After Saving My Possessive Best Friend, I Couldn't Escape (GL) - Chapter 2

The high school in the book resembled the one she attended in seven or eight aspects, with the exception of the dormitory building.

Ye Yu led Fang Zhile all the way back to her dorm. It was a three-story, self-built, earthen building that sprung up from flat ground, with many people passing by both inside and out.

Ye Yu was on the third floor. After winding up several flights of stairs, they reached her dormitory.

The best thing about a self-built house was the ample space. Three people shared one dorm. The two others living with Ye Yu were dance students who had gone for extra training elsewhere for the past few months, leaving Ye Yu alone in the entire room.

Fang Zhile followed closely behind Ye Yu, covering her arm and keeping silent, diligently playing the part of the innocent, injured white flower.

“We’re here,” Ye Yu paused, slightly turning sideways to take out the key and open the door. She went in first, found a pair of slippers, and then invited Fang Zhile in. “There are slippers by the door, you can change into them.”

Fang Zhile looked down and saw Ye Yu had just taken out a pair of unworn white slippers from the shoe cabinet.

Ye Yu’s dorm was as clean and tidy as she had imagined, though not as soft as she remembered.

The colors on the walls and beds were uniformly black, white, and gray. The large desk by the window was a simple raw wood color. Other than that, there were no superfluous colored decorations, giving it a sense of unadorned neatness.

Ye Yu had a set process for things. She first pulled out a set of pajamas from the wardrobe, then found a set of bath towels from a more tightly sealed box under her bed, and retrieved her toiletry bag from the shelf by the headboard. She turned and handed them all to Fang Zhile.

“Your clothes are dirty. Change into these pajamas after you shower,” Ye Yu said.

The pajamas were long-sleeved, long-pant set in apricot yellow, with a snoring Kuromi printed in the center.

Ye Yu applied a slight force to the hand holding the clothes. Her fingers, which she used for writing year-round, were long and attractive, bending into clear arcs.

Fang Zhile glanced at them a few times, rubbed her arm, and gave up the idea of wearing the pajamas. She lowered her head and softly said, “Thank you for the pajamas, but I have class this afternoon.”

Fang Zhile’s appearance didn’t match her personality. She was outgoing, but her appearance was very well-behaved; when silent, she looked like an obedient doll.

Now, she nervously clutched the corner of her uniform, standing constrained by the wall. She lifted her head briefly before quickly dropping it again, stammering, “Do you have an extra school uniform you don’t wear? Could you… lend it to me?”

Her tone was hesitant, her posture awkward—she looked utterly pathetic.

Ye Yu’s outstretched hand paused for a moment before she silently withdrew it.

She gave Fang Zhile a look, a hint of scrutiny appearing on her typically expressionless face.

This person had indeed fallen because they had asked her to wipe the floor.

She had dodged instinctively, reluctant to have close physical contact, but failed to avoid the situation entirely, causing the person to knock over the ink and dirty her clothes.

Was it a coincidence, or was it intentional?

Still, even if she hadn’t been holding the ink, the person would have still gotten dirty falling on the slippery floor.

No matter how she looked at it, Ye Yu couldn’t find a reason to absolve herself.

Since she couldn’t shake it off, she accepted the responsibility.

“Wait a moment,” Ye Yu said.

This time, she opened a different cabinet. Beside the standard wooden locker provided by the school was a low, sliding cabinet, neatly stacked with… a dozen sets of school uniforms.

Chunyang High School only gave two sets of uniforms per person, so why did Ye Yu pull out a dozen sets?

Fang Zhile stared at the cabinet without blinking, a strong sense of confusion rising in her heart.

As if sensing Fang Zhile’s bewilderment, Ye Yu casually pulled out a set and handed it to her, calmly explaining, “I asked the tailor at home to help me make them.”

The soft fabric rested in her hand. Fang Zhile snapped back to reality, rubbing the uniform in her hand.

The style was identical to the one she was wearing, with no deliberate tailoring to be tight or fitted.

The material looked the same at first glance, but only when touching it did she feel the refreshing airiness of the superior fabric. Just holding it in her palm, she could already feel its quality.

Sure enough, Ye Yu was still the same: fastidious about the objects she used daily but not excessively indulgent in luxury.

Before transmigrating, the Fang and Ye families lived across the street from each other since childhood. The Ye family became wealthy first and moved to a city villa. Fang Zhile, with her brilliant academic record, entered City No. 1 High School without paying fees and became classmates with Ye Yu, who pursued art. Later, the Fang family also prospered, and Fang Zhile moved across the street from Ye Yu again. The two circled back to each other, inseparable from kindergarten to university.

The Ye family had their own tailor and cook; everything was intimately customized for each family member. Ye Yu had never experienced hardship growing up. Fang Zhile was different; her family’s conditions were poor during her childhood, and she lived a period of simple, difficult life. Her habits regarding food, clothing, and daily use items were not the same as Ye Yu’s.

After entering high school, Ye Yu’s parents were reluctant to let her stay in the dorm. Fang Zhile also thought Ye Yu wouldn’t be comfortable with the school dorms, but Ye Yu was not picky. She never showed any disdain, staying in the dorms with Fang Zhile and riding bikes to and from school. Years had passed in a flash.

Fang Zhile lowered her head, hiding the smile on her lips, and awkwardly mumbled a thank you. She picked up the bath towel and toiletry bag and shuffled along the wall into the bathroom.

Chunyang High School was in the suburbs and had a large area. Each dorm had a separate bathroom. While this sounded nice, it was reportedly because the school had an incident of bullying in the communal showers, where a bullied student nearly committed suicide, that the communal bath was canceled.

The temporary, expanded separate bathroom merely added a faucet. The hot water temperature wasn’t high; even at maximum, it was only lukewarm.

Fang Zhile’s mind wasn’t on showering, so she moved quickly, washing the ink stains off her body.

Inside the toiletry bag was a small box specifically labeled “Ink Cleaner.” Ye Yu practiced calligraphy year-round, and her skin often got stained with ink. Fang Zhile couldn’t help but smile at the little box, then became a little distracted.

After graduating from college, Fang Zhile opened her own studio. This novel was one of the copyrights her studio bought during a bulk purchase of stockpiled novels from a certain website. The story had a good pace, and she began the process of adaptation, intending to fix the plot holes, the dog-blood melodrama, and the twisted values.

Who would have thought that she would open the character panel, and before she could even start changing the plot, she would be plunged headfirst into the story, dragging Ye Yu along with her?

The thought of Ye Yu following the original plot to a predetermined tragic end made Fang Zhile deeply uncomfortable.

Therefore, she had to get close to Ye Yu and change her life trajectory. Whether in the book or outside the book, as long as it was still that person, Fang Zhile would take responsibility to the end.

Fang Zhile cheered herself up, finished her shower, and pushed open the door. Before she stepped out, she saw a figure hunched over the desk, wielding an ink brush.

Ye Yu’s dorm had a large wooden desk by the window. A piece of Xuan paper was spread on it, and Ye Yu was using her lunch break to practice calligraphy again.

Her posture when holding the brush was unique. Her arm and wrist were not as sharp and overtly forceful as a typical person’s; instead, they were much softer. There was movement within the stillness, and the flow of the brush was smooth, as if she wasn’t writing the powerful, steel-like strokes of calligraphy but a stunning, inimitable Jinghong painting (a traditional Chinese painting style known for its elegance).

The golden sun outside the window shone through the thin gauze curtain, hitting Ye Yu’s exquisitely carved, fair profile, giving her skin a translucent glow. She seemed to be bathed in light.

A vibrant, peaceful, and majestic scene.