What Si Shan knew was not the complete story. The night Si Zhen came to find her, Ye Yuhuan could already see her mother’s neuroticism.
The moment she entered the room, she was searching everywhere for any trace of Ye Chu—Ye Yuhuan’s father.
Si Zhen always harbored an unrealistic expectation. As the only woman to have borne Ye Chu a child, she believed she would be different from the others he had bewitched. She thought there would be a bond between them tighter than mere desire. Unfortunately, Ye Yuhuan, the child she had schemed to have, received little paternal love. Ye Chu was a born philanderer. After all, Ye Yuhuan had inherited most of her stunning looks from her father, and Ye Chu certainly had the capital to play the field. Even his fame as an artist served his wanton pursuits among women.
After all, what he painted best were portraits of various beauties.
In Ye Chu’s eyes, his union with Si Zhen was nothing more than having a rent-free tenant in a house he owned.
As for his daughter, he had only celebrated her birthday once, on a whim when she was seven.
That single whim was enough to ignite Si Zhen’s boundless delusions. Every year on Ye Yuhuan’s birthday, Si Zhen looked forward to it far more than Ye Yuhuan herself. And after each disappointing wait, that resentment was illogically transferred to Ye Yuhuan.
“Why can’t you make your father stay?” she would always say.
Ye Yuhuan bore this resentment. She had no other choice. A person only has one mother in this world, and hers was Si Zhen.
That night, when Si Zhen discovered that Ye Chu had not come home, she didn’t scream and shout as she usually did. From that point on, Ye Yuhuan could tell that Si Zhen was not as normal as she appeared to be.
How interesting. Madness, conversely, was Si Zhen’s normal.
Breaking from her usual behavior, she made Ye Yuhuan a bowl of longevity noodles, topped with two fried eggs. To this day, Ye Yuhuan still remembered the color of those eggs: the edges were slightly browned like a chocolate wafer, the yolks were runny, a fresh and bright yellow.
They were two perfect fried eggs.
Then, with an uncharacteristically gentle expression, she watched her finish the noodles, took the bowl away, and halfway through washing it, she seemed to suddenly remember something. “Oh, my,” she said, “how can a birthday be so casual?”
“Huanhuan, Mom will go buy you a cake.”
Ye Yuhuan blocked Si Zhen’s path. To be honest, she felt a little uneasy then, so she lowered her head to hide her expression, afraid that any sign of abnormality would provoke Si Zhen.
“It’s okay, Mom. This is good enough.”
Si Zhen smiled and brushed her aside. “A birthday isn’t complete without making a wish.”
Her words were identical to the first thing Ye Chu had said when he suddenly walked in with a cake on Ye Yuhuan’s seventh birthday. At that time, upon hearing those words, a girlish infatuation had immediately appeared on Si Zhen’s face, which had been worn down by life.
Ye Chu was the kind of person who, when he liked someone, was truly charming.
Si Zhen walked out the door cheerfully, like any mother in the world who wanted to prepare a proper birthday for her daughter.
Ye Yuhuan was dazed by this facade, so much so that she overlooked how abnormal it all was. She wondered if there was a one-in-ten-thousand chance that Si Zhen loved her, too.
Her last shred of vigilance was to follow behind Si Zhen, just in case.
So when Si Zhen arced through the air like a tattered soccer ball, she was a step too slow. Later, Ye Yuhuan would reflect on whether she should have stayed right by Si Zhen’s side, but then she would feel it was meaningless.
The person was dead.
Yes, the person was dead.
The streetlights illuminated the road, while the low bushes along the side were half-shrouded in darkness. Si Zhen’s body came to rest at the boundary between light and darkness. The middle-aged driver in a cheap black cotton jacket stumbled out of the driver’s seat, his legs weak, shouting repeatedly to the onlookers that the woman had thrown herself at his car, that it had nothing to do with him.
Ye Yuhuan stood by the roadside for a long, long time, her mind a complete blank, as if the impact had also shattered a part of her soul. If she had to pinpoint a physical organ, it would be that a certain region of her cerebral cortex must have failed.
From that moment on, Ye Yuhuan began to despise love.
In her eyes, love was forever frozen as Si Zhen’s flying corpse—broken, wretched, and insane.
