Chapter 1

When it was time to pay the bill, my blind date excused himself to go to the restroom. The phone he left on the table lit up-it was a WeChat chat screen.

He had sent a message: “Her job is stable, her personality is okay, but she’s astonishingly mediocre in every way. And she’s already thirty. My conditions are pretty good, I can keep looking.”

I calmly paid the bill. It was a set meal, fifty yuan per person. By the time I finished, my blind date had returned, awkwardly asking, “Should I transfer you my share?”

I shook my head. As I slung my backpack over my shoulder and walked out, my mom called. Her voice came through:

“How was it this time? Another civil servant, about your age, pretty good conditions.”

Clutching my phone, I struggled through the bustling crowd. I passed a cake shop, where the clerk was placing a box of soon-to-expire cakes in the special sale section.

I didn’t say anything, expressing my attitude in silence. My mom’s voice rose, anxious and flustered: “Lin Yu’an, you’ll be thirty tomorrow. Can you be a little more realistic?”

I looked up at the sky and said, “Okay.”

I bought that box of soon-to-expire cake and took it home. It was only in that sudden moment that I remembered-after tonight, I’d be thirty.

I couldn’t wait until midnight. I lit the candle early, without making any wishes. Maybe I already knew what I wanted would never come true.

But when I opened my eyes, in the candlelight, there was suddenly a letter in front of me.

It carried the scent of freesia, a white envelope, addressed to Miss Little Yuan, the handwriting wild yet familiar.

No signature, but my eyelid twitched-I already knew who it was. There was probably only one person who would call me Miss Little Yuan: that illiterate.

I pulled out the letter. There were only two lines: “Miss Little Yuan, I like you. Don’t be ungrateful.” The date was March 1, 2017. I had just started my second year of high school, seventeen years old. So was he. But I never received this love letter that year.

The handwriting was still fresh, as if just written. So brazen. The words had been hastily crossed out, as if the writer felt a bit ashamed.

Strangely, I didn’t feel afraid. I picked up a pen and, in the blank space below, wrote two words: “You’re sick.”

There was a long pause on the other side, as if stunned. Hesitant words slowly appeared: “Who are you?”

I almost thought I was hallucinating. Holding my breath, I patiently tricked him: “Chen Yabai at seventeen? I’m your Fairy Godmother.”

He was silent for a long time, digesting this information. After a while, two big words slowly appeared-this time, he cursed me back: “You’re sick.”

I picked up the pen and continued writing, calmly: “I really am your Fairy Godmother. I have a feeling you’ll twist your ankle playing basketball tomorrow. You’d better be careful.”

He didn’t reply, clearly not believing me.

Smugly, I put down the pen. Just wait-if you don’t listen to your Godmother, you’ll be limping for a month.