Chen Qing stared blankly at Cheng Xing's retreating back. For a moment, she wanted to call out to him, to say something. But in the end, she stayed rooted to the spot, watching as he disappeared into the night. The dimly lit sky stretched above her, and for a fleeting moment, she felt as though she had lost something precious.
That feeling, however, was brief. It's nothing, she reassured herself. The only reason she'd considered waiting for Cheng Xing was out of politeness. After all, they used to walk home together. Beyond that, there was no other reason.
Besides, Cheng Xing was probably upset because she had rejected him today. But anger never lasted long with him. They had quarreled before—nothing serious—and by the next day or two, he would always be the one to apologize and make amends.
With this thought in mind, Chen Qing turned toward home, the crisp autumn breeze brushing against her face.
When she arrived home, Chen Qing placed her schoolbooks on the table and bent down to change into her slippers.
"My good daughter, you're back," her father, Chen Shi, greeted her warmly from his chair.
"Yeah, Dad," Chen Qing replied, her tone casual but with a hint of urgency. "I want to show you a poem."
Chen Shi chuckled. "No rush. Your mom went out to buy some fruit. Go take a shower first. Once you're done, we'll sit together, have some fruit, and then I'll look at your poem."
"No," Chen Qing said, shaking her head firmly. "I have to show it to you now, while I still remember it."
She had been surrounded by classmates at school earlier, making it impossible to write down the poem. Though she had admired it when their teacher read it aloud, she hadn't dared to jot it down then—it would have drawn too much attention. Now that she was home, she didn't want to risk forgetting a single word.
Chen Shi, amused by her determination, relented with a smile. "Alright, alright. Let's see what our talented daughter has brought me this time."
Chen Qing fetched a pen and paper. Her memory was sharp, and after hearing the poem once, she had silently recited it to herself several times. Great poems, after all, had a way of lingering in one's mind.
When she finished writing, she handed the sheet to her father.
Chen Shi took the paper, his expression turning serious as he read. The warmth in his smile slowly faded, replaced by a look of quiet astonishment. After a long pause, he finally spoke.
"Xiao Qing," he said, his tone thoughtful, "this poem doesn't seem like something you wrote yourself."
Chen Qing had occasionally shared her attempts at poetry with him before. For her age, her work was already impressive, but this… this was on a completely different level. Two lines, in particular, were so profound they could rival those of classic masterpieces.
"No, it's not mine," Chen Qing admitted, shaking her head. She decided there was no need to hide the truth. "This was written by Cheng Xing."
"Cheng Xing? Captain Cheng's son?" Chen Shi asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
"Yeah," Chen Qing nodded.
"But isn't his academic performance poor? Just yesterday, your mother mentioned that he only got into No. 1 High School because Captain Cheng pulled some strings," Chen Shi said, chuckling. "She even said she regretted letting him walk you home. She's worried you'll pick up bad habits from him and told me to remind you to keep your distance."
"Well, his overall grades aren't great," Chen Qing admitted, "but his Chinese is excellent. His compositions are usually perfect scores."
Chen Shi's interest was piqued. "That's unexpected. This poem—'Breaking the Formation,' you said?—is exceptional. I doubt even members of our city's Writers' Association could craft something this good."
Chen Qing blinked in surprise. She had known the poem was excellent, but hearing her father—a seasoned cultural bureau director—offer such high praise made her realize just how remarkable it was.
Chen Shi studied the poem again, his gaze thoughtful. "The first half is strong, but the second half… it's clearly expressing love. I wonder who Cheng Xing had in mind while writing this?"
Chen Qing flushed, her face burning. "Dad! What are you talking about?"
He chuckled knowingly. "Oh, come on. You know exactly what I mean. Someone will understand."
"I don't understand anything," Chen Qing retorted, pouting in an attempt to hide her embarrassment.
Chen Shi laughed, shaking his head. How could Chen Qing pretend not to know? Cheng Xing had been walking her home every day for six years, through rain and shine, ever since middle school. Did she really think her parents hadn't noticed? Her mother's comments the night before had been less about Cheng Xing's character and more about concern for their daughter.
Yet it was a pity. Cheng Xing might not be as hopeless as Zhang Qiu believed, but he wasn't exactly promising either. His poetic talent aside, his grades in other subjects were abysmal. No amount of literary skill could get him into a top university—not unless he produced something extraordinary, like one of those rare, full-mark compositions in the college entrance exam.
But how many people in the entire country could achieve that? Such prodigies were rarer than provincial top scorers.
Still, the more Chen Shi studied the poem, the more he admired it.
"Dad?" Chen Qing asked tentatively, breaking his train of thought.
He smiled at her, an idea forming in his mind. The provincial cultural department had recently requested submissions for an anthology of poetry. Ancheng's Writers' Association had sent him a pile of lackluster entries, none of which had impressed him. Why not submit this one? Even if it didn't get selected, it was far better than anything they currently had.
"Your mother's back," Chen Shi said suddenly, hearing the door open.
"Sorry for the delay," Zhang Qiu called out as she entered, holding a bag of fruit. "The vendor near the gate had fresh pears, so I couldn't resist. I'll wash them, and you can have some later."
"Thank you, Mom!" Chen Qing said with a playful curtsy.
"Go on, you're asking for a beating" Chen Qing's mother laughing as she headed to the kitchen.
Chen Shi chuckled to himself, glancing once more at the poem. Cheng Xing, eh? Maybe there's more to you than meets the eye.