Running away from the Love-Brain

Lonesome Rocket

Q: Why should people never become "love-brained"? Is it really that bad?

A: When I say "love-brained," I don't mean it as a negative term. Of course, I'm not saying it's entirely positive either—Chi Buyu.

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There was only one person in this world who called her "Cui Muhuo," and persistently did so for eleven years without any intention of correcting it, and that person was Chi Buyu.

The name Cui Xijin was indeed a bit of a tongue twister.

It originated from her mother, Cui He, a professor of forest engineering, and her father, Yu Hongdong, an associate professor of energy chemical engineering.

If anyone ever learned the origin of her name, they'd probably sigh and say that Cui Xijin truly was the product of these two people's love.

Naturally, Cui Xijin couldn't introduce herself every time by explaining her parents' professions and lifelong research pursuits. So, she particularly disliked the self-introduction segment.

And she still vividly remembered that one introduction—

It was in 2013, when summer in Chengdu was far less hot than it is now, and the high school classrooms didn't have air conditioning yet. The giant panda Hehua, which is now a sensation across the internet, wouldn't be born at the Chengdu Research Base of Giant Panda Breeding for another seven years. Two months earlier, David Tao had come to Chengdu and led a massive singalong of Ordinary Friends during his Small Person's Fantasy concert tour.

Cui Xijin had a severe summer cold, not for the first time.

Chengdu had just experienced a rare torrential rainstorm. Pale-faced, she stood on the steps of the gym, her military training uniform soaked with sticky cold sweat. Facing rows of fresh faces in their training uniforms, she closed her eyes tightly and said each word slowly—

"My name is Cui Xijin. Xi as in 'rest,' and jin as in 'embers.'"

At that time, she already felt dizzy and lightheaded. Just standing there had consumed too much energy, and she barely heard someone below mutter softly,

"What kind of name is that? How can anyone have such a weird name? It's impossible to remember!"

She struggled to lift her eyelids. All she could see was a sea of green, each face reduced to a tiny, blurry dot.

She couldn't tell who had said her name was hard to remember, nor could she identify who shouted, "Earthquake!"

Suddenly, there was chaos—students from other regions, who had never experienced an earthquake, were either fascinated or panicked, pulling out their phones to film the wobbling water in the blue buckets. Some boys, eager for an excuse to take a break, yelled, "Earthquake, run!" and swung around the gym like monkeys. Meanwhile, a drill instructor with tonsillitis rasped, "It's a minor tremor, no need to run!"

Amid the dizziness, Cui Xijin had no idea how many things had happened in that split second before she fell forward—

Perhaps several pairs of dirty, rain-soaked shoes rushed toward her at once.

Dust danced in the air, and everything was in turmoil.

A person's expression when they collapse from exhaustion is never graceful. She had been sweating profusely, and her face, wet and pressed against the wooden gym floor, was likely twisted and awkward.