A light drizzle fell outside the window. Xie Yingnian flicked on the wipers, and amid the smooth jazz melody of the song playing, she heard Zhong Jia’s question.
Did she like her? The singer wasn’t just anyone—she was Xie Yingnian’s younger sister, whom she’d painstakingly raised through thick and thin over the past decade or more. Her concern for Shi Cainran’s career felt just like the old days in the alleyways, when she’d grill her sister on her exam scores.
In her peripheral vision, another girl with a sisterly connection of sorts had her eyelids drooped low, her voice barely above a whisper. As she waited for an answer, the radiant smile she’d worn before climbing into the car slowly faded from her lips.
Xie Yingnian rarely saw Zhong Jia looking so dejected. That almost palpable unhappiness was such a novelty that it cloaked her own thoughts in a mischievous shadow.
Other people sized up potential partners by their financial prospects. For Xie Yingnian, though, the shelf life of a relationship came down to a cold risk assessment.
For someone like her—a patient in a world that offered neither understanding nor tolerance—how much of her true self could she ever reveal? The inner yardstick she used to measure so-called “like” always led to the same precise conclusion: not worth it.
That was why her previous relationships had all crashed and burned, none lasting very long. It wasn’t so much that she didn’t dare dive deep; she simply had no intention of doing so. True immersion required trust, and trust at that level demanded surrendering both body and soul—far too great a gamble for her.
From childhood onward, Xie Yingnian had grown accustomed to self-defense, erecting heart walls that nothing could breach. Her impulse to share had been whittled away in the entertainment industry’s fishbowl of zero privacy. Even Ni Qian, with her wealth of domestic experience, found treating her psychologically exhausting and fraught.
The lyrics crooned, “Anything you haven’t gotten, anything in the past—it’s always the perfect match.” The line had been sung so often it must have struck a chord with countless people. But Xie Yingnian’s history held plenty of pasts and no “unattainables.”
Every relationship that fizzled out left no regrets, no missed chances. Even her hidden motives at the start came across as ruthlessly pragmatic: if this was just a necessary stage of life, then whoever the partner was, it only had to make her look normal in the eyes of the world.
Failure was failure, but at least it wasn’t entirely fruitless.
Time and again, Xie Yingnian had come to realize that the root of her issues ran deep—planted in the twisting, ancient alleys of San’an Li during her teenage years, when she still believed herself perfectly healthy and carefree. And even earlier than that, back when her birth mother had abandoned her, a babbling toddler, as if she were a venomous scorpion.
Of course, it also took root in every thrilling moment she discovered how entertaining it could be to manipulate someone else’s emotions.
And if that “someone else” was Zhong Jia—the girl who looked so pretty crying on the surveillance feed, with a personality that seemed ripe for bullying—then “entertaining” became “exhilarating.”
Xie Yingnian’s black leather-gloved hands gripped the steering wheel. Her expression remained perfectly composed, betraying no hint of her bizarre whims. Years in acting hadn’t just brought her fame and fortune; they’d taught her how to wield her striking looks for flawless deception when needed.
Zhong Jia slouched in the passenger seat, looking thoroughly glum. She had no idea what otherworldly expectations the woman she’d just questioned held for her. The pause after her query was brief, but Xie Yingnian’s stony silence sent Zhong Jia’s heart into a frantic tumble. What exactly was her relationship with the singer? One-sided? Mutual? Zhong Jia’s mind had already spun through half a dozen scenarios.
“Not bad. The song’s catchy,” Xie Yingnian replied casually. She reached over, took the seatbelt from Zhong Jia’s stunned grasp, and clicked it securely into place.
Ruan Ting usually sported curls in her films, and Xie Yingnian’s long hair now draped over her shoulders in gentle waves, entering Zhong Jia’s field of vision. Only the snap of the seatbelt jolted her back to reality. She slipped her hand—the one that had been touched for those few seconds—into her pocket, as if to preserve the faint chill of the other’s skin.
Not bad. The song’s catchy.
Zhong Jia turned the offhand response over and over in her mind, dissecting it like a school reading comprehension exercise. I’d asked, “Do you really like this singer?” Not bad meant she liked her somewhat, right? The song’s catchy—that was her reason for liking the singer? Would someone as indifferent to everything as Xie Yingnian really play it on repeat just because it was good?
The car glided steadily toward their destination. The navigation’s robotic female voice cut through the hit song climbing the charts. In the sealed cabin, something intangible began to ferment silently, filling the air with a sour, tangy scent.
Her hands twisting in her lap, Zhong Jia blurted out, “I’m going to sing that song for you today.”
“Mm, I know,” Xie Yingnian said. “Why else would you bring the pipa?”
What a question. It made her sound like a complete idiot. Zhong Jia felt as if her brain were clogged, turning sluggishly compared to its usual speed. Bubbles of some unidentified emotion gurgled in her throat, leaving her tongue-tied and her thoughts scattered, childish, and disjointed.
