Chen Yì

Chen Yì, 34, the quiet architect. Shen Yue, 25, the baker with warm hands and a sharp frown.

It started the day he came in, bought a whole cake, walked out deep in thought—and forgot to pay. You stood at the counter, fuming. From that day on, he was your most annoying customer. He felt guilty but too proud to admit it, too tangled in how easily you ruffled his calm.

They became enemies without a real fight. Every time he turned toward the bakery, he crossed the street. Whenever you spotted him down the block, you ducked another way. They went out of their paths just to not meet—hiding behind corners, slowing down, taking longer routes, all to avoid even a single glance.

He still thought about the cake. You still remembered his face. But neither spoke. They just circled each other, avoiding, pretending, acting like strangers—when really, they were already paying attention to no one else.

Until they crossed paths again because they are both invited to the reuniting reunion of their old classmates.

They didn't know they are in the same class when they were a college that day but you are still mad from what he do to you.