At four in the afternoon on New Year’s Day, Ye Yuhuan arrived at the cemetery, a bouquet of flowers in her hand. The photograph on the tombstone was taken when Si Zhen was young. Back then, her eyes were still full of hope, and her broad, smooth forehead bore no ugly lines.
Ye Yuhuan placed the irises in front of the photo. The blue-purple petals added a splash of vibrant color to the desolate winter of the cemetery. In the dead of winter, the mountains near and far were covered in snow. As Ye Yuhuan walked up the mountain, she could clearly hear the sound of the snow compacting under her feet, like the mournful cry of an insect.
Ye Yuhuan stood there silently for over an hour. She said nothing. When Si Zhen was alive, they hadn’t spoken much either.
Ye Yuhuan didn’t understand why she had such a strong reaction to Si Zhen’s death. Their relationship could hardly be described as one of deep mother-daughter affection. Perhaps it was because half of the blood flowing in her veins was Si Zhen’s, and the other half was Ye Chu’s. She vehemently resisted becoming someone like Ye Chu, so her future and destiny were cast in a shadow named Si Zhen.
It was enough to give her a preemptive sorrow for one of her own kind.
Ye Yuhuan walked back down the mountain, treading on the same snow she had walked on the way up, and returned to the hotel room where she usually stayed at this time of year.
In two hours, Song Zhiqing would be on stage. Two days ago, when she learned that Ye Yuhuan wouldn’t be coming, Song Zhiqing’s expression was so aggrieved it was as if the sky had fallen.
If Ye Yuhuan wasn’t coming, then what was the point of her month-long preparation?
Damn you, Ye Yuhuan! You were the one who encouraged me to participate in the New Year’s gala, but now you’re backing out at the last minute, saying you have something to do. What could possibly be so important that you can’t even stay to listen to one song before you leave?
“That day is the anniversary of my mother’s death,” Ye Yuhuan had explained, her tone overly calm.
Song Zhiqing’s reaction was even bigger than that of the person who had actually lost her mother. She immediately panicked, so startled that she dropped the water glass in her hand. “Ah, is that so? Then you should go.”
But Song Zhiqing was still very dejected, both because Ye Yuhuan couldn’t watch her performance and because she hadn’t known it was the anniversary of Ye Yuhuan’s mother’s death. It made her feel as if Ye Yuhuan’s shell was like a set of nesting dolls; every time you thought you had reached her true self, it turned out to be just another layer of her wooden, hard facade.
Seeing Song Zhiqing looking as pitiful and uneasy as a drenched puppy, Ye Yuhuan couldn’t help but reach out and pat her head, saying softly, “It’s okay. I’ve already heard you perform.”
But how could that be the same!
This time, she had prepared the song especially for Ye Yuhuan.
In the end, Song Zhiqing came up with a solution that was hardly a solution at all. “Can you be on the phone with me that day? Just spare me the time for one song. I really want you to hear it.”
Ye Yuhuan’s fingers, still resting on Song Zhiqing’s head, curled slightly. Then she nodded and agreed to the request.
She had always found it difficult to refuse Song Zhiqing.
After sitting in the hotel room for a while, Ye Yuhuan shed the chill from her body and sat on the sofa in the corner of the room, waiting for Song Zhiqing’s call.
At eight o’clock, the phone rang right on time. Ye Yuhuan put on her headphones, and Song Zhiqing’s nervous voice entered her ear. “Ye Yuhuan, I’m about to go on.”
“Mm, I’m listening.”
“…Go for it, Song Zhiqing.”
Qinglin’s New Year’s gala was held in the indoor auditorium, fulfilling the wish of teenage girls to wear pretty dresses with ease even in winter. But the usually flamboyant Song Zhiqing wasn’t wearing a pretty dress today. She wore a shirt and long pants, looking so plain for the occasion that she was almost shabby.
Song Zhiqing walked on stage holding a guitar, her phone placed on a small stool behind her.
Her fingertips plucked a gentle and serene melody. The girl’s long hair was tied up in a cute, neat bun.
She began to sing.
