I've Transmigrated Into This Movie Before

Chapter 167

167: Life in the Morning, Death in the Evening

Tires screeched on the road, it was an ear piercing sound.

The car had yet to come to a complete stop, but the door opened, Ning Ning rushing out of it.

"Ning Ning, hold on..."

Wen Yu's voice rang out behind her further and further away.

"Huff, huff..." Ning Ning ran up the stairs maniacally.

There was a period of time where I hated going home a lot.

"Huff, huff..." She frantically took out her keys, due to her trembling hands, it took her a very long time before she managed to put the key in.

Because there was no one waiting for me at home, I had to eat alone, wash dishes alone, sit alone in the living room, no one would tell me to go to sleep even when the sun came up.

The door opened, Ning Ning rushed in without even taking off her shoes.

She left a trail of dirty footprints, staining the wooden floor in a crooked line, like the time when the mermaid princess had given up her tail for a pair of legs, leaving a trail of footprints on the beach.

Not in the living room, not in the bedroom, not on the balcony...

"Shi Zhong Tang..." Ning Ning stood in front of the balcony and murmured in a low voice at the setting sun.

"Here." Shi Zhong Tang's voice rang out behind her.

She was stunned, she looked back.

Shi Zhong Tang stood behind her. He was wearing her pink apron, in his hand was a little pot that was used to make soup, grinning. "To capture your heart, I plan to first capture your stomach... Hey, hey, don't come over here, it's very hot!"

Ning Ning had wanted to rush over and hug him, but the pot blocked her.

Shi Zhong Tang placed the pot on the table then opened up his arms, "Here."

"Hmph!" Ning Ning walked past him, took off the lid and drank the soup angrily.

"Hey—" Shi Zhong Tang turned his head, he dragged out his voice.

"Don't come here!" Acting like she was busy eating, Ning Ning scooped a spoonful of soup, her tears dropped onto the spoon.

"...Is my skill that good?" A pair of hands slowly reached out from behind her and hugged her, saying gently, "Is it so delicious that it makes you cry?"

"No, it's not." Ning Ning said stubbornly, "It's far off from my mama's..."

Mama's cooking would always be the best.

Because a person could only have that for the first half their life, not throughout their entire life.

For the rest of her life, whose cooking would she have? Most of the time she would have the bento from the crew, sometimes she would cook for herself, sometimes she would eat out, eating gradually became a type of work, a scheduled procedure required to survive.

She gradually became numb, she gradually stopped hoping—hoping that one day, a person would say: I'll cook for you for the rest of our lives.