Chapter 4: She Could Never Be Like a Normal Person

She didn’t know if it was the exhaustion of that night, but after Qiu Yiran returned, she dreamed of Li Wuhui.

In the dream, it was Paris three years ago, also on Christmas Eve, and it was snowing. She remembered that snowstorm being particularly heavy, turning all of Paris deathly pale, as if drained of all color.

Qiu Yiran stood in the snow, her hands gripping the crutches frozen stiff, every breath a struggle, as if snatching air from God’s grasp.

The cold wind sliced like shattered blades across the metal support rod below her left leg, and she said to Li Wuhui—

“Li Wuhui, I never want to see you again.”

That was the first time she had called her Li Wuhui, and it was also the last time they met.

In truth, before that, she had never imagined what their breakup would look like.

Looking back later, she always felt that fate was too cruel.

Of all things, it had to snow, of all nights, it had to be Christmas Eve, of all coincidences, it had to be exactly like the Paris of their first meeting.

After leaving Paris, she had thought of that day countless times, recalled the look in Li Wuhui’s eyes as she gazed at her, remembered how Li Wuhui always dressed lightly in winter, often in just a thin coat—

But she remembered the color of Li Wuhui’s coat that day clearly: a chestnut brown.

A thick wool scarf wrapped around her neck, green like springtime.

Half of Li Wuhui’s face was obscured by the scarf, yet she stubbornly clenched her jaw, still breathtakingly beautiful.

And what did Li Wuhui say to her?

She remembered that too.

She remembered the blinding snowstorm, snowflakes catching on Li Wuhui’s lashes, yet she didn’t blink, staring intently at her and saying those words with crystal clarity,

“You’ll still see me in Paris, you’ll think of me when you smell this perfume, you’ll think of me when it snows, you’ll think of me with every step you take on that prosthetic leg, no matter where you are, you’ll see me.”

“For one minute, you’ll think of me for fifty-nine seconds. Of the billboards you see on the street, eight out of ten will be me. Of the people you meet, eighty out of a hundred will mention my name. You’ll think of me over and over, see me—you’ll never escape me in this lifetime…”

The snow grew heavier, piling white on her shoulders.

Qiu Yiran didn’t wait for her to finish before turning away, leaving a trail of footprints in the thick snow.

And from behind, Li Wuhui’s final words sounded like they were seething with hatred, like the most vicious curse,

“Qiu Yiran, as long as you’re alive, you’ll never get your wish.”

–

Hearing those words again jolted Qiu Yiran awake.

By then, the sky had lightened, the roadside clamor like a vegetable market fresh from slaughtering a pig, but her rental room remained dim and stuffy, as if sealed in a can.

She stared at the ceiling for a long, long time, unable to shake it off.

In truth, she hadn’t dreamed of Li Wuhui in ages, nor thought of that Christmas Eve.

Thinking about it now—

If the breakup had been so humiliating, if she was the one who had once wanted to see Li Wuhui every day, and she was the one who said she never wanted to see her again…

Then yesterday, when Li Wuhui said she truly hated her, it wasn’t wrong. Li Wuhui had always loved boldly and hated fiercely—perhaps that was why she had fallen for her in the first place.

She just hadn’t expected that even now, Li Wuhui still hated her.

Even if it was understandable.

Qiu Yiran didn’t linger in bed long.

Nostalgia was a luxury for the happy. Morning rush hour was peak time for short trips.

She got out of bed. Her residual limb was still somewhat swollen, but after applying hot compresses and medicine the night before, it was slightly better than yesterday.

She still limped when she walked.

Putting on the prosthetic leg chafed the residual limb and hurt. But she couldn’t let something like this halt her life.

Besides, after three and a half years, she had grown accustomed to this gait.

Even after the amputation, her walk wasn’t entirely natural. Anyone paying close attention could tell her left calf didn’t move on its own, despite countless rehab sessions, strength training, and daily practice.

No matter how advanced the prosthetic leg, how closely it mimicked a normal gait, it could never match a real human limb. Every step required her residual limb to drive and support it.

In other words, from the moment she woke from that car accident three and a half years ago, she could never walk like a normal person again.

Not only that.

Putting on and removing the prosthetic leg became an extra daily necessity compared to normal people—before going out, after coming home…

Even buying shoes meant considering if they fit the prosthetic comfortably, if they wouldn’t irritate the residual limb; pants had to be loose-fitting; meeting new people always required one more explanation than usual.

Optimists who saw her leg would console her: missing half a leg was nothing, she was just like everyone else.

But only she knew.

She had less than normal people in some ways, more in others. Just striving to approach so-called normalcy took ten times the effort.

Before heading out, Qiu Yiran lifted her pant leg to put a shoe on the prosthetic leg and suddenly saw those words again—

Ian, You are here, I’m here.

She froze for a moment.

Then slowly lowered her pant leg.

–

Qiu Yiran went out, limped to her car.

