Chapter 3

On my thirtieth birthday, I did nothing at all. I took a day off and stayed home to rest. The sheet of paper was right in front of me; I propped up my head and stared at it for a long time. The words on it still lingered on yesterday’s conversation.

On WeChat, a chat window from my blind date popped up: “Do you want to meet up again and talk more? I actually have a pretty good feeling about you.”

I wasn’t quite what he wanted, but I could be his Plan B. But in fact, I had once been someone’s must-have, first choice.

Just as I was about to reply, a sentence appeared on that sheet of paper, written with gritted teeth: “Are you really a Fairy Godmother? More like a witch. I hurt my leg.”

Heh, of course I knew. That year, Chen Yabai hurt his leg and held it over my head. The injury wasn’t even serious, but he made me run errands for him for half a month. Fetching water, bringing meals, turning in homework-all thanks to one phrase: Miss Little Yuan.

Back then, I stood in front of him, laughing in exasperation: “You don’t expect me to help you go to the bathroom, do you?”

What did Chen Yabai say then? He bent down, feigning weakness, buried his head on my shoulder, his breath hot against my neck, lips curling mischievously: “If you’re willing, I wouldn’t say no.”

Now, at thirty, I can still remember how charming his eyebrows were back then.

Before I could continue writing, another sentence appeared on the paper. He asked: “If you’re a fairy, where are you? Why haven’t I seen you?”

I gripped my pen tightly and wrote slowly: “I’m waiting for you far in the future.”

He asked, dragging out his words: “Did Miss Little Yuan become a journalist?”

I wrote: “Yes.”

That was my first lie. My dream of journalism died in my first year after graduation. I work as a clerical worker at an organization, producing meaningless copy every day.

“Did I become a police officer?”

I wrote: “Yes.”

The second lie. He never made it to the future he deserved.

His handwriting could barely contain his delight. After a long pause, he solemnly and awkwardly added, as if by accident: “Did I marry Miss Little Yuan?”

My heart burned. So, he really did like me at seventeen. The regret is that I only truly knew at thirty. I pressed down the sourness, my handwriting almost trembling: “Yes.”

After a long time, a few bold, flamboyant words appeared, floating proudly: “I knew all along she harbored improper thoughts about me.”

I tricked a fool, and I truly feel guilty.