She had no idea what to say next. Zhong Jia had never been much of a talker, never one for crowds.
It was only her sharp, sleek eyebrows that had earned her a reputation for cool aloofness. Her habit of going it alone lent her an edgy aura that kept most people at bay. Even so, school days held memories she’d rather forget.
She hadn’t started out so closed off. Before age three, she’d lived in that cavernous villa with nothing but an aunt for company—no playmates in sight. Qiao Yingqiu had never liked parading her daughter around.
The neighborhood had an early childhood center. On the day Zhong Jia left Yanjing for her grandmother’s, the car had passed it by. She watched from the window as children dashed about inside the whimsical glass pavilion, their faces alight with joy, until even the last white shingle of the roof vanished from view.
She’d never had the chance to join in, never built up any skill at mingling with peers. Lively, laughter-filled scenes both drew her in and terrified her. Before she knew it, she’d been whisked off to Qingyuan County and enrolled in kindergarten.
It was a critical phase for language development, but with one deaf ear, her hearing mangled her speech. The words she mimicked came out comically garbled and indistinct, impossible to correct easily. Someone in class started mocking her, and the others followed suit, shunning her.
Those childish playmates, in their ignorance, carved deep scars into her heart. If she hadn’t met Chen Kuang and the others in college, scarred as she was by those early years, she might never have made a single friend.
She wasn’t good at small talk, but oddly enough, she always felt an urge to open up to Xie Yingnian—as if her subconscious trusted the woman to give just the response she craved. And today, of all days, held special weight.
Before getting in the car, she’d had so much to say: how she’d found the place, what dishes she’d cook, the song she’d rewritten—one that might never see the light of day…
The girl who’d planned to chatter away was now struck dumb. The driver grew curious. Could she really hold it all in?
If so, what was the point of this outing?
During a red light stop, Xie Yingnian’s gaze drifted quietly to Zhong Jia’s face. From that seemingly dazed expression—weighted with unspoken worries—she gleaned the true significance of the trip for the younger woman.
Zhong Jia, am I really that important to you? What is it you like about me?
New Year’s Day dawned in the county, its roads scoured spotless by Chongxiang’s ever-reliable rains. Eve’s firecracker confetti littered the streets, while folks on ladders pasted spring couplets along the curbs.
The tires hummed over broad asphalt, veering away from the bustling downtown. Zhong Jia’s rental sat in the quieter southern fringes. The short-term listing was for three to five days; the landlord had balked at just one, griping about the hassle, and doubled the price before agreeing.
She’d ordered ingredients via a grocery delivery app the day before, along with a bottle of red wine. Basics like oil, salt, soy, and vinegar, plus pots and pans, came with the place—leftovers from the previous tenant. Noticing Zhong Jia’s fixation, the landlord had inspected them specially: nothing expired, all serviceable.
It was an old-style tube apartment block, not quite as decrepit as a film set prop. Probably spruced up by the neighborhood committee ahead of the holiday. The walls bore only stubborn remnants of old inspection stamps.
“Young lady, I’m watering flowers—take cover!” an auntie called down from above, basin in hand. Her face was half-hidden behind a windowsill bursting with wintersweet blossoms.
She’d shouted several times before the near-yell finally pierced Zhong Jia’s deafness. Her body lagged behind her reaction, and the woman ahead tugged her under the eaves. Her feet hit the steps, and she tumbled straight into Xie Yingnian’s arms.
Behind them, thick clouds parted across the sky, while droplets leaked from the flowerpot’s base, splattering the cement a few steps away and blooming into a dark wet patch—like the outside rain drifting indoors.
But the rain had stopped, and the sky was clearing. So whose head was getting showered with that acidic downpour?
The girl in her arms kept her head bowed, whether to take advantage or hide her feelings, Xie Yingnian couldn’t tell. She stared at the part in Zhong Jia’s hair, unable to resist giving that tempting spot a quick scratch. “Aren’t you treating me to dinner? Why the long face?”
“Is it because of me?” she pressed, though she knew the answer. “Because I like that song?”
Yes. Because you like that song.
She could only blame those two spring breezes that had to stir her heart. The first brought a single seed. The second, a gentle gust laced with drizzle. And now, seeing you again this year, it was a whole field—sprouted, bloomed, all in a rush of belated first love.
I’ve watched every single one of your interviews without missing an episode. I’ve read every article about you. Movies, ads, variety shows—even the barest glimpses of you, just the tip of the iceberg, have stayed etched in my heart. You’ve shared all those details with me: you never show obvious favoritism toward people or things. Your exes all say there’s no spark, no passion in being with you.
But why, on this day when I’m finally mustering my courage, do I hear you talk about someone you like—and it’s not me?
It’s okay.
Even just a little is fine. Give me a tiny sliver. Your kindness toward me is like bait on a fishhook. I’m no longer content experiencing your affection through the movies anymore. Even if it means getting reeled into the basket, filleted alive, and simmered into fish soup, I’d go willingly.
