They had both poured immense sincerity into this relationship.
Yet reality rarely followed wishes. Li Yunli did not want to make her suffer any longer or expose her to further danger, so in the end, it was Li Yunli who delivered fate’s verdict.
They were parting ways, even though they had loved each other so deeply and been so blissfully happy just moments before.
Every single second together had been a sweet happiness, but it had all been heartbreakingly brief—treasured to the utmost, yet still slipping away in an instant.
“Temporarily part ways,” Li Yunli said carefully as she reached out a hand. Her longing gaze lingered on Ji Zhenshi while her fingertips gently brushed across her face, savoring her warmth. An overwhelming reluctance engulfed them both.
Who could know the agony ripping through Li Yunli’s heart as she uttered the word “separate”? How desperately she wanted to pull her good child into her arms and never let go.
Xiao Zhen, if only I could die right now, at the very last moment when we could still love each other openly.
Ji Zhenshi’s lips pressed into a tight line, her teeth nearly chattering as she fought to contain her emotions. She wanted to say something—anything—but Li Yunli had already said it all.
She said we’re breaking up.
Li Yunli said we’re separating for now.
They had reached a consensus, hadn’t they?
So why did a suffocating wave of emotion still drown her?
After a long silence, Ji Zhenshi finally looked up. “Temporarily separate—then when will we get back together?”
She clung desperately to that final sliver of hope, praying for the impossible.
But Li Yunli’s restrained gaze told her it was merely a polite excuse to soften the blow.
They loved each other so fiercely. They cherished one another so deeply. They were the most perfectly matched souls.
“Xiao Zhen, the violin is the most important thing for you right now, isn’t it?”
“For me, you’ll always be the most important. You’re always first.”
Damn it—why did her words at a breakup sound so much like a confession?
Li Yunli could not convince Ji Zhenshi, nor could she convince her own self-deluding heart. For both of them, the other came before everything else in life.
In the end, Ji Zhenshi left without a word.
It fizzled out peacefully—once again.
Tang Xien Studio Practice Room
It was deep into the night, so late that even the night market outside had cleared out.
The studio was in a somewhat remote spot, and after overtime hours, hardly anyone remained nearby.
Today, Tang Xien had lingered in the office chatting with a senior colleague before jumping into a video conference, so by the time she clocked out, it was nearly dawn.
She pushed open the door and stepped out with her overtime assistant. As they passed the practice room, she noticed the lights still blazing inside.
“Who’s that? Practicing violin this late?”
“Boss Tang, it’s Ji Zhenshi. She arrived this morning and has been holed up in there all day without coming out. No food, no drink—maybe practicing, or perhaps struck by inspiration and composing.”
“Practicing nonstop? Doesn’t she have performances these next couple days? What could she be working on?”
“No idea. I saw her right hand’s wrapped in bandages. Is she hurt? Even injured, she’s still practicing—really dedicated.”
At those words, Tang Xien frowned. She pivoted on her heel toward the practice room, abandoning her plan to leave.
Ji Zhenshi’s hand was injured?
Why hadn’t anyone told her right away?
She had no time to parse whether her flicker of panic stemmed more from concern over work impacts or Ji Zhenshi’s career. Either way, panic it was.
Left hand. Prodigy. Ji Zhenshi.
She knocked on the practice room door. Seeing that Ji Zhenshi could still play, Tang Xien called out, “Ji Zhenshi, it’s late enough—time to head home. If you stay out too much longer, Miss Li will worry.”
“No work scheduled for the next couple days. Get some rest, then join me for a domestic violin exchange in a few days.”
Tang Xien figured her own overtime was brutal enough, but Ji Zhenshi was still at it. Diligence was good, of course, but pushing too hard could backfire.
“Did you hear me? The subway stopped running ages ago. When you head back, call Miss Li to pick you up.” Tang Xien had no intention of going in; she just offered the reminder from the doorway before turning to leave.
Ji Zhenshi’s movements halted at the sound of Tang Xien’s voice—especially when she mentioned Li Yunli.
She turned with a forced smile. “I don’t have anything waiting at home anyway, so I’ll practice a bit longer.”
