Chapter 88: So Real It Didn’t Feel Like a Dream, More Like…

Wen Wan Ning looked at Shen Jia Yan’s living room, her gaze slowly sweeping over every corner.

The minimalist gray-white-black color scheme featured simple yet textured furniture, a sleek floating coffee table with sharp lines, and a floor lamp with a matte metal frame. The walls held no decorative paintings, only a full wall of audio equipment and a vinyl record rack.

There were no superfluous decorations, no flashy ornaments, not even a single potted plant. It was like a meticulously controlled space—calm, restrained, just like Shen Jia Yan’s public persona.

But Wen Wan Ning knew this had never been Shen Jia Yan’s true nature.

The “minimalism” of this room wasn’t detachment; it was excision.

Shen Jia Yan had excised all emotions, all noise, all stray thoughts that might trigger memories, leaving only the essentials: music, and her.

Wen Wan Ning stood and walked toward the photo frame on the vinyl record rack that she had noticed for a long time.

As she drew closer, she saw clearly that the photo was of Shen Jia Yan with an elderly woman.

Though she had never met Shen Jia Yan’s grandma, she was almost certain it was her—the wrinkles at the corners of the elderly woman’s eyes matched exactly those that appeared when Shen Jia Yan smiled, only softer, warmer.

In the photo, Shen Jia Yan’s hair was loose, she wore a simple white T-shirt, and she nestled beside her grandma, her eyes curved into crescents with laughter.

It was a joy without defenses, from the depths of her soul—a smile Wen Wan Ning hadn’t seen on Shen Jia Yan’s face in a very, very long time.

On stage, she shone brilliantly; in life, she was calm and distant. But in that captured moment, she was just an ordinary girl who was loved.

Involuntarily, she reached out to take the photo frame. As her fingertip touched the glass, the frame tilted slightly, and an old photo clipped to the back slipped out, floating silently onto the carpet.

She bent down quickly to pick it up.

The instant she saw what had fallen, she froze.

It was a slightly yellowed Polaroid of her and Shen Jia Yan in the theater at Jingbei Media University, taken after Shen Jia Yan’s performance.

That day was her band’s show. She had just finished her final drum solo, sweat soaking her forehead, cheeks flushed red, eyes sparkling. Wen Wan Ning stood beside her, head slightly lowered, a gentle curve at her lips that she herself hadn’t noticed.

She had never imagined that this casually snapped photo would be quietly treasured by Shen Jia Yan, placed behind the frame alongside the most important person in her life.

Her fingertips trembled slightly, her heart struck hard by something. She gently smoothed the photo and clipped it back into place.

She couldn’t betray such a wonderful Shen Jia Yan again. She had to fight for her, to reclaim her.

Reclaim the girl who wrote songs for her, who gave her time to wait, who cried and laughed for her, who made her heart race time and again.

After a moment, she walked to the kitchen.

She opened the cabinets, scanning shelf by shelf: neatly arranged glass cups, coffee bean jars, tea boxes—everything in perfect order, like Shen Jia Yan’s drumming rhythm, precise and error-free.

She gently pulled open the bottom drawer, her fingertip touching a heavy glass jar.

She brought it to her eyes—it was a jar of honey, exactly what she was looking for.

She took out a plain white porcelain cup, scooped a spoonful of honey, poured in warm water, and stirred gently as the honey dissolved slowly.

Carrying the prepared honey water, she gently pushed open the bedroom door.

Moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains, spreading a layer of silver across the floor.

Shen Jia Yan lay on her side in bed, breathing evenly. The earlier intensity and loss of control had completely faded; now she was as quiet as a child, only the faint tear stains at her eyes remaining, shimmering faintly in the dim light.

Wen Wan Ning walked slowly to the bedside and sat on the edge, placing the honey water gently on the nightstand. She didn’t wake her, just watched quietly—her slightly quivering lashes, her lips pursing unconsciously again and again, her fingers still lightly clutching the edge of the blanket, as if unwilling to let go of some reliance even in her dreams.

She reached out, her fingertip brushing ever so lightly over that tear stain.

“Fool…” she whispered, her voice so soft it nearly melted into the night. “You say I invaded your dreams, but you’re the one who lives in mine every night, refusing to leave.”

She leaned down and, like last time, planted a gentle kiss on Shen Jia Yan’s forehead.

Warm, lingering, carrying five years of accumulated tenderness and regret.

But this time, she didn’t rise immediately.

She sat on the bed’s edge, gently tucking Shen Jia Yan’s stray hair behind her ear, then slowly placed her own hand over the one clutching the blanket.

Their fingers intertwined for the first time, in reality.

Shen Jia Yan’s breathing hitched slightly, her lashes fluttered, but she didn’t wake. Yet her fingers unconsciously gripped back, ever so lightly.

The pressure was feather-soft, like a response in a dream, like her soul recognizing the other before her consciousness did.

Wen Wan Ning looked down at their intertwined hands, her eyes growing warm.

That temperature at her fingertips was so real it made her want to cry.

