Luo Chuan only felt as though his skull were splitting apart, his thoughts muddled and sluggish, as if stuffed with paste—much like sneaking out of the dormitory to pull an all-nighter, then going to class the next morning.
He was terribly sleepy, unable to keep his eyes open, yet he simply could not fall asleep.
He sat up, irritably raked his already messy hair, and looked out the window.
The light was dim. The ink-blue curtain of night had yet to fully recede, and the streetlights seemed far hazier than before he had gone to sleep. On the distant horizon, a nearly imperceptible streak of crimson had quietly appeared.
Scattered pedestrians were already walking the streets. Wisps of cooking smoke rose sparsely, then quietly dispersed into heaven and earth after reaching a certain height.
Luo Chuan lay back down.
He could not sleep. He was tired, yet did not want to get up. It felt as if he had slept for nothing last night.
A few thoughts of resistance rose in Luo Chuan as well. He refused to believe that he could not even adjust his own biological clock!
But then again, perhaps it was a good thing that Yao Ziyan had not come over.
His consciousness was hazy, and Luo Chuan did not know whether he had actually fallen asleep.
All he knew was that the sky color outside gradually brightened, glaring enough that he could not help pulling the blanket over his eyes.
I should have drawn the curtains.
His thoughts drifted, lingering at the border between reality and nothingness. Half asleep and half awake, he seemed to hear the door quietly being pushed open.
When people were in light sleep, or were exhausted but unable to sleep, they were highly sensitive to the outside world. Luo Chuan's