Chapter 61: Rivals in Love Face Off, Eyes Burning with Jealousy

Ji Xian stood beneath the cold, white glow of the streetlamp, still wrapped in that brown scarf. His eyes were distant, his gaze colder than the howling winter wind. His fingertips unconsciously clenched; he had never imagined that Qiao Zhen would let another man accompany her to the competition.

Wasn’t Qiao Zhen pursuing him?

Then why, in the midst of her pursuit, had she become so entangled with another man?

He remained rooted in place, his expression thunderous, waiting for Qiao Zhen to come and coax him as she always had.

Yet Qiao Zhen lingered behind Qin Yichi, refusing to step forward, unwilling to face him.

Just as she had that day—even when he’d said, “Qiao Zhen, if you dare walk away with Qin Yichi, don’t ever come back,” she hadn’t looked back.

Ji Xian’s face darkened further.

Qin Yichi stood between them, frowning slightly, his deep voice edged with hostility: “What do you want?”

There was a wariness, a clear aversion in his eyes.

Ji Xian gripped the bag with the necklace box tighter, ignoring him completely, his tone growing colder: “Qiao Zhen, come here.”

This was the first time he had ever humbled himself, seeking Qiao Zhen out beyond the school gates—she ought to have been overjoyed.

In the past, in a previous life, all it took was a word—a beckoning gesture—and Qiao Zhen would obediently appear before him.

But now, Qiao Zhen showed not the slightest intention of coming over.

She held her bouquet tightly, her expression calm as she shook her head and refused him: “I’ve told you many times, I don’t want to see you again.”

The moment the words left her lips, the mask Ji Xian wore nearly shattered, yet he still clung to his cold arrogance, pressing her for answers, word by word: “Then why did you give me the scarf?”

The scarf…?

Perhaps the cold had numbed her, for Qiao Zhen’s nose was red as she sniffed, bewildered: “When did I ever give you a scarf?”

It was as if a thunderclap split the sky.

Ji Xian’s perfectly handsome face seemed to crack, disbelief shoving him a step back, each syllable squeezed through clenched teeth: “This scarf isn’t from you?”

Qiao Zhen glanced at the brown scarf around his neck—slightly rough, clumsily made, so clearly handmade by someone else, utterly at odds with his expensive, custom-tailored attire.

Suddenly, she found him quite laughable.

What a pity, this affection come too late.

Cheaper than grass.

In her past life, after giving Ji Xian a scarf, she had never seen him wear it, never heard a single word of praise.

She had worried in her heart—maybe he didn’t like it, maybe he thought it was too cheap…

He was the kind who only wanted to be flattered, coaxed, pursued, taking everything for granted.

That bitter ache, she realized, would never truly be erased.

Qiao Zhen lowered her eyes, her tone even, shaking her head: “No.”

Ji Xian, you are unworthy of anyone’s sincerity.

Her voice, carried by the icy wind, was sharp as frost, stabbing mercilessly into Ji Xian’s bleeding heart.

Astonishment flickered in his eyes, the light in his pale irises suddenly dimming, his flawless composure nearly crumbling to dust.

In his heart, the words “impossible” echoed relentlessly.

Yet at his side, Qin Yichi’s mood lightened, the corners of his lips lifting as he felt a rare warmth spreading through him.

Qin Yichi turned, bending down to speak to Qiao Zhen, “If you don’t want to see him, go on ahead. I’ll come find you soon.”

His voice was calming, as if even if the sky were to fall, he would hold it up for her.

Qiao Zhen hesitated a moment, then smiled and nodded: “Alright, I’ll wait for you at the subway station.”

She left by a roundabout path, glancing back at Qin Yichi with concern until her figure was swallowed by the thickening night.

Qin Yichi turned to face Ji Xian, all gentleness gone from his gaze, replaced by a piercing sharpness.

They were of similar height, standing silently in confrontation, a brewing storm of emotion surging between them.

An eyesore.

Each found the other intolerable.

Seeing Ji Xian move to follow, Qin Yichi blocked his way.

Ji Xian finally looked him in the eye, his voice devoid of warmth, as if regarding something lifeless.

Just a lovesick admirer—what right did he have to stand before him?

With a cold laugh, he spat out each word: “And what does this have to do with you?”

Qin Yichi’s expression was unruffled. He reached up to touch his own scarf, his tone languid yet defiant, brimming with territoriality: “Because this scarf was handmade for me by Qiao Zhen.”

A choking tension filled the air around them, thickening with each breath.

Ji Xian’s gaze locked onto the gray scarf, his fingertips turning white from the force of his grip.

He drew a deep breath, struggling to maintain his composure.

Impossible…

Qiao Zhen must have spoken in anger. And as for Qin Yichi’s claim—who knew if it was true or just some petty trick?

Frost coated Ji Xian’s features, his eyes like blades as he mercilessly tore open old wounds: “So what? You like her, you pine for her, but she’s always seen you as a brother—she’ll never love you.”

“As for me, I don’t even need to do anything, and she’ll come to me, trying to please me.”

Ji Xian stared at him with mocking pity, suddenly scoffing as he added, “Qin Yichi, you’re truly pathetic.”

With that, Ji Xian strode away, face grim, tossing the gift box straight into the trash.

Raised under strict discipline, he had always been skilled at concealing himself, at keeping his emotions in check.

But tonight, for the first time, his feelings surged beyond control—an unfamiliar wave of helplessness and dread washed over him.

He had thought himself still the victor, still unassailable.

But as he passed a shop window, he caught his own reflection and realized just how much he’d lost his composure.

…

Red veins crept into Qin Yichi’s eyes as he stood frozen, feeling, for the first time, that he was at a disadvantage.

“She only sees you as a brother.”

“She will never love you.”

Each word struck with merciless accuracy.

A sense of powerlessness spread through his limbs, clinging to him like a swamp—inescapable, impossible to fight.

He remembered a time, years ago.

Back in their first year of high school, a girl had asked Qiao Zhen, “Hey, what’s up with you and Qin Yichi? You two seemed really close when school started.”

Qiao Zhen had thought it over seriously, answering calmly, “I guess he’s the childhood friend I grew up with.”

The girl leaned in: “Really just a brother? You don’t have any other feelings for him?”

Qiao Zhen had quietly replied, “Mm.”

The girl had cheered in delight: “That’s great! Qin Yichi is exactly my type—will you give him my love letter? Please, Zhen Zhen!”

In the gentle breeze, the plane tree leaves rustled, carrying Qiao Zhen’s words to him.

Qin Yichi had been standing behind the tree, holding a little cake, his body stiff, his throat blocked as if by a stone, unable to speak.

It felt as though a giant hand gripped his heart, the pain so dense it stole his breath.

Unrequited love is a silent endurance, a careful testing, a private storm.

His affection asked for nothing in return, expected no reward.

So, truly, there was nothing pitiful about it.

Night deepened, cold slicing through his body, each gust like a thousand knives, threatening to split his heart apart.

Qin Yichi breathed into his hands, heading toward the subway station, his shadow stretched long and lonely by the streetlamp.

His body felt heavy as lead, every step a test of will.

This road seemed endless.

But he was willing to walk it for a lifetime.