I’m Allergic to Pheromones - Chapter 27

Bai Cha sat on a bench under the banyan tree, eating half a bag of small bread rolls.

She was starving, but after just two, she already felt full. Her stomach still ached faintly, though it was much better than when she had been drifting in and out of consciousness.

The sunlight lazily filtered through the leaves, occasionally scattering in fragmented beams—bright, sparkling, and a little harsh on the eyes.

Bai Cha raised a hand to shield her face, peering through her fingers. Her sore eyelids fluttered slightly, and her tightly pressed lips curved into a faint smile as she whispered something only she could hear.

“It’s nice.”

It was nice to be alive.

It was nice to see the sun again.

After a night of high fever, the memory of the previous evening still filled her with dread. She had nowhere to go, like a panicked stray cat, fleeing and hiding in a frenzy.

She didn’t dare go anywhere with people, afraid of being caught. In the end, she had sneaked into an unfinished high-rise building to take shelter from the rain.

The abandoned building was terrifying—walls crumbling at a touch, the floor littered with construction debris, and rats scurrying about unafraid of human presence.

But Bai Cha was afraid.

She didn’t dare fight these bold creatures for space, nor did she dare climb too high. In the end, she found a room on the second floor and sat against the wall all night.

The fever had left her bones weak and her head throbbing, like a swollen bean with a soft core that might crumble at the slightest touch.

The back of her neck had ached strangely all night, burning and itching. When she pressed on the tender spot, it seemed to swell instantly—so delicate, so fragile.

Only when the rain stopped the next day did she finally return to the small slope to dig up the metal box where she had hidden her money. Then she found a public restroom to clean herself up.

Her clothes were thin—wringing them dry and running a few laps in the wind left them half-dry. The smell wasn’t great, a mix of rainwater and the lemon scent of hand soap that stung her eyes red.

She turned slightly, letting the sunlight warm her back. A group of high school students in white uniforms and backpacks passed by, laughing and roughhousing, their lively expressions like the gentlest breeze of early spring.

Bai Cha watched them quietly as they walked away, their youthful shadows intertwined behind them like tangled branches. Suddenly, she thought of the crabapple cuttings she had planted on the slope—now toppled by the rain.

The slender, fragile twigs had been buried in the soil by her wishful thinking, a naive hope that one day they would grow tall and lush, bursting with blossoms. But they couldn’t even withstand a single storm.

Unbidden, she thought of that woman—beautiful as a crabapple flower—of the unanswered phone call, of the street signs at the intersection. They were all like those fallen branches, powerless.

“It would be even better if I could see you again.”

The words slipped out unconsciously, so quiet even she barely heard them. Realizing what she had said, she stiffened for a moment, her fingers tightening around the bread bag.

Then she spotted a red public phone booth.

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice, light and unhurried, drifted through the receiver—as if it had traveled through the whole of early spring, brushing past the air before settling on a slender branch still dripping with dew.

The person holding the phone instantly held her breath, too clumsy to utter a single word.

Nan Ju thought her phone was malfunctioning when she pressed the volume up button. “Who is this? I’ll hang up if you don’t speak.”

The call duration ticked second by second. After waiting patiently for a few moments, just as Nan Ju decisively moved to end the call, she heard a response so faint it would have vanished into the air had she acted a second faster.

“It’s me.”

The woman who had been lazily reclining in her chair instantly straightened up. Her usually half-lowered eyelids lifted, the corners of her eyes curling upward in surprise.

“Little kitten?”

Holding tightly to the phone booth frame, Bai Cha froze momentarily before dumbly repeating, “Little kitten?”

Who was this ‘little kitten’?

A soft cough came through the receiver, followed by the woman’s languid voice that sent tremors through the ear pressed too close to the phone. “Finally remembered to call me? I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

“No,” Bai Cha denied quickly, then blushed, unsure what else to say.

She missed Nan Ju terribly—this beautiful woman she’d only met three times, missed those eyes brimming with mirth, missed those soft fingers.

Logically, Bai Cha knew she should stay away, forget that utterly foolish promise, and find a proper place to live her life.

But emotionally, she couldn’t convince herself not to yearn for the kindness and warmth Nan Ju had once shown her.

Even when she couldn’t get through last night during her darkest moment, enduring that long, painful hardship alone.

For seventeen years, she’d been tossed around like unwanted baggage. Her mother had thrown her onto the street and driven off without a backward glance. The orphanage took her in but always shoved her into corners and confinement rooms.

Bai Cha didn’t understand—was it because she wasn’t obedient enough?

“Do you think I’m well-behaved?” came the muffled question, heavy with confusion.

Nan Ju raised an eyebrow slightly, responding casually, “Fairly well-behaved, I suppose. At least you don’t dye your hair green or pick fights with dogs.”