The lingering echoes of the music had barely faded, and now Tang Xien brought up Li Yunli again. It struck like a heavy blow to the heart Ji Zhenshi had spent the afternoon numbing with her violin, slicing through the softest parts and reopening the raw wounds.
Li Yunli’s words echoed endlessly: “Let’s separate for now.” “This is the end.” Ji Zhenshi chewed them over a thousand times, but only bitterness lingered.
They were both suffocating under the pressure, yet separation brought no relief.
Ji Zhenshi’s despondent state was impossible to ignore. Sensing something off, Tang Xien stepped inside and gave her a once-over. “What’s wrong with you? Xiao Liu just mentioned an injury—how bad is it?”
Up close, Ji Zhenshi’s right hand was indeed swathed in gauze.
She was really hurt—and still came to practice?
But since she could still play, Tang Xien wasn’t overly worried.
She still owed her a million, after all. Ji Zhenshi’s career couldn’t just end like this, or she’d never recoup that debt even if sold off.
Ji Zhenshi set down her violin. Even in just a thin undershirt, she was drenched in sweat.
She had practiced for hours—her hair tips glistened damply. In winter, she looked sweltering.
She wiped the sweat casually from her brow, then held out her palm with a dismissive smirk. “Not serious. Just a little cut by accident. No big deal—no stitches needed. It’ll heal in a few days. Won’t affect my playing.”
Perhaps it was psychological, but the initial pain had eased after ignoring it and practicing so relentlessly.
“Mm. Then take good care of that hand yourself—you know better than anyone how vital it is to you,” Tang Xien said offhandedly. She could tell Ji Zhenshi’s mood was low, but it was none of her business. She wouldn’t pry into her personal life just because she got along well with Li Yunli—that wasn’t her style.
Mainly, that hand couldn’t be ruined. It was Ji Zhenshi’s money-maker.
“Got it. Thanks, Teacher Tang. I’ll be careful.”
“Mm. Head home early.” Tang Xien turned to go.
Ji Zhenshi stared thoughtfully at her retreating back, something clicking in her mind. She suddenly called out, “Teacher Tang, I have a question that’s really puzzling me. Could you help clear up this confusion about life?”
In Ji Zhenshi’s heart, Tang Xien had ascended to mentor status.
Tang Xien turned back. “Sure. Ask away.”
Ji Zhenshi’s gaze dropped to her bandaged right hand. “I never realized until now how much it hurts to separate from the person you love. Before, when I couldn’t have her, sure, I was sad—but a big part was just unwillingness. It’s different now. Now there’s this uncontrollable rage. I’m furious, my heart twisting like a knife every moment, tormenting me without respite. So, if it’s not too forward, could you tell me how to ease this pain even a little?”
She vividly recalled that Tang Xien had also been forced to part from her girlfriend—the difference being theirs was life and death, while hers and Li Yunli’s was loving each other yet torn apart by real-world pressures.
She was so confused; she had to ask how Tang Xien had gotten through it.
“What do you mean?” Tang Xien narrowed her eyes, her gaze turning guarded as it fixed on Ji Zhenshi.
Realizing the misunderstanding, Ji Zhenshi hurriedly explained, “Teacher Tang, don’t get me wrong—I’m not prying into your privacy. I just feel so awful, this unbearable pain. We might have felt the same once, that’s why I’m asking. How did you get through those days?”
Was it that they hadn’t loved enough? Hadn’t been firm enough?
They had more conviction and sincerity than many couples ever dreamed of—yet reality’s petty troubles still shattered them.
Tang Xien paused mid-step, finding the sudden question odd. “Fight with Miss Li?”
But with Li Yunli’s tolerant and mature nature, and their deep love, even a big argument wouldn’t reach breakup levels, right?
Linking it to Ji Zhenshi’s injured hand, Tang Xien’s rational side dismissed it as unlikely—but she couldn’t help suspecting.
Li Yunli arguing… surely not the type to get physical… right?
Ji Zhenshi’s brows furrowed, her reply stiff. “No. We separated.”
She truly hated facing that reality.
“Hm?” Tang Xien could scarcely believe the bombshell.
She studied Ji Zhenshi silently for a few seconds, confirming her seriousness, then frowned. After a brief ponder, she ventured a bold guess. “Parents’ doing? When I chatted with Miss Li before, she didn’t go into detail, but it seemed both your families disapproved of the relationship. If you’re splitting during the honeymoon phase, I figure that’s the only reason.”