She had once thought she’d never have the chance to touch her again in this lifetime. But this reunion had shown her hope.

“Yanyan, wait for me a little longer,” her fingertip gently rubbed Shen Jia Yan’s palm. “I’ll win you back. I’ll make up for what I owed you back then, what you missed, the regrets—I’ll give it all to you.”

Gazing at Shen Jia Yan’s serene sleeping face, she curved her lips in satisfaction. The smile was faint but deep in her eyes, like a traveler who had crossed mountains and rivers finally sighting the lights of home.

She slowly released their clasped hands, fingers separating inch by inch.

Then she stood gently, pulled the blanket up to cover Shen Jia Yan’s shoulders carefully, and brushed away a stray lock of hair stuck to her forehead.

She turned, softly closing the bedroom door, and headed straight to the kitchen. She opened the cabinet again, found millet, washed it meticulously, added it to the rice cooker, and tapped the panel to set it for warming in six hours.

After tidying the kitchen, she returned to the living room, picked up her bag, went to the entryway to put on her shoes, and left.

With the door securely closed, she glanced back at the keypad lock.

“‘110826,’ huh. I don’t know what it means, but I’ve memorized it.”

After leaving the complex and getting into her car, she messaged Chu Nian, whom she had just added: [Sorry to bother you so late. Just wanted to say, when Jia Yan wakes up, don’t tell her that you and I brought her home. Don’t mention me at all during the whole thing. Thanks.]

Suddenly, she thought of something and sent another: [I preset the millet porridge for tomorrow morning. When she wakes up, please remind her to drink some.]

※

The next morning at nine, Shen Jia Yan was woken by her phone ringing.

She groped groggily for her phone, her fingertips brushing the cool screen, then a water cup. She sat up squinting, hair a messy pile on her shoulders, sleepiness not fully gone.

“Hello.” Her voice was hoarse, nasal from just waking.

Chu Nian’s energetic voice came through: “Jia Yan-jie, you’re awake? How’d you sleep last night? You have a schedule today—need to be at the recording studio by 11:30.”

“Mm… Got it.” Shen Jia Yan rubbed her temples, picked up the water from the nightstand, and took a sip—sweet. “Niannian, was the honey water on my nightstand yours?”

She didn’t remember anything after getting home, but she recalled asking Chu Nian to take her back.

On the other end, Chu Nian nearly blurted out “No, it was probably Wan Ning-jie,” but remembered Wen Wan Ning’s message and the instructions.

She paused, eyes darting, then changed tack. “Yeah, I made it.” She kept her tone casual. “Jia Yan-jie, you drank a lot last night. Drink more honey water when you get up—it helps with the hangover.”

“Oh, thanks. I’ll get up and get ready now. Come straight over.” Shen Jia Yan took another sip of the honey water.

“Got it, Jia Yan-jie.”

After hanging up, she prepared to get out of bed.

“Hiss…” As her hand braced on the edge, something small and hard poked her fingertip—cool and firm.

She looked down.

On the deep gray bedsheet lay an exquisite earring, resting quietly.

She picked it up and examined it closely.

The silver base was studded with tiny zircon stones, glinting subtly in the morning light filtering into the room.

She recognized it—it was the pair Wen Wan Ning had worn last night.

Why was it here?

Her heart beat a little faster.

Had Wen Wan Ning brought her home again? But Chu Nian had just said the honey water was hers, so it should have been Chu Nian who brought her back.

She rubbed her throbbing temples, then carefully put the earring away.

She’d ask Chu Nian when she arrived.

She got up and went into the bathroom.

She turned on the shower and stood under the spray, letting the water cascade from her head, down her hair, neck, and back, washing away the lingering alcohol and haze. Steam quickly rose, fogging the mirror and blurring the emotions surging in her eyes.

In the mist, she closed her eyes.

Memories of last night slowly surfaced.

Su Fang Yu was Wen Wan Ning’s cousin, and Han Yuchu was Su Fang Yu’s boyfriend—this realization lit up many previously puzzling details in her mind like a beam of light.

At that thought, her lips curved upward unconsciously.

Gradually, Wen Wan Ning’s figure appeared in her mind. The wine-red gown outlined her cool silhouette, hair lightly swaying in the sea breeze, tall and alluring figure like a red rose blooming alone in the night.

The scene shifted abruptly to last night’s dream. She remembered roughly kissing Wen Wan Ning, from lips to neck, untying her dress, pulling down her straps, unclasping her… bra…

Where her fingertips touched was Wen Wan Ning’s cool skin and rising breath, her suppressed soft moans, and the trembling of her fingers in her hair.

Instantly, she felt a warm surge downward, her heartbeat accelerating, fingertips heating.

She snapped her eyes open and turned the water cooler. The icy stream poured down, trying to quench the sudden heat rising in her body.

Even though it was a dream, why did it feel so real?

That touch, that warmth, that suffocating intertwining of breaths—it was too real to be a dream, more like… a memory.

Suddenly, she thought of the earring.

Could it be…