmates, tray in hand, ready to “coincidentally” sit beside them when someone waved Zhiwei over instead.

Zhiwei declined, of course.

She always did.

But the damage was done.

Yiran sat quietly, smiling, pretending not to notice as three different conversations sparked that didn’t include her name.

Then came the whispers.

Not about Zhiwei.

About Yiran. 

“She’s trying too hard, right?”

“I saw her staring at Zhiwei’s desk for, like, ten minutes.”

“Didn’t she say Zhiwei was rude? But she keeps trying to eat with her.”

“It’s kind of… weird.”

It was happening again.

That crawling sensation under her skin.

That sick, slow shift.

The one she thought she’d buried two years ago.

When the Lin family first brought Zhiwei home.

When everything she had might’ve been taken.

When she learned to cut deeper.

She stood in front of the mirror that night, staring at her reflection.

It was still perfect.

But there was something in her eyes.

Something unfamiliar.

She’d always gotten away with her lies because she kept them pretty.
Tidy. Soft. Dripping with sugar.

But Zhiwei didn’t fight the way other people did.

She fought by refusing to play.

And the world didn’t know how to handle that.

The next morning, Yiran made her move.

She stepped into Zhiwei’s room uninvited—carefully, slowly, holding a plate.

Breakfast.

Egg tarts, fresh-cut fruit, and warm milk.

“Good morning,” she said gently.

Zhiwei didn’t look up from her desk.

“I made these,” Yiran added. “Thought you might be hungry.”

No response.

She placed the tray down anyway. “I’ll just leave it here.”

Then, with careful precision, she knocked over the small potted succulent on the corner of Zhiwei’s shelf.

The pot cracked.

The soil scattered.

“Oh no,” Yiran gasped softly. “I’m so clumsy—”

Zhiwei stood slowly.

Still calm.

Still silent.

She bent down, picked up the pot without flinching, and placed it on the tray beside the egg tarts.

“You can take it all,” she said.

Including the lies. And the pity.

Yiran hesitated.

“Don’t you want to say something?” she asked, voice barely audible.

Zhiwei’s gaze was flat.

“No.”

I said everything I needed to last lifetime. You didn’t listen. Now you don’t get to hear.

Later that night, Zhiwei stood on the balcony, her hands wrapped around a cup of cold tea.

Below her, in the garden, the Lin family sat together for once.

Trying.

Pretending.

Mother Lin called her name softly from the yard.

Zhiwei didn’t answer.

She just lifted the cup to her lips and thought, very clearly—

I’m not staying.