The early morning sun filtered weakly through the narrow windows of the rural brick house, falling on the worn floor where Liu Fenfang had just folded away the thin cotton quilt. She yawned, eyes tired and bones aching, but there was no time to waste. She had another long day ahead.
Now officially a city-employed factory worker—albeit in a minor role—Fenfang was the pride of her family and village. Her recent job assignment to Factory B in the city had been considered a victory, and she had just gotten married to Shen Yimin, the village's golden boy. Everyone had whispered about their "perfect match."
Yet, as she packed a modest lunch of pickled vegetables and cold mantou in her worn cloth bag, that pride began to feel more like a burden.
"Yimin," she called, brushing loose strands of hair from her face as she stepped outside into the dusty yard. "Are you ready?"
Shen Yimin emerged, buttoning up his dull gray jacket. "Let's go. The earlier we leave, the better we'll catch the city shuttle."
Their journey was bumpy and long, passing through narrow paths, thick summer air, and the unfamiliar bustle of the city outskirts. The moment they set foot in City A, the contrast hit hard—like stepping into a different world. The streets gleamed. Even the air seemed cleaner. Bicycles zipped by with shiny bells, women in silk shirts laughed near storefronts, and people didn't even glance at the newcomers in their faded rural wear.
Fenfang tightened her grip on her bag. Her heart pounded—not from awe, but from something close to humiliation.
The factory compound was small and aging, surrounded by plain concrete walls. A noticeboard with curled edges flapped lazily in the summer wind. Fenfang and Shen Yimin were led to a shared dormitory, their belongings stacked by the wall.
After finishing the paperwork and brief introductions, Fenfang finally got a break. Her muscles ached, and she walked slowly to a nearby bench under a neem tree, wiping sweat from her brow.
A few other girls chatted nearby, city girls dressed in crisp cotton skirts and soft leather slippers. Fenfang couldn't help but listen.
"Did you hear? Jia Lan's starting work at the Youth Arts Bureau."
"She's such a beauty. Porcelain skin, such elegance—you can spot her from across the street!"
"Isn't she from the Jia family? That elite household near the upper compound?"
Fenfang froze.
Jia Lan.
That name again.
Even back in the village, the name had floated through gossip channels like a fragrant breeze. The granddaughter of a war hero, the daughter of a powerful official, raised in a mansion where servants answered to her fingertips.
And now she was working at the Youth Arts Bureau. Not in a smoky, iron-filled factory like Fenfang, but in a pristine, elegant department full of art, dance, and culture.
Fenfang looked down at her own chipped nails and sweat-stained blouse.
Her throat felt dry.
---
That evening, she sat in the corner of the dormitory, legs folded, her body sore from sweeping floors and unpacking supplies.
Yimin joined her with a bowl of plain porridge. He noticed her silence. "Are you alright?"
Fenfang didn't answer right away. She looked out the small window where neon signs flickered in the distance.
"I heard something today," she said, voice low. "About Jia Lan."
Yimin raised a brow. "Who?"
"You remember that girl from the city we heard about back in the village? Her family's so powerful, and she's supposedly very beautiful. She just started working at the Youth Arts Bureau."
Yimin paused. "Isn't that some high-end department?"
"Exactly," Fenfang muttered. "She's sixteen, doesn't lift a finger, yet she gets such a job. While we…" She trailed off.
Yimin remained quiet.
"I thought we were doing well," she continued, more to herself. "I really did. We got married. We landed city jobs. People looked up to us. But here… it's like we don't even exist."
She looked up at him, eyes rimmed with exhaustion and something bitter. "I washed dishes all morning. My back's sore. And still, I can't stop thinking about how she must've spent her day—probably sitting on silk cushions, surrounded by pretty things, praised for her smile."
Yimin didn't disagree. His own day had been a whirlwind of heavy lifting, awkward stares, and trying to keep up.
"She was born with everything," Fenfang whispered. "And we… we have to fight for every scrap."
He reached out, taking her hand. "It's the city. It's different here. We just have to adjust."
Fenfang didn't answer, but her gaze lingered outside, where a sleek black car drove past, its horn barely a whisper. She imagined Jia Lan in that car—graceful, glowing, untouchable.
For the first time in years, Liu Fenfang felt something she hadn't allowed herself to feel before:
Jealousy.
The kind that didn't come from spite—but from exhaustion. From longing. From the quiet, gnawing knowledge that no matter how hard she worked, someone like Jia Lan didn't need to lift a finger to be admired.
And that, perhaps, was the cruelest part of growing up.