After Li Min returned home, she couldn't stop wondering how Chuan Ling had managed to get back.
Later that evening, she walked to Chuan Ling's neighborhood, hoping to see if she had returned home.
As Li Min walked through the residential complex with her umbrella, she saw Chen Hao'an in the distance walking in the rain—with a girl.
Looking more closely, she realized the girl was Ying Chuan Ling!
Li Min clenched her fists tightly, staring fiercely at the two of them.
Even though it was pouring, Chen Hao'an and Chuan Ling weren't rushing home. Instead, they strolled slowly in the rain, as if enjoying it—chatting and laughing like they'd known each other forever.
What Li Min didn't know was that Chen Hao'an and Chuan Ling had figured—since they were already drenched and still a good distance from home—there was no point rushing. Whether they ran or walked, they'd still be soaked.
The rain was intense, soaking through their backpacks and their thin school uniforms.
As the two drew closer to her, Li Min quickly turned away, hiding under her large umbrella.
She watched as they entered the same apartment complex, and even saw Chuan Ling's mother warmly invite Chen Hao'an upstairs.
At that moment, Li Min became convinced that Chen Hao'an and Chuan Ling had known each other for a long time. Chuan Ling had clearly been hiding it from her—acting clueless at school, making a fool out of her every day.
She thought about how she talked nonstop about Chen Hao'an at school, only to realize that Chuan Ling had probably seen her as nothing more than a clown. Pretending not to know him, while clearly knowing everything.
Furious, Li Min pulled out her phone and called the older guy she knew from outside of school to vent. She told him everything that had happened recently at school—and the scene she'd just witnessed outside Chuan Ling's apartment.
After she added some extra drama to the story, the guy was full of sympathy. "That bestie of yours… I'd like to meet her someday. I want to see what kind of 'big deal' she thinks she is—making my little sis cry."
Li Min smiled smugly, but still spoke with a pitiful tone: "Don't you dare touch her. She's still my best friend. You're not allowed to lay a finger on her."
What neither of them knew… was that their entire conversation was being overheard by Sen Lei'an, who was in the arcade at that very moment.
He had locked eyes on the guy talking to Li Min and memorized his face.
Which is exactly why—earlier—Sen Lei'an had invited Chuan Ling out for ice cream: to subtly warn her about her so-called "best friend."
***
"Me: Sen Lei'an! Please don't go too far."
"Turns out it wasn't that I was a bad child—it was just that I was born into a family that valued boys over girls."
My name is Ying Chuanling. The first friend I ever had in this world was named Sen Lei'an.
We were both in the last class of our second year in high school and barely spoke to each other. He was famously known as the school's troublemaker—fighting, skipping class, dating early—he was good at everything except studying.
When I was little, you could say I was practically raised by Sen Lei'an. My mom always said that the first friend I ever saw after being born was him. He was two months older than me, and since his family lived next door in a fancy neighborhood, and our moms were best friends, it was only natural that our entire childhood was spent together.
At two years old, I still refused to speak, but Sen Lei'an was already babbling non-stop. Even then, I felt that his chatter gave me a sense of home. I'd even fall asleep with his constant babbling in the background, and it made me feel safe. His mom often brought him to our house to play, though "play" usually meant him doing everything I asked. I didn't speak, but I had a natural queenly demeanor, bossing him around to get snacks, toys, my Abebe, and even blankets. Strangely enough, despite my silence, Sen Lei'an always seemed to know exactly what I wanted just by looking at me.
Even my parents would praise him, saying, "Lei'an is the only one who understands Chuanling!"
We attended the same kindergarten. Even back then, Sen Lei'an's nature showed—he loved pretty girls, especially those with long hair, and would share snacks with them to curry favor. That flirtatious nature must've been hardwired into him from birth.
When we were four, I still hadn't said a single word. My parents were extremely worried, dragging me to every hospital, treatment center, and child psychologist. The diagnosis was always the same: some kids just speak late. Physically, I was fine, but I still wouldn't talk.
One day, my parents took me out of town to see yet another specialist. I accidentally spilled juice all over myself during the trip, soaking my long hair. My mom decided it was too much trouble and had it cut short at a local salon.
When I returned to kindergarten, Sen Lei'an saw me and froze. His wide eyes locked on mine, surprised. I just stared back at him. He didn't say a word and walked away.
In class, the teacher asked us to draw a picture and pin it to the bulletin board ourselves. Sen Lei'an, who always sat beside me, chose to sit with a pretty girl at another table instead. I panicked. I didn't have any friends in class because I didn't talk. Only Sen Lei'an stayed by my side during lessons, but now he was ignoring me. The ever-chattering boy was suddenly silent.
After class, during free playtime, I noticed my picture had fallen from the bulletin board—two of the four pins were missing. I had to stand on tiptoes to fix it, holding the picture in place. I couldn't find the missing pins, so I stood there, stretching my tiny arms and trembling legs, trying not to let it fall.