Before starting the engine, she glanced at the magazine on the passenger seat, her hand pausing—

The guest who had left it behind contacted her that morning via text, asking her to hold onto it; they’d pick it up later that evening.

Li Wuhui had been right after all.

Times had changed, but now every step with this prosthetic leg, every magazine picked up in the car… it was all Li Wuhui.

As long as she lived, she would think of Li Wuhui.

Qiu Yiran tucked the magazine away, intending to put it in the door pocket on her side.

But before she could,

She spotted Li Wuhui on the cover.

Remembering Li Wuhui’s candid attitude the night before, she inexplicably flipped open the interview again—

【Q13: What about that thing with Ian before? Have you completely moved on now?】

Qiu Yiran stared intently at that trailing question.

After a long moment,

She flipped to the next page.

When she saw Li Wuhui’s answer, she froze.

But before she could react, someone suddenly opened the car door and got in, saying from the back seat, “Cross Slope.”

Distracted, she stowed the magazine away.

She didn’t open it again all day.

That evening, the company platform assigned her a ride: from Mang City’s only four-star hotel to the high-speed rail station.

The hotel where Li Wuhui was staying.

Seeing the pickup location, Qiu Yiran sighed for no reason, thinking Li Wuhui’s words from back then were too prescient.

But she didn’t think the rider was Li Wuhui. The platform’s assignments were mostly random.

It wouldn’t be that much of a coincidence.

Conveniently, the guest who had left the magazine was nearby at the hotel. They arranged to meet downstairs to hand it off.

Traffic was jammed all the way; by the time she reached the hotel entrance, cars were backed up, headlights everywhere, and she saw several taxis around her pulling away full of passengers.

The young guest who had left the magazine stood by the window, took it, and hurriedly thanked her several times, saying she’d be killed by her friend if she lost it. Glancing inside and seeing it was empty, she casually asked,

“I’ve been waiting half an hour and can’t get a ride. Driver, could you take me to Porcelain City?”

Qiu Yiran politely declined. “I’m here to pick someone up.”

“Got it, got it.” The young guest sighed. “No idea what’s going on today—can’t catch a cab anywhere.”

Qiu Yiran smiled without responding.

Her passenger hadn’t arrived yet.

She waited at the hotel’s pickup lane.

The young guest, holding the eye-catching magazine, called a ride-share right by her car while waiting and chatting on voice message with her friend.

They were close by, and Zhang Xiaole didn’t hold back, so Qiu Yiran could easily overhear—

“Zhang Xiaole, if you lost it, you’re dead!”

The young guest named Zhang Xiaole pursed her lips, flipping through the magazine as she sent a voice message,

“Relax, if anything gets lost, it won’t be your Li Wuhui—you ditched me first and forgot to take it.”

She must have reached the interview, because Zhang Xiaole pouted and sent another voice message asking who this Ian was.

The words drifted through the car window, muffled, into Qiu Yiran’s ears. She sent a text to her assigned rider saying she was waiting at the pickup lane, but without any urging.

The guest from the four-star hotel didn’t reply.

She set her phone down.

Focused on the people streaming by outside the window, as if she hadn’t heard.

But the sounds kept filtering in.

Zhang Xiaole tapped away on her screen for a bit, then sent a few voice messages—

“Oh, she’s a photographer. Pretty famous—made a name for herself in Paris at nineteen.”

“Oh, no need to explain—I get what her deal was with Li Wuhui. Rumor is, back when Li Wuhui wasn’t famous, she shot a set of photos for her and put them in her own portfolio, right?”

“And they collaborated publicly and privately tons of times after. When Li Wuhui was unknown, a lot of gigs came through that Ian’s recommendations? Real or fake?”

That line floated over, stinging. Qiu Yiran lowered her eyes, silently rolling down her window.

Fresh air rushed in; for a second, she felt relief.

She woodenly rubbed her left leg.

Looked at the dusky sky. Horns and engines from nearby cars helped drown out the voice.

“So what happened to that Ian anyway?” Zhang Xiaole asked, and got no reply for a while.

No more of that grating name. Qiu Yiran breathed easier.

Meanwhile, Zhang Xiaole outside stomped her feet from the cold, knocked on the window, leaned in pitifully, and asked,

“Driver, could you talk to your passenger? Can I hitch a ride?”

“I’ve been trying ride-shares forever and nothing. I could tell last time—you’re the nicest, and your car smells so good…”

Sweet-talkers always had an edge. Qiu Yiran felt a bit helpless.

Before she could respond,

A clear, familiar female voice came from outside: “Excuse me, please move aside.”

Such polite phrasing.

Zhang Xiaole, who had been leaning in to chat, instinctively stepped back and said, “Sure, sure.”

The next second,

Qiu Yiran turned her head. Before she could make out the female passenger outside, she saw Zhang Xiaole look up, eyes widening, and shriek, “Holy shit—”.