“Sorry,” Zhong Jia said. It was supposed to be my treat for dinner, but it ended up like this instead. Someone asked if her neck hurt from always hanging her head low whenever people talked to her. It didn’t. What ached was the corner of her eyes. She wanted to cry but held it back with a sniffle.
She had promised herself countless times that she would take care of Xie Yingnian, become her support, and chase away her loneliness. It didn’t matter if she was several years younger—age was just a number. Her own mom had been a whole generation older than her partner back then, and look how that turned out?
The daisy earrings dangling from Zhong Jia’s ears swayed slightly. She tugged at Xie Yingnian’s collar, wrinkling it a bit, and forced her voice to sound calm. “That song I wrote for you… it’s not bad either.”
She had wanted to say it was pretty good too, but she caught herself. After all, Xie Yingnian was the one who decided what sounded good. If Chen Kuang saw her like this, lacking all confidence in her own music, she’d probably think she was still half-asleep.
Xie Yingnian nodded with a smile. “I’m really looking forward to it.”
Their rental was on the third floor. As they climbed the stairs, Xie Yingnian asked if Zhong Jia had heard the lady downstairs calling her earlier.
Zhong Jia made a soft sound of acknowledgment.
She wore a knee-length coat in a hazy blue, matching Xie Yingnian’s in color but styled completely differently on the two of them.
Xie Yingnian had spent two years living like a Daoist nun on Xin Ting Mountain, keeping up the temple’s regular routines even now. She could recite the classics flawlessly—they had been homework back then—and they still did little to help with her insomnia.
The cool tones of their coats wrapped around their bodies, as if steeped in drifting mist, distant and ethereal.
Zhong Jia climbed another step, her hands tucked into her pockets, her arms forming a gentle curve against the fabric. At first glance, she could be a bit blindingly bright—the kind of person who stood out in a crowd. Her features were pleasing to the eye, with a unique charm all their own. The wild intensity in her father’s gaze had been softened in her, distilled into a vibrant spark that danced in her bright eyes.
She had her soft side too. It just rarely showed.
Even in cool-toned clothes, she didn’t come off as standoffish. Zhong Jia said, “I was spacing out earlier. And her voice was pretty quiet—we were far away too.”
Xie Yingnian paused for a moment before asking, “Have you had surgery?”
Chen Kuang and the others had asked similar questions. Zhong Jia’s left ear had completely lost its hearing; hearing aids were useless. Cochlear implants were common domestically now, with all sorts of models available—far more options than when she was a kid.
Zhong Jia didn’t dwell on it much. Xie Yingnian had said it best: this was her fate. What could she do about it? Complaining wouldn’t change a thing; it would only hurt the people who cared about her.
“I wanted to do it back then. The doctor said the earlier the better. Mom wanted to go to a hospital overseas and said it wouldn’t be convenient for Grandma alone, so she’d take me herself. But contacting them took forever, and then other stuff got in the way.”
Zhong Jia didn’t remember the details clearly. She had no idea what Qiao Yingqiu had been caught up in—maybe fighting her ex-husband in court over their son, or scrambling to revive her career. In the end, it all fell apart, and by the time she remembered her daughter, she couldn’t scrape together the money for surgery.
Later on, that utterly incompetent mother died out of nowhere, leaving behind a destitute grandmother and granddaughter.
Qian Peiqing had considered scraping together every penny she could for a basic implant, but her granddaughter said she was scared of the pain and flat-out refused. Truth be told, Zhong Jia was scared of the cost.
“Are you thinking about it now?” Xie Yingnian had quietly researched it all herself. She’d even lined up a doctor. No wonder Zhou Chun always said she cared too much.
Zhong Jia smiled. “Yeah, I’m saving up. Shi Ge has connections in that area—he can introduce me to someone. I’ll get a checkup once the movie wraps.”
The apartment faced south, with a bright, airy balcony. The previous tenant had left behind a few potted plants, left to fate in the cold, damp winter—and somehow, a few clusters of glossy green leaves still clung to life.
Xie Yingnian closed the heavy door with a thud. Before she could turn around, Zhong Jia wrapped her arms around her from behind. She heard the girl—who was even clumsier than the creaking door—say, “Xie Yingnian, I held it in the whole way, but I can’t anymore. I want you to know right now: I like you.”
“It’s not Qiao Yingqiu, who you said stays girlish no matter how mature she gets. No, not my mom. Not Qian Qi with her killer wrists and killer figure. Not Min Conglu, who taught you to ride horses on set. I’m sorry—I secretly looked up all your exes. I just wanted to figure out if you had a type.”
“I want to get closer to what you’re into, but it’s hard. None of them are me, and I can’t become them.”
Zhong Jia slowed her words, her heart still pounding wildly. She asked earnestly, “I’m just me. Do you like me?”
