Chapter 22: I Regret It Part 1

Qiu Yiran finally saw Li Wuhui.

On the last day of 2024, she had originally planned to drive back to her rental apartment, but somehow she ended up near the high-speed rail station again.

At that time, high-speed trains departed one after another and arrived one after another. Outside the passing trains, she listened to the entire podcast and heard Li Wuhui say to everyone listening—Happy New Year.

After that, she lingered there for a long time before driving away. From that day on, every single day felt like she was under a spell; she would drive to the area near the high-speed rail station and wander around.

Just like when she first came to this city.

She didn’t know what she wanted to do, what she was waiting for, or what she wanted to see…

Until this moment, when she turned around and saw Li Wuhui.

The crowd surged, making the high-speed rail station look bustling. It had originally been so basic that it only had two ticket gates, but now it resembled a scene set up for a farewell movie.

And Li Wuhui had been watching her the whole time.

At that moment, she felt that this person was like a bright lighthouse on the sea horizon, illuminating the direction she couldn’t discern.

Li Wuhui slowly emerged from the crowd, passing through many people, squeezing past many others, gradually becoming clearer in front of her eyes.

Then she walked up to her, her gaze dropping. “Were you waiting for me here?”

“Sort of.” Qiu Yiran couldn’t deny it.

After all, Li Wuhui had always been straightforward, without even a word of small talk or pretense.

“What if I never came again?” Li Wuhui was dressed similarly to the day they first met.

A brown fleece coat that didn’t look too thick, and an ink-green cardigan sweater.

The collar was open, and she wasn’t wearing a scarf.

“Why didn’t you call me?” she asked Qiu Yiran. “Were you planning to wait here forever if I didn’t show up?”

“No.” Qiu Yiran shook her head. “I’d stop after a few days. Besides, I wasn’t really waiting for you.”

She finished concisely, then looked around. “Let’s find a place to sit.”

During those days wandering near the high-speed rail station, Qiu Yiran had thought she might not necessarily be waiting for Li Wuhui—otherwise, why hadn’t she thought to call her?

But the second she actually saw Li Wuhui, she realized she did have things to say.

They went to a newly built park outside the station.

The sunlight that day was beautiful.

Many people had run to the park to bask in the sun, drying themselves out and storing up energy to get through this harsh winter.

They walked among them, their shadows turning into the most inconspicuous thin lines.

Qiu Yiran’s steps were still a few beats slower than a normal person’s.

Halfway through, Li Wuhui seemed to notice this and casually asked, “Does your leg still hurt?”

“Not today,” Qiu Yiran said.

“So it hurt a lot in those past few years?” Li Wuhui keenly caught the loophole.

Qiu Yiran halted her steps.

She lowered her eyes, feeling there was no need to deceive Li Wuhui.

“Sometimes, but not often.”

As she spoke, as if to prove it, she quickened her pace a little. But doing so made her left pant leg swing rapidly, revealing how empty it was inside.

She glanced down slightly—and spotted the flaw, suddenly falling silent out of embarrassment.

The embarrassment wasn’t because of the disability, but because three years had passed, and she was still trying to tough it out on this matter.

“Walk slower.” Probably noticing her embarrassment, Li Wuhui called out from behind. “I can’t walk fast.”

Qiu Yiran knew her bravado had been seen through by Li Wuhui.

When Li Wuhui caught up, she emphasized, “You don’t need to go out of your way to accommodate me.”

“Who’s accommodating you?” Li Wuhui denied it. “My feet get cold easily in winter—don’t you know that?”

Qiu Yiran instinctively glanced at her short boots. “That’s because you still like to stick your feet out from under the covers when you sleep in winter…”

Halfway through her words, she stopped with a palpitation.

No matter what, that wasn’t something she should say right now.

She reminded herself once again to keep that in mind.

But the next second, she met Li Wuhui’s slightly narrowed gaze.

She suddenly didn’t know how to react.

