Most of the time when we’re together, we just sit quietly, each lost in our own thoughts.
But today is a bit different. Zhi Nian is curled up in my arms, like a pitiful little kitten I brought home, demanding my comfort and cuddles—otherwise she’d keep letting out her “meow~ meow~” cries and disturb the peace.
Of course, I know Zhi Nian isn’t actually that dramatic. At most, she turns into an adorable cat-pufferfish hybrid, puffing out her cheeks and glaring at me, trying to use her gaze to coerce a warmer hug—otherwise, she’ll start getting mad.
Occasionally, when I’m not in a great mood, I might brush her off with a couple of careless words, not really coaxing her at all. Then, Zhi Nian really does get all pouty and ignores me.
Still, she never holds out for long—usually just a few minutes—before quietly scooting back to my side, pretending nothing happened as she pokes my arm or hooks her finger around mine, or attacks me with her cotton ball. Sometimes, if the place is empty enough, she’ll even send out her cat tail general to wind around my waist and pull me over to her side.
After a combo attack like that, no matter how down I am, I can’t help but burst out laughing and grab that mischievous tail to give it a gentle rub, as punishment for Zhi Nian.
Thinking back on all those funny moments with Zhi Nian, and then looking at the black-haired catgirl half-dozing in my arms, her throat rumbling with an engine-like “purr,” those ruby eyes half-hidden beneath delicate lashes, the scattered light casting shadowy veils—like a mysterious black gauze draped over gems.
Looking at her profile from this angle, maybe it’s the interplay of light and shadow, but she seems even softer and more delicate.
The faint yellow glow is scattered over her already smooth, pale skin. The girl with eyes half-shut, only a glimpse of those unique crimson rubies showing, hair perfectly disheveled across her cheek, exuding a uniquely girlish messy beauty.
I don’t know when it started, but watching Zhi Nian became an indispensable part of my life.
In my phone’s photo album, aside from the usual landscapes, cats and dogs, little fish and shrimp, there’s now an increasing number of cute, elegant catgirl snapshots.
The little details I’ve noticed over time have given me a deeper understanding of this childhood friend—like digging up a treasure trove I’d missed.
I know that when she presses her lips together, two adorable dimples appear in her cheeks, the one on the left a little deeper.
When she’s thinking, she’ll unconsciously twirl her hair, or tug at her skirt or shirt hem; sometimes if her skirt is short, I’ll even accidentally catch a glimpse of her tights’ seam or the color of her shorts underneath.
When Zhi Nian laughs happily, her emotions always show in her eyes first—before her mouth can even make a sound…
“Gu Fan.”
Zhi Nian’s voice is especially ethereal.
She suddenly looks up at me, eyes wide open and shining brightly under the night and lamplight, like two blood-red wormholes sucking in all the surrounding light and offering it up to me, full and dazzling.
“I…”
Before Zhi Nian can finish, a moth suddenly crashes into the nearby streetlight with a faint thump, and the light flickers for a second.
The light darkens abruptly, but quickly returns to normal. However, what Zhi Nian wanted to say gets stuck in her throat.
She just mouths the words silently for a moment, then exhales quietly, making no sound.
Her tail, which had been wrapped around me, also droops down dejectedly onto the wooden bench, limp and motionless. In the dim light, it looks just like a gray-black toy snake.
“What’s wrong? If you have something to say, Zhi Nian, just say it.”
I ask as gently as I can, making sure my voice sounds calm and nonthreatening. My heart, quiet until now, seems to wake up, starting to warm up with a thumping beat.
I’ve been through Zhi Nian’s hesitation countless times before. There’s no single way to handle it, since she always reacts quietly and gets lost in silence when something is bothering her. All I can do is half-guess, half-test, trying to figure out what she wants to say.
Of course, there’s another way: patiently guiding Zhi Nian like this, until she gathers the courage to finally say what’s on her mind. Only then can I understand what strange or curious thoughts are circling in her head.
Zhi Nian shakes her head, then frowns, lowering her gaze in confusion. I know that look well—it’s her “troubled” face. Every time I see it, I find it oddly funny and want to ruffle her hair, make her even more of a mess, and see what kind of expression a completely “crashed” catgirl would wear.
But that’s just a thought—for now, our relationship hasn’t reached that special level, so I can only restrain myself and patiently wait for Zhi Nian to find her words.
Far off in the wild grass, there’s a “croak” sound—maybe a frog or some other creature. Every now and then, something rustles through the plants with a “zi-liu” sound—probably a cricket? I don’t really know.
When I was little, I read an insect book in the school library once. If I hadn’t been so playful back then and read it a few more times, maybe I’d know more about bugs now, and wouldn’t be so clueless every summer about which animal or insect is making which sound.
The only thing I’m sort of familiar with is this new road. Every few minutes, a car goes by, and in the dim light, I try to make out the brand by its logo. If I can’t see, I just guess from the shape and look.
But I can only recognize some of the more famous brands. The less common or newer ones—especially all those fancy new electric cars with wild logos—I don’t know them at all. I guess I’m not a “real” guy… I can’t even identify car badges.
