High schoolers in the early 2000s, especially those from prestigious schools, rarely smoked or drank openly—unlike the rebellious teens of later years. But farewell dinners had their own rules.
After submitting their college applications, the class descended on a mid-tier restaurant. Four tables crammed into a private room, the air already thick with nervous energy. In this science-focused class, boys outnumbered girls three to one, self-segregating by temperament.
Someone had bought cartons of Ruan Hongmei cigarettes. By the second round of beers, every boy clutched one, puffing amateurishly—smoke swirling in mouths but never reaching lungs. To Li Mu, it felt less like secondhand smoke and more like communal performance art.
The girls tolerated it. Today, no one complained about the haze.
Li Mu scanned the room. Red faces, bloodshot eyes—from emotion or irritation, who could tell? A boy whose name Li Mu never learned choked on a drag, collapsed into sobs, and triggered a chain reaction. Whispers became wails. Even Su Yingxue's eyes glistened.
Li Mu, who'd been third to cry in his past life, fought nostalgia with a cigarette. He lit a Hongmei, inhaling deeply. The nicotine bite steadied him.
Across the room, Su Yingxue watched, startled by his practiced motions—the pause before exhaling thin streams, identical to her father's during late-night casework.
Their eyes met through the haze. Li Mu mouthed: "Still here."
Su turned away, tears falling.
By night's end, three tables of boys had drained over a hundred beers. The vice monitor—a pragmatic girl—panicked. "We overspent on alcohol. KTV's booked, but we're 300 short."
Li Mu slipped her 900 yuan under the table. "Get more snacks. Cover cabs home. Don't mention it."
She protested, but he nodded toward the chaos: slurred vows of eternal brotherhood, boys arm-wrestling through tears. "They're past caring."
The KTV descended into maudlin anarchy. Boys butchered Pu Shu's "Those Flowers" on loop, howling off-key through six repetitions. Each rendition dissolved into fresh weeping.
Li Mu escaped to buy Jinling cigarettes downstairs. When he returned, the torture had paused. Two girls massacred "Star Wish" until the system pinged—"Red Bean" by Faye Wong.
"Yingxue! Your song!" someone shouted.
The opening notes hushed the room. Su's voice emerged—clearer than springwater, softer than the synth accompaniment. Not Faye's ethereal heights, but effortless grace.
Li Mu leaned against soundproofed walls, smoke curling from his lips. In his first life, he'd been too drunk to witness this. Now, every syllable held weight.
As the chorus approached, Su's gaze found his through the strobe lights.
"Sometimes, sometimes…
I'll believe everything has its end.
Meeting, leaving…
There's always a moment.
Her last note hung like dewdrops before dawn. The room erupted—girls sniffling, boys sloshing beers in applause.
Li Mu crushed his cigarette. Some goodbyes deserved silence.