The rain fell in a fine, cold drizzle, painting the world in shades of gray under a dull, leaden sky. Fu Xiaoya staggered to her feet, her face swollen, hair wild, blood staining her lips. Her eyes, blazing with hatred just moments ago, burned into me as she bolted out the door without a backward glance. I stood frozen in the doorway, the rain-scented wind curling around me, sharp and bitter. My chest ached, a hollow pain that begged for tears I couldn't shed. Her accusation—that I'd betrayed her, that I'd spilled her secret—hung like a noose around my neck.
I wanted to chase her, to scream that it wasn't me, that I'd kept my promise. But my feet wouldn't move. The weight of her glare, the venom in her words, pinned me in place. She disappeared into the wet night, swallowed by the shadows, and something inside me broke.
Fu Xiaoya never came home again.
She didn't leave the city, though. She just traded one battlefield for another. Word spread fast—she'd landed a job at a KTV, one of those neon-drenched karaoke joints where the bass thumped like a heartbeat and the air reeked of cheap perfume and cheaper liquor. She dressed sharper now, wilder, her lips painted crimson, her eyes smoky and defiant. Guys circled her like moths to a flame, their laughter loud, their hands too bold. She was a queen in that world, untouchable yet drowning in it.
Dad and Xu Li tried to drag her back. They hunted her down, pleaded, apologized. Xu Li, always so composed, slapped her own face bloody and knelt in the street, begging her daughter to come home. It didn't matter. Fu Xiaoya was grown, her heart hardened. She'd chosen her path, her ruin, and no amount of tears could sway her.
They failed. They gave up.
And me? I wanted to find her, to tell her I hadn't betrayed her, that I'd kept her secret locked tight. But I didn't have the guts. KTVs were shark tanks—gangsters prowled the floors, their eyes cold, their fists quick. If I showed up, I'd leave on a stretcher, or worse.
The house felt emptier without her. Dad and Xu Li barely spoke anymore, their silences heavy with unspoken blame. To me, they said nothing at all. The quiet pressed down until I could hardly breathe, each day a struggle to keep my head above water.
Sometimes, I thought about her. Her laugh, sharp and reckless. Her swagger, hand on her hip, chin tipped like a queen. The day she'd called me Xiao Yan, her voice soft for once. The night I'd wrapped my arms around her waist on that bicycle, the wind carrying her scent, warm and alive. I even crept into her empty room once, staring at the bed she'd slept in, the clothes she'd left behind. My eyes burned, and I cursed myself for being so pathetic. She wasn't even my real sister—just a storm that had torn through my life, leaving wreckage in its wake.
I started avoiding home, lingering at school until the lights dimmed and the janitors shot me glares. The library became my refuge, its musty silence a shield against the chaos of my life. That's where she found me.
Yu Qingman.
She was a classmate, a top student, the kind of girl who made the world feel brighter just by existing. She wasn't tall—maybe 1.62 meters—but she was pretty in a way that felt like clear water on tired eyes: clean, bright, her black hair sleek as ink, her skin pale and flawless. Boys slipped her love notes in secret, their faces flushed with hope, but she never dated anyone. She was untouchable, a quiet star in our noisy world.
And now, she was sitting across from me at a library desk, her smile soft, a little teasing. "Zhou Yan, have you thought about which university you'll apply to?"
I shook my head, my voice rough from disuse. "Not yet."
"Then… how about Pingchuan University?" she said, her eyes curving like crescent moons. "We could go together. That way we won't feel so alone in a new city."
My heart slammed against my ribs, shaking my bones. My ears burned. Was this… a confession? Me—shy, invisible, unworthy—could someone like her really…? I stared at her, searching for a trick, but her gaze was steady, warm.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and laughed lightly. "Do you remember that PE class in second year?"
How could I forget? She'd been wearing white track pants when a red stain bloomed on the back, sudden and mortifying. Before anyone could notice, I'd yanked off my jacket and handed it to her. She'd whispered thanks, her face scarlet, and ran.
"From then on," she said softly, "I thought you were… different. Kind. Brave. Gentlemanly. I'd imagine what it'd be like to go far away together. But sometimes, you're so quiet—like a tree. Makes me wonder what secrets you hide inside."
Her voice was like rain on dry earth, soaking into the cracked places in my heart. Something green, fragile, sprouted in my chest.
"Honestly," I mumbled, "I'm more like a blade of grass."