Tang Xien’s mind worked quickly, piecing together the logic in seconds.
Ji Zhenshi nodded, her expression dim. “Yeah. My mom doesn’t approve of us. Today we formally brought up breaking up. It ended anticlimactically, but I know Sister A-Yun. She’s gentle and considerate, but rock-solid on matters of principle.”
See—even an outsider like Tang Xien was so sure they’d never part except for insurmountable external forces.
Tang Xien fell silent for a moment, asking no more, offering no comfort. She had been through it herself.
In moments like these, anyone’s consolation was futile. Healing was a solitary process.
Still, she offered Ji Zhenshi one practical tip. “Alcohol. Not original, but direct and effective. It numbs the nerves, lets you forget—for a while. Provided you get properly drunk. Tried and true. Hope it helps.”
In the months before her girlfriend’s death, Tang Xien had hardly been sober a single day. Realizing her love’s presence was fading from her life had been excruciating. Suddenly deprived of someone who resonated so perfectly—catching a glimpse of an item or habit that triggered the memory brought gut-wrenching pain.
So even someone as disciplined as Tang Xien had permitted herself a period of indulgence, unleashing it all.
Ji Zhenshi pondered seriously, glancing at her backpack. “Maybe I’ll give it a shot. Thanks for the advice, Teacher Tang.”
Drinking—she’d considered it before. Might actually work.
Last time Li Yunli rejected her, she’d thought of booze, but her bitten tongue put that plan on hold.
“Briefly unleashing your rawest self is fine, as long as you don’t bother others. Ji Zhenshi, you can cry. I won’t laugh.” Tang Xien wasn’t great at comfort. Aside from her girlfriend, she rarely cared about others’ feelings or bothered consoling them.
She ran through countless scripted reassurances in her head, only to settle on one stiff, awkward permission to cry.
The words caught in Ji Zhenshi’s throat, choking out a cough. “Me? Cry? Nah, I don’t cry.”
She declared it boldly, safe now that the one who’d seen her drunk and blubbering—Li Yunli—was gone. Time to build her image.
She didn’t cry!
Tang Xien gave an inscrutable smile. “Oh? Well, I’ve answered your question. I’m heading out now. See you tomorrow.”
As if those red-rimmed eyes fooled anyone. She wasn’t blind.
But Tang Xien had no interest in calling her out or watching the comedy.
As she pulled open the door to leave, her eyes caught Ji Zhenshi’s phone on the desk. An app notification lit the screen, displaying a blissful photo of her and Li Yunli beaming together.
A match made in heaven—tailor-made for each other. Such a shame if they split.
Her gaze toward Ji Zhenshi grew more complex. Normally, she’d leave briskly in a situation like this. But Ji Zhenshi’s forlorn figure briefly evoked her own past days.
It was truly miserable—days dragging like years.
Her feet felt cemented in place for a moment. She dropped the “head home” insistence and said instead, “Life is short enough as it is. Lose your emotional anchor, though, and it stretches interminably. Ji Zhenshi, call it chicken soup if you want, but truly losing something irreplaceable hurts badly—and the things that bring you joy dwindle too.”
She wanted to say: cherish it while it’s still here.
Ji Zhenshi understood, but could only muster a bitter smile. “Beyond my control.”
Life-and-death separations were beyond control; the pressure of threats to die was beyond control.
So even knowing loss would devastate her, she had no choice.
Their eyes met, a spark of shared empathy passing between them.
“Ji Zhenshi, work’s done for the day. I’ve got time—want company for a drink?” Tang Xien finally relented.
She wanted to console that version of herself who’d once drunkenly passed out alone in an empty room till dawn.
My love, you know your leaving was a storm to me—a deluge that left my heart sodden for life.
No matter. I can’t blame you. Just live well up there.
“If Teacher Tang’s up for it, sure. I’ve been alone all day—someone to talk to sounds nice.”
“Fine. I’ll play life coach for once, serve up some utterly unhelpful toxic chicken soup.”
“No problem. I like toxic chicken soup too.” Ji Zhenshi sat cross-legged by the window.
The one who could dish out toxic chicken soup had rejected her today. They had rejected each other.
