Chapter 9 Cold Noodles
The input box stretched long, then short, then long again.
In the end, I only sent: How did the noodles at the small noodle shop taste?
The "typing" indicator flashed, then he replied: A little cold.
I didn't send anything more.
Instead I logged into my Weibo Alt Account and, almost punishing myself, opened that Super Topic.
Endless curses, near-sick collective excitement, wave after wave of edited nightmare images.
Most of them were of me, a few of Jiang Song.
They said he didn't know what was good for him, that this would make him wake up.
None of it could really hurt him, and I knew he didn't care at all.
He was always so free and untamed. Other people's words and stares never made him waver even a little.
People called him rude, arrogant, ignorant of the world—he never explained, just accepted it all.
So he could post whatever he wanted without restraint.
No one's definition could bind him. "As always" couldn't hold him. He only ever did what he wanted, and he did it well.
But I wasn't like that. I couldn't stop caring.
That sudden urge to break up with him had been so strong I couldn't ignore it.
Watching him try so hard to cheer me up, I swallowed the bitterness and, in a daze, felt that maybe some of the things in that Super Topic were right.
I couldn't give him anything. This love felt as light as a feather.
If the passion faded and I was still anxious over tiny things, he would get tired of it. So would I.
I refused to become someone insecure and paranoid.
Jiang Song was such a good person. I couldn't bear to let him face so much malice.