“Go on?” Li Wuhui chuckled lightly. “Why’d you stop? Actually, I still like sticking my feet out from under the covers now.”

Qiu Yiran fell silent.

Noticing an empty bench nearby, she walked over slowly and sat down.

Li Wuhui followed and sat beside her.

The wind blew across the sun, landing on their legs. Qiu Yiran pondered for a moment, then took the initiative. “Have you… been okay these past few days?”

“You knew about it too?” Li Wuhui said this with a smile, as if she wasn’t hurt by it at all. “The thing where I got doused with a bucket of ice water in public, got filmed, spread everywhere, and ended up on the hot search.”

“I overheard… some passengers in my car talking about it.” Qiu Yiran paused for a few seconds before hesitantly asking, “Why did that person splash you?”

She had actually seen the news right away, but the reports didn’t say much.

The media and public opinion had a narrow perspective, focusing on the victim, Li Wuhui, rather than the “perpetrator.” Because the “perpetrator” was an ordinary person, she needed protection.

These past few days, Qiu Yiran had wanted to call and ask about the situation several times. But every time she picked up her phone, she put it down again—just like in the past three years, whenever she learned of something bad happening to Li Wuhui.

Li Wuhui was flamboyant and direct in her dealings, which brought her a lot of trouble she shouldn’t have had.

“Probably because I’m a bad person,” Li Wuhui said abruptly.

“What?”

“Since she dislikes me so much that she’d pour ice water on my face…”

Li Wuhui narrowed her eyes, like a cat warmed by the sun, as if narrating a fact unrelated to herself.

“It proves I’m the bad guy in her eyes. That’s probably it, right?”

Qiu Yiran frowned.

She couldn’t accept Li Wuhui’s conclusion.

But before she could speak, Li Wuhui cut in. “I’m fine.”

Sunlight splashed onto her eyelids, and Qiu Yiran’s throat felt blocked by solidified light. She lowered her lashes, knowing her expression probably didn’t look good.

Li Wuhui suddenly laughed, staring at her with interest.

“There were way more things in Paris that made my life miserable than what you saw.”

“Qiu Yiran.”

Though Li Wuhui said this, it was as if to stop her from continuing the topic, she proactively brought up a question Qiu Yiran couldn’t answer.

“Do you need to ask me about every single thing?”

Qiu Yiran’s mouth went dry.

Three years had passed, and Li Wuhui had indeed changed a lot.

Before, Qiu Yiran always felt she knew everything about Li Wuhui.

But now, Li Wuhui was right in front of her—and beneath her smile were too many things she didn’t know and had no way of knowing.

Qiu Yiran didn’t know what more she could do for Li Wuhui, nor could she really interfere in every matter as Li Wuhui implied.

So she didn’t speak for a long, long time.

Until a high-speed train sped past in the distance on the hillside, breaking their silence. Then she slowly spoke.

“It takes departing from Paris, two layovers, and then a high-speed train from the provincial capital to get here. I never thought you’d still be willing to come all this way so many times.”

“I didn’t think so either,” Li Wuhui said. “Departing from Paris, two layovers, and then a high-speed train from the provincial capital to get here…”

Then she looked at her; sunlight-dusted particles glowed between them.

“You were willing to come to such a faraway place to hide from me, just to get away from my side.”

Qiu Yiran froze.

She hadn’t expected Li Wuhui to counter like that.

Nor had she expected that hearing this accusation wouldn’t feel that heavy—mostly, it just left her confused.

“Actually, I don’t even know how I ended up here. Back then, it was like my head was full of things, or maybe empty; in a daze, I was already here.”

“9267 kilometers,” Li Wuhui said suddenly.

“What?”

“9267 kilometers from Paris.”

“Only 9267 kilometers?” Qiu Yiran murmured. “It’s not as far as I thought.”

“It’s actually very far,” Li Wuhui laughed. “Because that’s just the straight-line distance.”

“True,” Qiu Yiran said.

