Chapter Two: The First Distance
900 Words
At fourteen or fifteen, Jin Yanxi was still very much a boy.
Not cruel, not calculating—simply untouched by the weight of consequences. If anything, he had never truly understood the world at all. Sheltered since birth, he was like a plant raised behind glass: healthy, bright, and utterly untested by real weather.
Xiu Zhu knew this well. In fact, she was no different.
They had both grown up surrounded by care, convinced—without ever questioning it—that affection was something owed to them. When denied, they reacted not with understanding, but with frustration. In that sense, they were the same.
Standing on the balcony, watching the boy below, Xiu Zhu realized with quiet certainty that whatever love she had once carried had already burned itself out.
Yanxi did not wait to be summoned. Familiar with the household, he climbed the stairs easily and stopped beside her, slightly out of breath.
“I didn’t come to your birthday yesterday,” he said, glancing at her cautiously. “You’re not angry… are you?”
He was nearly fifteen—handsome in the careless way of youth, features not yet sharpened by time. Dark eyes, clear and curious, still innocent of the damage they would one day cause. He had come today out of guilt, even if pride made him pretend otherwise.
At that age, feelings were vague and untrained. They mistook possession for devotion, impulse for love. Only later would pain teach them what love truly cost—when it was already too late.
Xiu Zhu understood that now. Yanxi did not.
They were still, technically, childhood companions without cracks between them.
When she met his gaze, something inside her softened—not into longing, but forgiveness. This boy before her had no part in the wounds of her former life. The memories, the grief, the regret—she alone carried them.
“They made you apologize?” she asked lightly. “I’m not angry.”
“Really?” He leaned closer, peering at her face. “You’re not tricking me?”
She pressed a finger to his forehead, gently but firmly. “Don’t lean in like that. You’re from a powerful family—hold your head up properly. You’ll wrinkle your brow before you even grow old.”
He laughed, rubbing his forehead. “I was worried! My sister said you were furious—cut flowers, broke a vase, cried all night—”
He stopped mid-sentence.
The smile on Xiu Zhu’s face vanished. For a moment, she seemed distant, as if pulled into another world. Alarmed, Yanxi grabbed her arm.
“Xiu Zhu?”
She blinked, forcing a smile. “What?”
“You looked… strange. Like you weren’t here.”
She laughed softly. “You’re imagining things. Go to class this afternoon. Don’t skip again.”
“You’re acting like a teacher,” he muttered. “They say girls don’t need to know so much.”
Once, such words might have hurt. Now, they only confirmed what she already knew.
She had seen too much—history unfolding, nations rising and falling. She could no longer shrink herself into a decorative role, waiting quietly in a house that would one day feel like a cage.
She would not let herself be cut again by someone who didn’t even know he was holding a blade.
“I’m not gentle,” she said calmly. “You’ve always known that.”
Yanxi stared at her. “You’re different.”
Her heart skipped. “Different how?”
“I don’t know… your eyes. They look like you’ve gone far away.”
She changed the subject. “You’ll be late.”
Reluctantly, he left. Then returned, suddenly shoving a small green box into her hands.
“A late birthday gift.”
The bow was crooked. Clearly tied by hand.
Her chest tightened.
After he ran off, she stood alone in the street, the noise of the city passing around her. She told the driver to take her home.
Some things were already beginning to shift.
That evening, she told her brother she wanted to attend school.
The dining table fell silent.
“A lady of your status doesn’t study alongside ordinary people,” he objected. “I’ll hire a tutor.”
“I want more than lessons,” she replied. “I want a world.”
In the end, he agreed.
The next day, she chose a modest girls’ school—far from Yanxi’s.
When she visited, she stood beneath old trees, listening to students read aloud. A notebook fell from above, striking her forehead.
She picked it up.
Poetry—modern, bold, untraditional.
Moments later, a figure tumbled over the wall and landed hard.
Yanxi.
Before she could react, a young teacher approached. Xiu Zhu returned the notebook respectfully.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “He meant no harm.”
The teacher accepted it, surprised by her composure.
“Please apologize,” she told Yanxi.
“I won’t.”
She paused—then let it go.
Turning instead to the teacher, she introduced herself.
“I’ll be studying here soon. My name is Bai Xiu Zhu.”
Later, Yanxi accused her of changing.
He was right.
She watched him walk away, stubborn and hurt, and felt a familiar ache—tempered now by clarity.
Love, she had learned, was not enough.
Choosing oneself was harder—but necessary
- Writer
