Chapter 56: What Truly Matters Most in Her Heart?

Although mealtime had already passed for a while, it wasn’t too late yet, so there were still quite a few people in the cafeteria.

Lu Yuanqiu guessed that this was probably why Bai Qingxia chose a seat in a remote corner.

He slung his backpack over one shoulder and walked in that direction, preparing to greet the girl from behind when he suddenly paused.

Bai Qingxia wasn’t eating.

She was sitting with her head lowered, absorbed in fiddling with something.

Lu Yuanqiu sidestepped a little, glancing at her table.

On her tray was a pile of plain white rice, with no vegetables or meat. But in a clear plastic lunchbox beside it were green vegetables and a small portion of meat, as if she had bought a proper meal but hadn’t intended to eat it herself.

Lu Yuanqiu couldn’t help but furrow his brow.

As she tinkered, Bai Qingxia occasionally paused to take a bite of rice with her chopsticks, sip some of the free soup, and then continued to focus on the task at hand, deeply immersed.

Lu Yuanqiu moved closer to observe.

He fell silent.

She was painstakingly gluing together the fragments of the hairpin from last time, carefully piecing them together with superglue. It seemed to be delicate work, and she was utterly absorbed.

Lu Yuanqiu looked down at the now unrecognizable hairpin. Even the pink surface was blurred beyond recognition; one could hardly tell it had ever been a hairpin.

But Bai Qingxia seemed not to care. She only wanted to restore it, no matter how pointless it seemed.

As she glued the pieces, she continued eating plain rice and sipping soup as if to save time.

Lu Yuanqiu noticed the discarded superglue packaging beside her—it looked freshly opened.

Did she just buy the glue from the convenience store at noon?

Suddenly, Lu Yuanqiu felt the world was terribly unfair.

A girl eating fifty-cent rice, spending two and a half yuan on glue, trying to fix a hairpin that was now worthless.

It seemed a futile effort.

What, in her heart, was most important? Herself? Her father? Or this broken hairpin?

Perhaps she had never received any gifts before, so she cherished this one so much.

Was this hairpin her first gift?

But I clearly told her—it was a token of thanks, not a gift.

And I also said I could give her many more hairpins...

Lu Yuanqiu stood beside her for a long while, silent.

At last, he couldn’t help but reach out and tap Bai Qingxia’s shoulder.

“Ah?!”

She turned abruptly, her knee knocking into the table leg with a wince. Lu Yuanqiu quickly reached out to steady the nearly overturned bowl of free soup.

“Why are you sitting here? I’ve been looking for you for ages.”

He spoke half in complaint, half in quiet concern.

Bai Qingxia stared at him blankly, then quickly grabbed the hairpin from the table and hid it behind her back.

Her sudden grip probably ruined her careful work, but Lu Yuanqiu had seen it anyway—there was no way the hairpin could be fixed; the glue was wasted.

He sat down next to her and gently pulled her hand forward, prying open her fingers.

In her fair palm lay the ruined hairpin, and her skin was hardened in patches from the glue’s burn. Lu Yuanqiu rubbed the tender palm with his thumb; it was no longer smooth.

He looked up and glared at her.

The girl dared not meet his gaze.

Lu Yuanqiu let go of her hand with a sigh, then took out a Nokia phone from his backpack and handed it to her.

Bai Qingxia looked at him in surprise, immediately tucking both hands behind her back as if to stubbornly refuse his kindness.

“It’s not a gift,” Lu Yuanqiu said, “it’s just for you to use. As a supermarket employee, you need a way to stay in touch. And I might call you from home sometimes to ask about homework.”

Hearing this, Bai Qingxia finally looked at the phone.

She took it with both hands, carefully inspecting it. Noticing the scratches on its surface—an old phone—she seemed to relax a little.

“Do you know how to use it?” Lu Yuanqiu asked.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve touched one,” she replied shyly. “I’ve forgotten a bit…”

He opened the phone for her. “See this green button? That’s the answer key. When you get a call, just press this right away.”

Bai Qingxia leaned over, nodding earnestly. “I remember that.”

“Good,” Lu Yuanqiu said with a smile.

She glanced up at him, then quickly lowered her gaze, embarrassed.

“But calls aren’t always convenient,” he continued. “Have you ever created a QQ account?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Right then and there, Lu Yuanqiu helped her create a QQ account. “Look, from today, this QQ number belongs to you. I’ll read out the number, write it down somewhere safe.”

Bai Qingxia was stunned for a long moment before repeating in disbelief, “My… QQ number?”

He nodded.

She looked at him in surprise, her large, beautiful eyes shining with obvious joy.

It was as if she’d longed for her own QQ number for ages.

After all, everyone else had one—it was the trend.

Back in junior high, classmates would write their QQ numbers in each other’s memory books.

Bai Qingxia had a close female friend back then, but when that friend came over, memory book in hand, and asked for her QQ number, Bai Qingxia hesitated for ages, then had to shake her head awkwardly and admit she didn’t have one.

She still remembered the surprised look her friend gave her, the little laugh, the “Alright then,” before the friend simply moved on, seeking QQ numbers from others.

Bai Qingxia quietly returned to her seat, listening to her classmates talk about “keeping in touch after graduation.”

Now—

She quickly opened her backpack, pulled out pen and paper, and looked at Lu Yuanqiu, eyes bright with anticipation.

“Listen up: your QQ number is 2421******.”

Bai Qingxia jotted it down quickly. Lu Yuanqiu repeated it, and she checked it to be sure.

Looking at the string of numbers on the slip of paper, a smile bloomed on her face.

How magical these numbers were—magical enough to connect friends. Without them, she’d lost her only friend from junior high.

Looking at the numbers, Bai Qingxia felt both happiness and a sudden sadness.

She carefully folded the paper and tucked it into her pencil case.

Lu Yuanqiu glanced at his phone. “I just added myself to your QQ. For now, I’m your only friend. Let’s give you a nickname—what do you want it to be?”

A little aside from the main story:

Sorry, everyone. Today, Xia dragged me to the cake shop, insisting I buy her a cake. Can you believe it? She’s thirty and still acts like a child. We had a fight, so only two updates today. Tomorrow we’ll resume as normal. Anyway, time to go teach her a lesson—she really needs it. She’s nothing like the sweet girl she was in high school.

By the way, don’t forget to send some monthly votes, dads.