I Don't Want to Have Little Mushrooms with You - Chapter 4
The hand near hers had long, slender fingers with prominent bones, pale skin that revealed the bluish veins running across its back.
But Song Tai averted her gaze, ignoring the woman, and reached out to press the elevator button herself. Only then did she notice that the button for the eighth floor was already lit—it had been pressed.
There were only two of them in the elevator, and Song Tai was certain she didn’t know this woman.
With two apartments per floor, it was likely they were neighbors.
The realization struck Song Tai instantly.
The woman, having noticed Song Tai’s aborted gesture, sounded surprised and extended her hand with a light, clear voice. “I didn’t expect us to be neighbors. I just moved in today. Let’s get to know each other.”
Song Tai didn’t respond.
Undeterred by the deliberate snub, the woman merely smiled again and calmly withdrew her hand.
The elevator ascended slowly, floor by floor.
The woman had stopped playing with her phone, her gaze now resting lightly on Song Tai—more precisely, on the side of her neck.
The stare was too obvious to ignore.
Song Tai frowned, then suddenly froze. Through the elevator’s reflective surface, she spotted a faint hickey on her neck—likely left earlier by Qu Fengyue.
It was subtle, but under the bright elevator lights, it was unmistakably visible.
Their eyes met in the reflection.
The woman smiled again, her dimples deepening.
Being watched didn’t make Song Tai uncomfortable, but it did irritate her.
There was a faintly predatory glint in the woman’s eyes, coupled with an aloof, untouchable aura—both of which grated on her nerves.
Because Song Tai knew exactly what that look meant. It was the gaze of someone who had spotted an interesting target, someone trying to lock onto their prey.
She recognized it at once.
Because Song Tai was the same kind of person. And she didn’t like her own kind.
Her so-called aloofness was, in truth, a lure that drew girls in like moths to a flame. She was well aware of her own appeal and knew how to wield it.
The elevator doors opened.
The woman stepped out first, then turned back to flash her another smile.
Song Tai expressionlessly looked away.
…
Exhausted and hungry, Song Tai stared into the empty fridge, regretting not having eaten dinner before coming home.
Closing the fridge, she poured herself a glass of warm water and sat on the couch, cradling the cup.
At times like this, her thoughts inevitably drifted back to Qu Fengling.
Qu Fengling was an excellent cook.
She could make almost anything Song Tai liked, but the dish that left the deepest impression was a soup—some kind of mushroom broth, though Song Tai wasn’t sure of its name.
Qu Fengling had only made it for her once.
It smelled sweet and fragrant, but the taste was oddly medicinal—bitter and astringent. Song Tai had taken one sip and wrinkled her face, refusing to drink more.
Qu Fengling had gazed at her gently, coaxing, “But tonight’s the family gathering. I’m worried you’ll go hungry.”
Family gatherings meant the so-called uncles would be there, spouting their condescending, self-important nonsense.
Just thinking about it was enough to make her irritable.
Despite being a “family” event, Song Tai never ate much—those pompous speeches killed her appetite.
Taking a deep breath, Song Tai had accepted the spoon and forced down another sip.
She had initially braced herself for the worst, but the more she drank, the more delicious it became. The mushrooms were tender and smooth, their umami flavor cascading over her tongue like a waterfall, almost addicting. She even found herself craving more, finishing the entire bowl of soup clean.
Qu Fengling looked at her with a mix of surprise and helplessness.
Song Tai, too, felt an unusual pang of embarrassment.
This was meant to be a serving for two—Qu Fengling had prepared it for both of them.
Yet, unexpectedly, Song Tai had polished it off all by herself.
Having consumed so much, her stomach felt slightly bloated, heavy and uncomfortably full.
Feeling miserable, she bossily demanded Qu Fengling massage her belly.
Without complaint, Qu Fengling sat on the sofa, cradling her in her arms, her palm gently rubbing Song Tai’s stomach in soothing circles.
