Chapter 3: There’s Something Wrong With My Youth Ecosystem

Lin An’s Diary: Today I met a girl. She jumped really high.

In the classroom of Class 2, Grade 11, Lin An spun his gel pen and jotted down the encounter in his diary.

But when he tried to keep writing, he found he had nothing else to add—after all, he didn’t really know the girl.

In the end, he simply concluded his entry with: “She looked pretty arrogant.”

Meanwhile, over in Class 1, Xia Hua was still trying to make sense of this world.

The classroom buzzed with the familiar noise of recess chatter—rowdy, yet oddly comforting.

But that comfort was tinged with a faint sense of alienation.

At the next desk, Fang Qiao was excitedly discussing the upcoming school performance.

She waved her little fists as she said, “This time, for the farewell party for the senior year students, our class’s stage play is definitely going to be a showstopper!”

“Everyone has to give it their all!”

“If someone performs exceptionally well, I’ll treat them to KFC!”

“…”

Fang Qiao called herself a literature enthusiast, and this time, the script for the play was written by her.

No one seemed to care much about the performance, though.

In the end, Fang Qiao barely managed to scrape together enough students to fill the roles.

Truthfully, what people disliked wasn’t the play—it was her bossy attitude.

Yes, fine, the script is yours.

But we’re just high schoolers.

The kind of expressive, emotionally layered acting you’re asking for? We really can’t pull that off!

She expected people to be genuinely moved by her writing, to shed real tears on stage, and if they didn’t, she accused them of being uncommitted and disrespectful to her script.

Who could stand that kind of pressure?

These so-called “literary enthusiasts” who write a couple of stories and then act all high and mighty—are they all delusional?

Those participating had gone from eager and enthusiastic to just going through the motions.

Xia Hua was one of the participants too.

Fang Qiao went around lecturing the cast members one by one, until she finally landed on Xia Hua.

With a stern tone, she said, “Xia Hua, you’ve missed several days of rehearsal. That’s not okay. Do you have any idea how hard everyone else is working?”

“Huh?” Xia Hua waved her hand dismissively and said, “Sorry, it’s not like I don’t want to participate. You know I have a part-time job. If I don’t work, I don’t eat.”

Her parents were dead. No car. No house.

Basically, her family hadn’t left her anything.

She barely scraped by on welfare and the school’s financial aid.

If she wanted even a slightly better life—

She had no choice but to work part-time jobs to buy herself a few new things now and then.

“You’re just making excuses,” Fang Qiao pointed at her.

For reasons unknown, Fang Qiao could talk civilly to everyone else, but when it came to Xia Hua, her sense of superiority always flared up.

Maybe the old Xia Hua would’ve just endured it.

But now?

Now that Xia Hua was back in a high school classroom for the second time in her life—

Like hell she was going to keep putting up with it.

She’d died once already. In the world beyond death, she wasn’t going to let some brat boss her around.

With a loud smack, Xia Hua knocked Fang Qiao’s hand away.

Her expression was full of disbelief as she said, “I really don’t get it. Your play is called ‘That Summer in High School’, and it’s just a story about high school romance.”

“And I’m just a background character.”

“I sit there the whole time without a single line, not even a single movement.”

“So what exactly do you want me to rehearse?”

“Practice sitting in a more elegant posture?”

“No offense, but—”

“For a role like this, you could find a hundred replacements just by walking down the street.”

The more Xia Hua talked, the angrier she got. She was playing a literal background prop.

And yet Fang Qiao insisted on making her sit there for two whole hours during every rehearsal, just to “watch” them practice.

She remembered how the play had bombed during the performance.

Fang Qiao, until the end of high school, kept blaming the failure on her lack of cooperation.

Please.

Since when does the success of a stage play hinge on a background character?

“You—you—you…” Fang Qiao was flustered.

Clearly, she hadn’t expected Xia Hua to push back like this.

“You what?” Xia Hua rolled her eyes and shrugged. “Yes, I get school financial aid. And according to unwritten class rules, I’m supposed to do my best to participate in school activities.”

“But actually…”

“It’s not a big deal if I don’t participate.”

This was the first time Xia Hua had ever lost her temper in class—because the old her had been far too meek.

What kind of mindset does a student living off school subsidies have?

Above all, they fear breaking school rules.

That’s why the old Xia Hua desperately tried to be a model student in both conduct and academics… but her grades were far from ideal.

To teachers, she was a model of good behavior.

To exam papers, she was a below-average performer.

And all her efforts to impress the teachers—to be the student who “tried the hardest”—were simply seen by her classmates as trying too hard.

In short, those years of high school were miserable.

Because it felt like everyone had seen through her biggest weakness: her fear of doing anything wrong.

There’s no such thing as a purely good person in this world.

Not even the teachers Xia Hua tried so hard to please were exceptions.

At first, they cherished her—this well-behaved student who never stepped out of line.

But once they realized every other student had some kind of edge or attitude, and only Xia Hua was easy to push around, she was rebranded as a failure. A prop for discipline. A tool for control.

Being both a “model student” and a “bad student” at the same time was… strange.

But it worked like this: she was the teacher’s trophy when they needed to brag, and the perfect scapegoat when they needed to set an example.

Take being late, for instance.

Other students would get a quick scolding and move on.

Xia Hua? She’d be used as a warning case—scolded, put on cleaning duty, made to copy pages of the textbook.

Back then, she’d come this close to breaking.

“Phew—” she let out a long breath and glanced at the schedule.

Next period—and the last for the day—was P.E.

She walked straight over to Chen Kailun, the class’s P.E. monitor, and said softly, “I’m not feeling too well. Could you let the P.E. teacher know I won’t be joining? You can do that, right?”

“Ah—uh, no…” Chen Kailun looked visibly uncomfortable.

But before he could finish saying the word “can’t,” Xia Hua leaned both hands on his desk, looming over him as she spoke with confident clarity: “You can do it, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I… I’ll try…” Chen Kailun muttered.

Xia Hua didn’t miss the hesitation in his voice. It confirmed something she already suspected—these things depended entirely on who was asking.

If it were one of his friends, or just about any other classmate, it would’ve been no big deal.

He’d casually pass on the message, and whether the teacher believed it or not wouldn’t really matter.

But when it came to her? Suddenly it became, “Well, if Xia Hua wants help, shouldn’t she ask nicely?”

Emphasis on ask.

“Then I’ll leave it to you,” Xia Hua said faintly, and returned to her seat.

She dug through her drawer and pulled out a stack of worksheets—today’s assignments from various subjects.

She still wasn’t sure what kind of world this was.

So if she could avoid trouble, she would.

The last thing she wanted was to wake up tomorrow still stuck in this place, only to get publicly reprimanded by the homeroom teacher for not doing her homework.

“First, figure out what this world is.” “Second, once that’s clear, make a plan for myself.”

Xia Hua had set her priorities. Compared to wasting time in gym class, she’d rather skip it.

If this really was Lin An’s afterlife, then what was she supposed to do?

If this was a parallel world, then what should her next step be?