“I was just thinking, um…”
After a while, Zhi Nian finally speaks. Her voice sounds more subdued and a little hoarse, maybe from thirst.
“I feel really happy right now, lying in your arms, Gu Fan. There’s no strangers around to disturb us or stare at us. It’s just you and me—so happy, so content. I wish we could stay like this forever. Ah… Did I say something weird? Don’t mind me, Gu Fan, I just didn’t organize my thoughts very well and used some awkward words. Just take it as something normal to hear, don’t overthink it. That’s just how I am, always saying random, scattered things. My words just tumble out, like I pricked my finger and wrote them in blood—way too dramatic. Only you can put up with me, Gu Fan. Every time I think about that, I get really happy. You’ve never disliked me, and, um, ah… haha…”
As she talks, Zhi Nian’s expression doesn’t change at all—like a perfectly crafted Western-style cat doll, speaking mechanically about her feelings and experiences, but with no emotion showing.
But I can see her fingers are clutching the fabric of her tights at her thigh, tugging so hard she’s nearly torn a corner, but she won’t let go.
It’s obvious she’s struggling to keep her emotions in check, putting most of her effort into organizing her thoughts and trying to say them as logically and completely as she can.
In the end, she can’t hold out, and lets out a strange “ah-woo” cry.
Maybe realizing her mind is completely scrambled, Zhi Nian simply shuts her mouth again. It’s like those words, barely more than a whisper in the wind, have vanished with the breeze, gone without a trace.
The night wind stirs the tips of Zhi Nian’s hair, a few strands sticking to her lips, which she presses together tightly—I can tell how frustrated she is.
Maybe she’s just upset that even speaking is this hard for her? I understand her feelings pretty well. When I was in kindergarten, I didn’t like to talk either—always off by myself, lost in wild and pointless thoughts.
But back then, my mother was already practicing her so-called “elite education.” Under her control, I had to attend a whole series of speech classes. Even if they were just kindergarten level, to me it felt like hellish training, forced to talk to all sorts of people every day.
Adults, other kids, newborn babies, even dogs and cats that couldn’t talk—sometimes people’s own pet turtles, pigs, or ducks. My tongue practically got worn out. She pushed my seven- or eight-year-old self so hard that I could practically make up speeches to the air itself.
Most of my eloquence now comes from that foundation. I don’t know if I should thank my mother for her wisdom, or thank myself for gritting my teeth and getting through it.
Since graduating kindergarten, I’ve basically never felt that mind-blank, tongue-tied struggle to speak again. But I did become a lot more silent and reserved. Unless there’s no other choice, I rarely talk, whereas before I’d at least mutter to myself all the time—kids love to play pretend, after all, and could amuse themselves with their imagination.
As for now, it’s only when I’m with Zhi Nian that I need to pause and carefully think about what words to use to comfort her. Any other time, I just grab the right response from my mental library and reply by rote.
It’s normal for Zhi Nian to be this way, too. She’s always been gentle. Girls are sensitive, sure, but being a catgirl puts even more burden on her heart, amplifying her sensitivity. Then there’s her family background—so many factors twisted her into the person she is now.
Watching those strands tangled at her lips, I reach out without thinking to brush them aside, but halfway there I wonder if it’s too intimate and stop suddenly.
Maybe Zhi Nian notices my movement and intention—her eyes widen slightly.
Those sparkling red goldfish swim toward me, her soulful gaze quietly peering through the misty air, not letting me go.
After a moment, Zhi Nian actually nudges her head closer, turning her face toward my fingers and even lifting her chin a little, like a proud little swan offering me her cheek.
Not knowing what to say, I can only smile helplessly and use my finger to hook those stray hairs.
When my fingertip brushes her cheek by accident, it’s soft and springy—like just the right amount of fluffy cotton, not so soft that it slips away.
Just that simple touch, and it feels like a faint spark flares in my chest—blossoming in my heart for an instant and then burning fiercely.
I swallow and take a deep breath. Under Zhi Nian’s puzzled gaze, I tuck the strand of hair back, feeling the warmth among the strands.
“Your cat ears are so red.”
I say with a smile, trying to cover up my heart pounding like a war drum, already beyond my control.
If I let that fire go unchecked, it’ll only burn hotter. Best to steer it somewhere safe, before it gets out of hand.
As soon as I tease her, Zhi Nian’s eyes go wide, and she hurriedly covers her cat ears with both hands, her expression somewhere between embarrassment and annoyance.
But even though she does her best to hide them, those mischievous cat ear tips still peek out between her fingers, bright red and giving away just how shy Zhi Nian really is.
“It’s not because I’m embarrassed! Actually, it’s because… because…”
Her voice grows stammered.
“It’s just that May is almost here, and the weather’s getting hot. That’s understandable—cat ears have so much fur, it’s normal for them not to handle heat well, so of course they turn red. It’s not that I’m embarrassed or anything, I just think they look bad, so I don’t want Gu Fan to see. Gu Fan, no overthinking allowed.”