Sheng Shushu only felt a warm lump stuck in her throat.
Every time Xiao Yu got close to her, wanting to be intimate, she always found herself tongue-tied, unable to express herself properly.
She tried hard to remain calm, her voice cool and indifferent, betraying a hint of impatience, "What shirt?"
"The men's shirt in your backpack that night at the apartment."
If he hadn't mentioned it, Sheng Shushu would have completely forgotten about it.
She remembered she had indeed bought a men's shirt to give to him as a birthday present.
A shirt, a lighter, and a cake—those three items.
But after spending the night with him, she was no longer the Sheng Shushu of her past life, and she had not remembered it.
Even if she had remembered, she wouldn't have given it to him. Just like the cake and the lighter, it would have ended up thrown away.
"I threw it away," she answered nonchalantly.
"Xiao Yu..." Sheng Shushu called out to him again.
It was because his hands were not being still.