Nestled in her embrace, Song Tai wrapped her arms around Qu Fengling’s waist and buried her face against her chest, gradually feeling a bit better. But then, Qu Fengling suddenly stopped.
Song Tai frowned, about to ask her to continue, when she looked up and met Qu Fengling’s gaze.
A faint smile lingered on Qu Fengling’s lips, her eyes quietly fixed on Song Tai’s lower abdomen—yet it wasn’t just looking. It was as if she could see through the fabric and skin, peering into the tangled depths of flesh and bl00d.
Her long lashes lowered slightly, veiling the suppressed, surging anticipation in her eyes.
Anticipation?
What had Qu Fengling been thinking with that expression back then?
“The spores planted in your body… your belly will slowly swell, filling up, nurturing…”
“By then, you’ll never be able to leave me.”
Unconsciously, Song Tai lifted her hand and lightly touched her own stomach.
Suddenly realizing what she was doing, she shuddered and let go. Had she just hallucinated? Panicked, she glanced around.
Only to lock eyes with a cold, dark camera lens, glinting ominously like a lurking shadow in the corner, silently watching her.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Song Tai recognized this camera.
Back when her friend had gone on an extended business trip and couldn’t take care of her cat, she had asked Song Tai to look after it temporarily.
But since both of them worked, they couldn’t monitor the cat 24/7. Qu Fengling had suggested buying a camera.
Song Tai couldn’t be bothered to handle it.
After Qu Fengling bought and installed it, they used it for a week. Later, when her friend took the cat back, the camera was never removed.
Was it still in use now?
She stepped closer to check and soon sighed in relief.
The living room lights were off—only the entryway was lit.
The camera wasn’t turned on; it was merely reflecting the light from the entryway. The dark, hollow lens resembled the glint in a pupil, forming an eerie, watchful eye that seemed ready to pry, giving her the unsettling illusion of being stared at.
The early spring night was bitterly cold. Song Tai, always sensitive to the cold, had just turned on the heater, but the room hadn’t warmed up yet. She pulled a blanket over herself and curled up on the sofa, shivering.
Her gaze fixed on the camera—its white, rounded shell.
The car accident had happened so suddenly. After Qu Fengling’s death, Song Tai had tried to sort through her belongings, only to realize that apart from the clothes Qu Fengling had worn, there was almost nothing to organize.
Qu Fengling had seeped too deeply into her life.
From small things like socks and trinkets to furniture and appliances, everything in the house was tied to Qu Fengling.
Either Qu Fengling had bought them for her, or they had picked them out together during the honeymoon phase of their relationship.
Strictly speaking, the entire home was Qu Fengling’s remnant.
Including the blanket wrapped around her now—a warm, cozy woolen throw with a simple beige pattern, exactly the kind of style Qu Fengling would like.
Just then, her phone buzzed in her bag, signaling an incoming message.
Song Tai took out her phone and saw that Qu Fengyue had texted her, asking if she had gotten home.
Perhaps due to Song Tai’s earlier rejection, Qu Fengyue’s tone seemed a little nervous, even cautiously adding a small dog emoji at the end.
Song Tai stared quietly at the chat window, in no hurry to reply.
She wasn’t that easily angered, especially not by a lover—let alone one she was still interested in.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t let Qu Fengyue stew a little longer.
She watched as the words [Typing…] appeared repeatedly at the top of the chat.
A few minutes later, a hesitant message finally came through, tentative and cautious: “Big sis… what are we now?”
Song Tai deliberately replied, “What do you mean? Aren’t we just colleagues? What else could we be?”
“But… we just…” Qu Fengyue’s words were clearly tinged with grievance. “Big sis, don’t you want to take responsibility?”
Though it was just text on a screen, and she couldn’t hear Qu Fengyue’s voice, Song Tai could strangely sense the emotions behind the words. She could even picture Qu Fengyue’s expression as she sent the message—flustered, nervous, eyes reddening, on the verge of tears.