"Hello then… campus grass," she teased, and reached out her hand.
My fingers shook as I curled them toward hers. Her skin was soft, warm, the heat rushing from her touch straight to my frozen heart. I didn't want to let go.
"Will you walk me home?" she asked, tilting her head with a playful smile.
"Yes," I blurted, my voice too loud in the quiet library.
---
That night felt like a dream. The wind was gentle, the streetlights casting long shadows that stretched, merged, and broke apart as we walked. Yu Qingman lived in an old apartment block, six floors up, no elevator. She laughed about the daily climb, said it kept her fit. Her parents worked at a state factory—simple people, loving, warm. One daughter, their world.
I envied that. Not the money—the warmth. The kind that shields you from every storm. My own home was a house of glass and knives, sharp edges waiting to cut.
We talked about small things—school, the gaokao, the future. Her voice was a melody, her laughter a light I hadn't known I needed. For the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe.
Then came the roar.
Two motorcycles screamed past, chrome flashing under the streetlamps, exhaust rattling the night. Four riders—three punks in gaudy shirts, bleached hair, chains swinging like weapons. And one girl, her lips crimson, eyes smoky, leather clinging to her like sin. A rose tattoo bloomed on her collarbone.
Fu Xiaoya.
Her gaze locked on me, sparks igniting in her eyes. She grinned like a wolf, and my stomach dropped. I grabbed Yu Qingman's arm, dragging her toward the curb.
Too late.
The bikes skidded, circled, boxed us in. Engines cut, and four shadows closed in, their swagger loud as their laughter. Yu Qingman shrank behind me, clutching my shirt. My legs trembled like weeds in a storm.
One with silver-gray hair lit a cigarette, blew smoke in my face, and smirked at Qingman. "Yo, Xiaoya—ain't this your unlucky little bro? Damn, he upgraded. Look at this fine piece."
"Zhuang-ge, you're the expert in flowers," another chimed, his voice oily. "Break her in first, huh?"
"Check if she's pure for him," the third laughed, stepping toward Qingman with filthy hands outstretched.
I threw myself between them, eyes burning, shielding her with my body. "Stay back!"
"Drag my dear brother aside," Fu Xiaoya ordered, her voice cold as broken glass. "The little bitch is mine."
"Sis—" I got one word out before they yanked me away, fists in my collar, arms locked like iron. I thrashed, but they were stronger, their laughter cruel.
*Smack!*
Fu Xiaoya's palm cracked across Qingman's cheek. Blood beaded at her lip. She whimpered, clutching her face, her eyes wide with fear.
"Slut!" Xiaoya spat. "Think you can hook my brother? Look at you—trash. Stay the hell away, or I'll pound you every time."
Another slap. Then another. Qingman crumpled, sobbing into her hands, her body shaking.
My lungs tore. My chest burned. Those blows landed on me, harder than steel. My first love—smashed to pieces under her heel.
"Fu Xiaoya!" I roared, my voice raw with rage. "Hit me! Not her! Kill me if you can!"
I broke free, lunged—
A boot slammed into my back. Pain exploded, and I hit the pavement face-first, gravel biting into my cheek.
"Scram," Fu Xiaoya said to Qingman, her voice cool, final.
Qingman fled into the night, tears streaking her bloodied face, her footsteps fading into the rain-soaked dark.
Fu Xiaoya's heels clicked on the asphalt as she stalked over, arms folded, eyes cold. "Study hard," she said softly, like a twisted benediction. "It's your only way out."
Her voice dripped with mock pity. To me, it was poison.
I lifted my head, eyes blazing, and spat the words that had been boiling since the first slap. "Go to hell. You're no sister of mine. You're nothing but a cheap whore."
Her face didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes—hurt, maybe, or rage. She turned without a word, climbed onto the bike, and the engines roared to life. The four of them tore off into the night, leaving me sprawled on the wet pavement, the rain washing the blood from my face.
I lay there, the cold seeping into my bones, Qingman's sobs echoing in my ears. Fu Xiaoya's shadow loomed larger than ever, a storm I couldn't escape. But as I dragged myself to my feet, one thought burned brighter than the pain: I was done being her punching bag. I'd find a way out—not just for me, but to prove she hadn't broken me.
The university exam is coming, my ticket to a new life and no matter what it took, I'd claw my way there, leaving her and this broken house behind.