“Did you hear that?” While Qiu Yiran was silent, Li Wuhui spoke again.

“What?” Qiu Yiran didn’t catch on.

The train’s roar whistled past, the sun seeming to sink onto their eyelids. Through the thin, shimmering sunlight, Li Wuhui looked straight at her and said, word by word,

“Whether in sickness or health, whether in poverty or wealth, until the last second of life, I will forever love me.”

Almost the instant Li Wuhui spoke, Qiu Yiran forced herself to look away. She couldn’t listen to those words while meeting Li Wuhui’s eyes gazing at her—

This was what Li Wuhui had said in her podcast, and of course, it was also their original wedding vows.

Right.

Li Wuhui wasn’t one to hide or evade.

Whatever she did or said, she made sure the other person knew, even if it pierced them until they bled.

Qiu Yiran didn’t know what expression to make upon hearing the wedding vows again, nor if the forced smile wrapped in hollow pain made Li Wuhui feel any better.

But she did hear Li Wuhui laugh.

After she had dug her palm until it turned red.

Li Wuhui laughed softly, very lightly.

Not like vengeance achieved, nor resentment vented, but like a blank void.

“Since you were so devout when we got married…” Then, she said to her,

“Then at least be a little more serious about the divorce.”

Li Wuhui pierced her with her gaze. “Don’t you think?”

“I’ve thought about it these past few days too,” Qiu Yiran gripped her thigh hard to maintain a difficult calm, then exhaled deeply. “You’re right. I was wrong back then. I shouldn’t have abandoned you.”

Hearing Qiu Yiran admit her mistake didn’t make Li Wuhui feel much better.

Everyone who knew Qiu Yiran had left her had advised her that breakups were always one-sided; she didn’t need to agree or accept it.

But Li Wuhui stubbornly felt that things between her and Qiu Yiran couldn’t end so ambiguously.

“I should have ended it properly with you, finished everything I owed you, so we wouldn’t end up in such an ugly mess.” It was as if it took immense effort for Qiu Yiran to lay out her decision fully.

Then, pale-faced, she looked at Li Wuhui and said slowly, “So, I’m willing to go to Paris with you.”

This decision was extremely difficult for Qiu Yiran.

—Li Wuhui knew this better than anyone, but it didn’t bring her relief.

“But,” at this point, Qiu Yiran’s tone became firm, “I have three conditions.”

“What conditions?” Li Wuhui noticed her empty pant leg and suddenly wondered if this decision was right.

“First, we split all the travel expenses down the middle.” Even though it was absurd, Qiu Yiran’s thoughts were clear.

But Li Wuhui didn’t agree right away.

Qiu Yiran knew what Li Wuhui was hesitating about and spoke first. “I haven’t spent much here these years, and I don’t usually spend money, so actually… I do have some savings. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“And…”

She spoke slowly, almost indisputably.

“And after all, we’re going to get divorced. There’s no need for you to bear all the costs alone.”

Li Wuhui looked at her ears, red from the cold. She knew how much Qiu Yiran wanted to draw a line with her on this. So she didn’t say much, just nodded. “Okay.”

“Second, once we get to Paris, we go straight to the divorce, no dragging it out.”

The unknown journey was long; Qiu Yiran didn’t want uncontrollable things to happen on the road, so she needed to resolve this before departure.

This wasn’t a demand on Li Wuhui.

It was a demand on herself.

Hearing this condition, Li Wuhui laughed too, then nodded without hesitation. “Okay, that’s what I want too.”

“Third,” Qiu Yiran finally raised her eyes to meet Li Wuhui’s directly. To emphasize the importance, she even used the third person.

“No matter what happens on the road, Li Wuhui must promise to prioritize her own life first and never sacrifice herself to save Qiu Yiran.”

After all, it was such a long drive through so many countries, and they were only two people. Who knew what might happen? Qiu Yiran had refused before precisely because she thought the choice was too crazy, with far more potential dangers. Moreover, their previous accident had happened on a trip just like this.