It was like reliving the moment earlier, when Qu Fengyue’s breath had faltered hesitantly, like a tiny hummingbird fluttering its wings.
Anxious… waiting…
And Song Tai was the one who could hold that little hummingbird in her palm, molding and controlling it as she pleased.
A faint, amused smile tugged at Song Tai’s lips. She decided not to keep Qu Fengyue waiting any longer and was about to reply when—
Another message suddenly popped up.
It was from her mom, reminding her:
“Cai Cai, it’s time to go to Miaotan this weekend.”
“I know you don’t want to, but this time we’ll just go and come back. It won’t take long.”
This so-called Miaotan was actually just a small village, nestled between mountains and rivers, remote and secluded.
For as long as Song Tai could remember, she had been required to go there once a year at a specific time.
When Song Tai was little, she had been sickly—running high fevers frequently, inexplicably choking until her face turned blue, crying uncontrollably…
Yet no matter how many tests the hospital ran, they couldn’t find anything wrong. In desperation, Song Xuehe took her to see a so-called master.
The master claimed that Song Tai’s Bazi was too light, making her prone to attracting negative energies. Her weak fate made her an easy target for unseen troubles.
After accepting 500,000 yuan, the master offered a solution—find a yin temple, dedicate Song Tai’s Bazi and fate, and enshrine her as a divine maiden.
In name, Song Tai would serve the divine maiden for life, exchanging her devotion for the maiden’s protection.
Song Xuehe hadn’t believed it at first—it all sounded too mystical.
But that very night, Song Tai choked inexplicably again, her small face turning blue, nearly stopping her breath.
Only then did Song Xuehe grit her teeth and try the master’s method.
Surprisingly, it worked. From that day on, Song Tai miraculously recovered, never experiencing those symptoms again.
The price, however, was that she had to visit the divine maiden’s temple every year for three days of sincere worship.
After that, Song Xuehe became extremely indulgent in all other matters—except this one. There was no room for negotiation.
Three years ago, Song Tai started going on blind dates and unexpectedly ended up marrying Qu Fengling—all because of that so-called “master.” After pocketing another million, he divined that Song Tai would face a great calamity at the age of 22 and needed to marry as soon as possible, or else another disaster would follow.
It sounded utterly absurd. Song Tai didn’t believe a word of it, but that didn’t stop Song Xuehe from taking it to heart, constantly reminding her not to forget.
The more it was brought up, the more it grated on her nerves.
Song Xuehe also knew she disliked the topic—every year when it came up, Song Tai would grow visibly irritated.
She lowered her eyes slightly and replied first: “Got it.”
Then she switched back to respond to Qu Fengyue.
Qu Fengyue, clearly anxious, had already interpreted her silence as rejection. In less than two minutes, she had sent a flurry of messages:
“It’s okay, sis. I know I’m not good enough yet. I didn’t mean anything by it, I just wanted to ask…”
“Did I do something wrong again? I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t ignore me.”
Her words were like those of a drenched, pitiful puppy caught in the rain—Song Tai’s silence and rejection had clearly hurt her.
Such submissive, pleading words were hard not to find endearing.
A faint smile returned to Song Tai’s eyes.
But the undertone of desperation and supplication made her frown again.
She didn’t like this kind of love that discarded self-respect. She and Qu Fengyue had known each other for barely half a month, with even fewer real interactions.
She didn’t believe that such a short time could make someone fall so deeply for another.
It meant this relationship would be easy to start but hard to end—breaking up would likely be difficult.
But soon, her brow smoothed out.
Yet this was exactly what she needed right now. After Qu Fengling’s death, she was desperate to regain a sense of control in this relationship.
She could start it easily, and of course, she could end it just as easily—she was the one holding the reins. Song Tai thought confidently.
Her fingers tapped lightly, sending the message:
“Let’s give it a try.”
“But keep it a secret.”