On the Bohemian-patterned carpet, the coffee stain spread, spilled by Zhuang Heng.
She gently moved her foot, touching Lu Shifeng's knee.
Lu Shifeng asked her, "Why didn't you tell me about what happened yesterday?"
Tell him what, that she was hit by Zhuang Heng?
She lazily showed no interest, "What good would it do to tell you? Make her apologize today like this?"
Zhuang Heng's apology was utterly insincere; she turned the apology into a performance, taking the opportunity to confess her feelings to Lu Shifeng. She didn't know Lu Shifeng had autism, his mind missing a thread. An ordinary man might soften upon hearing such a tearful confession from a woman; pitying her isn't impossible.
More than listening to those fake apologies and witnessing those well-calculated performances, what she didn't want to hear was Lu Shifeng's statement, "Love is an illusion."
Even though she already knew his view on love, she didn't want to be reminded repeatedly.