Bai Cha, momentarily caught in self-doubt, found herself speechless, her chest tight with suppressed emotions.

What normal person would dye their hair green and fight with dogs?

What had been a desperate question turned childish under Nan Ju’s flippant response. Pouting in frustration, Bai Cha watched the call timer and hurriedly fed more coins into the slot.

The phone booth only allowed five minutes per yuan—it would disconnect automatically without additional payment.

She hadn’t actually expected the call to go through initially.

“About a dozen unknown calls came through last night—was that you?”

Bai Cha heard herself answer without hesitation: “No.”

The girl’s stubborn pride clung to her like a fistful of balloons held too tightly.

“That’s good,” Nan Ju sighed in relief, rolling down her car window to gaze at the vibrant starfruit tree beyond the wall. Her voice softened. “I was busy then, didn’t notice my phone was on vibrate. I thought it might be you, but no one answered when I called back.”

Suddenly, Bai Cha felt some of the weight lift from her heart. She traced circles with her shoe in the beam of sunlight that had slipped into the phone booth.

She looked up and saw a balloon floating in the sky, pale blue as if trying to merge with the azure heavens.

“Can we meet next Wednesday? I forgot to return your jacket.”

Jacket?

Nan Ju struggled to recall and vaguely remembered throwing a jacket to Bai Cha during their first meeting.

“No need to return it. That jacket was a bit small for me anyway—you can keep it.” Hearing the soft breathing through the receiver, Nan Ju curved her lips. “But we can definitely meet. Same spot by the river next Wednesday? Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Bai Cha.”

Suddenly hearing her name, Bai Cha widened her eyes slightly, nervous. “Wh-what is it?”

“Can you draw? Yesterday at work I saw a colleague receive a sketch as a gift and got so envious. But I’m hopeless at drawing. If only you could…”

Bai Cha…

She understood the hint, but she couldn’t draw either—the orphanage never taught that.

Thinking of her own messy, childlike handwriting, Bai Cha flushed slightly. “I can draw, just not very well.”

Before she could finish, the other girl cut in eagerly.

“That’s fine! I’ll love anything you draw!”

Bai Cha began doodling circles faster, hesitantly asking, “What kind of drawing would you like?”

“Me?” Nan Ju watched two figures exit the orphanage gates in the distance, then gazed up at the rain-washed, exceptionally clear blue sky, smiling. “I’d like the clouds colored pink.”

“Okay.”

A passerby leaned their bicycle against a tree and approached the phone booth. Bai Cha frowned slightly. “I have to go now. See you next week.”

“See you then.”

After their goodbyes, Nan Ju noticed the prolonged silence before the call disconnected and asked softly, “What’s wrong? Anything else to say, kitten?”

Kitten.

Bai Cha closed her eyes, her eyelids trembling faintly, cheeks flushed an unnatural pink.

“Could you… keep your phone off vibrate from now on? I might call you sometimes.”

Nan Ju’s eyes widened in surprise before agreeing. “Alright, I won’t anymore.”

The easily-embarrassed kitten hung up first, pushing open the phone booth door with her half-bag of bread rolls. Sunlight filtered through the branches, dappling the ground.

Bai Cha stepped decisively into the light, letting the fragmented beams dance across her face—warm and comforting.

She hadn’t deliberately ignored my calls.

She hadn’t forgotten me.

Her voice was still that same gentle, measured tone, so distinctly Omega-like.

Through storms and nightmares, waking to brilliant sunshine and hearing your voice on the line—this was enough.

—

Nan Xing sprinted back to the car under the blazing sun, collapsing into the seat like a salted fish. “My life belongs to the AC now,” she groaned weakly.

Her assistant boarded a minute later, forehead glistening, and went straight to business. “Young Miss, the orphanage checks out—genuinely underfunded. Among the presented children, there are three underage Alphas with average potential receiving preferential treatment. Many adoptive families are interested in them.”

“Alright, let’s drive. Not back to the office—head to Su Wei’s place first.” Nan Ju turned off her phone screen and rolled up the window, shutting out the sweltering heat outside. “Have you checked on those undifferentiated children yet?”

“Yes, there are 43 of them, all ages,” the assistant replied, steering the wheel and starting the car. After glancing at the rearview mirror, they continued, “But the number from the orphanage doesn’t match the count in the file you sent this morning. One is missing.”

“Missing one?”

Nan Ju lifted her eyelids, an inexplicable restlessness stirring in her chest.

“What’s the name? Was she adopted?”

The car slowly moved from the shade into the sunlight, the afternoon rays glinting off the silver wings on the hood.

“The nun in charge said she was adopted yesterday. A seventeen-year-old Beta girl named Bai Cha.”

The Omega, who had been leaning back, abruptly sat upright.

“Stop the car!”