Tang Xien fetched a bottle of red wine from the office. The two settled in the practice room, gazing at the night view outside.
Tang Xien poured herself a glass, set an empty one before Ji Zhenshi, then ignored her. “Need help finding a place?”
Ji Zhenshi was lingering so late not because she didn’t want to go home—but because she couldn’t.
She was deluding herself: as long as she avoided facing Li Yunli, their fizzled breakup talk remained unresolved.
Ji Zhenshi, sometimes your naivety is laughably foolish, a silly act of self-deception.
“I hadn’t thought about moving yet, but yeah, I should. I’ll handle it—somewhere close to the studio.” Ji Zhenshi’s eyes flicked ambiguously to the pricey red wine, then she quietly pulled a beer from her bag and cracked it open.
Under Tang Xien’s gaze, the tab’s pop rang out crisply.
Beer alongside expensive red wine—awkwardly mismatched.
Ji Zhenshi licked her lips sheepishly. “I’m not big on red wine—can’t really appreciate it. Teacher Tang, your wine’s top-shelf; save it for someone who gets it. No need for me—I prefer beer.”
Even her benders were down-to-earth: cheap beer or fruit-flavored liquor.
So straightforward. So endearing.
Tang Xien slanted her a look, then averted her eyes with a chuckle. “You’re really something, you know that.”
Ji Zhenshi shrugged helplessly. “Average something.”
Average something, average person from an average family.
Truth was, Ji Zhenshi wasn’t a prodigy. Prodigies didn’t get mired so miserably in worldly traps.
Prodigies were free, at least.
Tang Xien swirled her glass and elegantly crossed her long legs. “Shall we chat, then? You know where Miss Li and I first met?”
Let’s talk about what Ji Zhenshi had always been curious about.
“No clue, but not at the company. You’d met before—more than once, maybe.”
They’d clearly known each other then, whispering secrets.
Tang Xien corrected her. “No, just once prior. It was at a psychotherapy clinic. She recognized me, but I didn’t know her connection to you yet. When I suggested chatting at the company, it was to ensure she kept my therapy visits confidential.”
Ji Zhenshi raised a brow. “Hadn’t guessed that. First meeting at a psych clinic, huh.”
Predictably, Ji Zhenshi’s focus zeroed on Li Yunli. Tang Xien wasn’t surprised. She’d missed the bigger point.
Hopeless love brain.
Tang Xien sighed. “What I mean is, even years later, losing my love still pains me. I need ongoing therapy to stay level. I’m not advising you—just reminding you: life’s one shot. Some things can’t be compromised. A single choice might haunt you for years. I know from experience, so here’s my chicken soup. Take it as mutual encouragement?”
Anything short of heaven’s cruel life-and-death pranks was minor.
As long as the other was still here, still visible.
At least time wouldn’t erode the fear of forgetting their face.
Ji Zhenshi still sipped through a straw. In the darkness, even her golden hair seemed dulled.
She tried heeding Tang Xien’s advice, but realized some helplessness went beyond life-and-death.
No true shared experience, after all.
Tang Xien’s helplessness differed from hers, though the torment connected them.
Ji Zhenshi nodded without arguing. “It wasn’t my decision. It was everyone’s.”
Everyone’s decision—and she and Li Yunli bore all the agony.
So helpless.
“Ji Zhenshi, you fear your parents that much?” Tang Xien asked.
Ji Zhenshi didn’t seem the compromising type.
What pressure could force someone so unbound and principled to say “beyond my control”?
“Not fear—just, I can’t ignore my parents’ lives, even if I hate the moral blackmail. Teacher Tang, how did you win your parents’ approval back then?”
Truth was, Ji Zhenshi didn’t fear Yang Ying at all. She didn’t care if her mother supported the relationship. But she couldn’t withstand the threats to her life. No matter what, the debt of birth endured—she couldn’t disregard her mother’s existence.
Li Yunli had taught her that, and she couldn’t get past her own conscience.
Ji Zhenshi knew full well: even if Li Yunli hadn’t heard her consent to the breakup, just knowing about Yang Ying’s death threats would have made Li Yunli say it anyway.
In a way, their mutual understanding had reached its pinnacle.
That very clarity was what made it hurt so much.