“Waking up, always looking silly
A little lost and confused
Not knowing if you’re waiting for a hug
Or just a good morning
When you’re lonely, you’re like a crane
Burying spring deep in your heart
So tense as if the world’s about to end
Hey, you really are a contrary little kid
You look like a grown-up
But you’re really just a sweet little kid
The air you breathe smells like candy
And your kisses are like cotton candy
The cutest kid in the whole wide world
I’ll tell you good morning every day
And help you brew the clouds into sugar
Wave goodbye and goodnight to the moon
I’ll thank the wind tonight
For letting me find this kid”
The auditorium was silent, with only Song Zhiqing’s sweet and gentle voice, filled with a heart-melting emotion, echoing all around. White hands, a wooden guitar, a beautiful girl, a tender story—together, they formed a perfect performance.
Everyone was involuntarily immersed in the soft, tranquil atmosphere created by Song Zhiqing’s song. Shen Wei, who had been waiting intently for Shangguan Xianxian’s performance, blinked hard. Although she was prepared for the fact that this life’s Song Zhiqing had changed drastically, she hadn’t expected it to be this extreme. Shen Wei felt that she herself was now more like the villainess than Song Zhiqing was.
In what novel is the villainess this sweet!
At that moment, everyone forgot that the girl on stage, strumming her guitar and singing quietly, was the infamous school tyrant of Qinglin. They only felt that she was like a little bird building a warm nest, waiting for another little bird to fly to the branch she had chosen.
And at this moment, that other little bird, Ye Yuhuan, had covered her eyes with her palm. She could roughly imagine Song Zhiqing’s expression right now from the sound of her voice.
It must be gentle and ardent, filled with love.
Even if the person she liked wasn’t there.
Song Zhiqing liked her. Ye Yuhuan could finally confirm it. After so long of avoidance and denial, she still had to accept this fact.
After the song ended, thunderous applause came through the headphones, and then Ye Yuhuan heard the sound of Song Zhiqing’s hurried footsteps as she left the stage. After the footsteps stopped, she heard Song Zhiqing’s voice, slightly breathless but tinged with anticipation. “Ye Yuhuan, this song is for you.”
“Thank you. I like it a lot.” She couldn’t say anything more.
“I’m glad you like it.” Song Zhiqing paused, and Ye Yuhuan could hear her take a breath before speaking solemnly. “Ye Yuhuan, happy birthday.”
You have to be happy, Ye Yuhuan. Don’t be sad anymore.
Ye Yuhuan took off one earphone. It was snowing outside. Because she had just been wearing them, her ears couldn’t catch the rustling sound of the falling snow; she could only see clumps of white striking the transparent glass window.
It seemed the wind was strong tonight, too.
Ye Yuhuan spoke into the microphone, responding, “Thank you.”
How terrifying, Ye Yuhuan thought. Song Zhiqing’s birthday gift to me is her love.
Song Zhiqing wanted to say more, but Gao Yiren and Song Chen were coming backstage to find her, holding flowers. Song Zhiqing regretfully hung up, planning to contact Ye Yuhuan again later.
But her hopes were destined to be dashed. On the other end, Ye Yuhuan had already turned off her phone and hidden herself under the thick covers.
It wasn’t that Shen Wei hadn’t hinted at Song Zhiqing’s unusual feelings for her; Ye Yuhuan had subconsciously ignored it all. And it wasn’t that she hadn’t seen the way Song Zhiqing used to look at Shangguan Xianxian. Comparing that to the way Song Zhiqing looked at her now, it was always easy to find the answer.
After all, there are only three things in the world that cannot be hidden: poverty, a cough, and love.
Still, Ye Yuhuan refused to admit it.
Until today, when everything was laid bare before her, short of a formal confession from Song Zhiqing.
And of all days, it had to be today.
Ye Yuhuan could be a love guru for others, and she could observe others’ love lives with a detached ease, but that didn’t change her own aversion to love. Because, in the end, it was an aversion to herself.
If it were me, I would definitely mess it up, completely destroying my own life and the other person’s. Would I become my father or my mother? Ah, it doesn’t matter. In the end, I’d just be someone who commits acts of harm in the name of love.
Ye Yuhuan pressed down the gaps in her blanket, trapping herself firmly in the darkness, using it to fight against her accelerating heart.
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