Everyone else had gone to nap in the next room. I was alone.
Suddenly, Sen Lei'an walked back into the classroom. He glanced at me and then turned away, heading to his new seat, back facing me. I stayed in my awkward, frog-like pose, arms outstretched, toes barely touching the ground. Minutes passed. My legs began to shake, arms going numb, but I didn't dare let go.
Sen Lei'an was casually flipping through a picture book, humming to himself as if nothing was happening. But then he suddenly froze. His humming stopped.
Because he heard the tiniest, trembling voice behind him:
"Sen… Lei… an…"
His eyes widened. He turned around to see me, my arms still holding the picture, tiptoes stretched, struggling—but I was looking back at him, barely able to turn my head.
"Sen… Lei… an…"
He shouted, "What did you just call me?!"
"Sen… Lei… an…"
He ran over, towering over me, and gently took the picture from my hands, pinning it back up with fresh tacks. Years later, I'd realize it was Sen Lei'an himself who had taken the pins out of my drawing in the first place.
With tears in my eyes, I whispered again, "Sen Lei'an…"
He scoffed, "Why do you keep calling my name?"
But he couldn't stop grinning. It was the first time he had ever heard me speak.
And the first word I ever spoke in my life wasn't "Mama" or "Papa"—it was "Sen Lei'an."
Later I found out that when I came back with short hair, Sen Lei'an was heartbroken. He hated short hair—not because of me, but because his grandmother, who raised him harshly, had short hair. He'd always associated short hair with coldness, with cruelty.
After that day, for a whole month, I only knew how to say one thing: "Sen Lei'an." My parents tried everything to get me to say other words, but I refused. And Sen Lei'an? He was overjoyed. Like a proud dad watching his daughter grow up.
He told me one day in kindergarten:
"As long as you call my name, I'll be there—no matter how far away I am."
"Sen Lei'an," I said, holding up my pinky for a promise.
I was four and a half when I finally started speaking in full sentences. My parents were relieved—I wasn't a special-needs child after all. The psychologist guessed I'd been traumatized as a baby, triggering a kind of stress response that made me silent.
In elementary school, Sen Lei'an and I stayed together. We were in the same class again. Both of us were among the top three classes. I started fangirling over celebrities and loved baking—two things my parents hated most.
They thought it was a waste of time and that baking would never amount to anything. They wanted me to become someone useful, a top student at a prestigious school. Since I was little, they drilled it into me: only if you study can you be a good person. Otherwise, you'll grow up collecting garbage. That idea was carved into my bones and shaped my deeply depressive mindset later in life.
In those days, Sen Lei'an would walk me to school and back. He knew how much I loved baking, so he'd watch cooking shows and copy recipes into a notebook, even drawing the dishes with his natural artistic talent. I'd read that notebook like it was a gourmet magazine. Every time, though, he'd get in trouble for drawing in his school workbook.
We made a promise: I'd cook for him every day, and he'd eat only my food and take me to try all kinds of delicious treats. As kids, our grandest promises were always about food.
Those beautiful days ended when my little brother was born.
Only later did I realize—it wasn't that I was bad. It was that I was born into a family that valued boys over girls. In my parents' eyes, daughters were just a burden meant to be married off, while sons were the ones who carried the family legacy and deserved the best of everything.
When my brother was one, he would zoom around the house in a baby chair on wheels. One day, I was sitting on the couch watching cartoons, and he kept crashing into me with a toy in hand, hitting my legs. I cried out, "Go away!"
My dad snapped, "Don't yell at your brother! Move yourself if you don't like it!"
I reluctantly moved to the other end of the couch. But my brother followed, again smashing his toy against my curled-up toes. I stayed silent, though it hurt like hell.
I got up to turn off the TV and leave. But my brother kept blocking my way with his chair. I tried to dodge left—he followed. Right—he blocked again. Finally, I leapt off the couch when he wasn't looking, but the wheels of his chair caught my foot, and I fell flat on the cold floor, splayed out like a frog.
Face down, I looked toward the dining room where my parents and grandma were eating. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I didn't even say a word. I just stayed there, frozen. No one noticed.
Half an hour passed. My parents finished eating and came into the living room.
"What are you doing lying on the floor? It's freezing!" my mom scolded. "Get up already."
Still, I said nothing. My mind was blank. I wanted to stand up—but I couldn't.
My dad yelled, "I'm going to count to three. If you're still down, I'll beat you! One—two—"
He didn't even wait for three. He picked up the laundry hanger and struck my back.
And still—I said nothing.
Maybe this was what the doctor meant by a stress-induced shutdown.
I remember the cold floor. I remember watching my parents laugh and eat dinner while I lay there for thirty minutes. I wanted to stand—but I couldn't. I didn't even try again. I just lay there quietly…
By the time I came back to my senses—I was in the hospital.