She’s a Passerby, But Can See the Protagonist’s Halo

My name is Yan, and since I was a child, I’ve been able to see some strange things. For example— In elementary school, our new neighbor Aunt Tan had a pair of all-around genius twins, who were like the “precious little geniuses” with halos above their heads. They could recite the English-Chinese dictionary backwards at three, master both Chinese and Western musical instruments by five, and hack into a country’s database by seven… Growing up next to such prodigies, my life was inhumane, tragic, and constantly subjected to comparisons. To escape the comparisons with these “other people’s children,” I specifically applied to a private boarding school for middle school. On my first day, my deskmate was a small, thin girl with bangs, wearing an old uniform, and her voice was as faint as a mosquito’s. Three months later, she woke up from a nap with a “rebirth” halo above her head. She moved effortlessly among the cold academic genius, the wolf-like school bully, the fierce boss, and the gentle childhood friend, leaving me, a lonely onlooker, utterly amazed. By university, I thought I had finally escaped this abnormal world. But as soon as I stepped into my dorm room, my footsteps froze. My roommates each had halos like “ancient times to modern,” “post-apocalyptic superhuman,” “will die if not spending money,” and “ghost king revival.” I clutched my little blanket and applied to the counselor for a room change, but to no avail. Over time, I gradually got used to it. “Handover systems,” “management systems,” “book transmigration,” “infinite worlds,” “three-and-a-half-year-olds,” “interstellar live streams,” “red envelope groups”… The types of halos kept increasing, and I was able to calmly ignore all of it, focusing on my own life. Every morning, I skillfully helped my “ancient to modern” roommate, who was being blacklisted online, dodge campus paparazzi and secure seats for class. At noon, I assisted my tycoon roommate in distributing today’s haul of luxury skincare and designer bags, tasting the city’s top private chef’s custom lunchbox, and exclaiming with emotion, “Darling, can I really accept these?” In the evening, I enjoyed the flowers and plants cultivated by my superhuman roommate on the balcony, tasting a mutated cherry tomato and commenting, “I feel refreshed and purified.” Late at night, when my ghost king roommate quietly climbed back through the window, I peeked out to ask, “You’re back a bit late today, didn’t bring anything back, did you?” My name is Yan, and I am not the protagonist of this world.