Chapter 37 Part 2

Wen Zenian caught the look. “What are you staring at?”

“Oh, nothing.” Meng Ning pulled her gaze back and turned it toward the window once more. “I was just thinking—you didn’t really need to tell Qi Xiao about those old things.”

It wasn’t a pleasant memory, after all. Why dredge up old wounds?

Wen Zenian glanced at her, and Meng Ning smiled. “Qi Xiao might seem like she talks a mile a minute, but she’s actually got a tight lip. No need to worry about her spilling. It’s just that I tend to overthink things. I feel like anything I don’t want others to know, it’s best not to tell anyone at all.”

Wen Zenian’s eyes lingered on her profile for a moment. The soft laugh she let out blended into the late-night radio broadcast the driver had on.

“It doesn’t matter if other people know or not,” Wen Zenian said. “It’s all in the past. Nothing worth dwelling on.”

Meng Ning curved her lips toward the window.

Yes, Wen Zenian could face it head-on because those days were behind her. In the midst of her current life of blooming flowers and brocade roads, even the scars linking them to the past looked like petals. Touching them no longer hurt; they only left a faint melancholy worth a few sentimental songs.

That was why Wen Zenian could laugh so freely and brush it off with a casual “I don’t care.” Why she could flirt with Meng Ning after reuniting, making up for those small youthful regrets and dissatisfactions.

Not like her. Her past wounds had never healed. Even lightly peeling back the edge of the scab revealed rot and pus beneath. Cleaning it out would leave a gaping hole down to the bone, with no hope of mending.

So she had to be cautious, treading carefully. When Wen Zenian confided in her about the past, she wanted to stop her.

So she hesitated and overthought everything. When Wen Zenian traced the lines on her palm, the emotions felt too intense.

What was there to worry about, really?

Just look at Wen Zenian sitting beside her now—a completely different person from back then.

She shouldn’t doubt. She should understand that being with Wen Zenian was the safest place. Wen Zenian’s interest in the past stopped at those adolescent regrets, so her gestures were grand and flashy, weaving a gorgeous dream just for her.

That was why Wen Zenian remembered her old cheerfulness and, upon seeing her current melancholy, never pried or questioned her.

After answering Meng Ning’s questions, Wen Zenian simply leaned over and rested her head lightly on Meng Ning’s shoulder.

Meng Ning let out a subtle breath and lowered her chin, nuzzling against the soft skin of Wen Zenian’s forehead.

Wen Zenian seemed to enjoy it. She burrowed deeper into Meng Ning’s neck, reaching out to clasp her fingertips. Meng Ning’s fingers came alive like insects awakening in spring, slipping one by one into Wen Zenian’s gaps, curling back to interlace fully, ten fingers entwined.

She pressed the button to lower the taxi window. It slid down halfway, but she felt it was too much and raised it a bit. All she needed was a palm-width gap for the night breeze to rush in. Both had their hair pinned up, but the wind tousled Wen Zenian’s stray strands, tickling Meng Ning’s neck.

The streetlights outside had a cruel sort of mercy—clearly peering down at the human world, yet standing ramrod straight, emotionless. The light turned everything into the yellow of an old postcard, tinting the scenery retro and intimate. Even sitting inside felt cinematic.

Meng Ning gripped Wen Zenian’s fingers and, for no reason at all, thought:

Car window. Night breeze. Streetlights. Dim yellow glow. Cuddling.

If this scene were made into a postcard, would anyone buy it?

She would. She’d wander into a little shop with wind chimes tinkling at the door, pick one up casually, and gaze intently at the indistinct figures nestled in the taxi’s back seat. Then she’d borrow a dark blue fountain pen from the shopkeeper and write her name, “Meng Ning,” on the back, followed by the letter “G” in Wen Zenian’s handwriting.

The ink would have to be the finest kind, scented faintly with osmanthus to suit memories. Years later, when the image had faded and the metal box holding the postcard was rusted, the clear writing on the back—”Meng Ning” and “G”—would still be legible.

Maybe whoever found it would at least wonder: What was “G”‘s real name?

Lost in these rambling fancies, Meng Ning felt Wen Zenian’s breath warm against her neck. She held Wen Zenian’s fingers tightly. After all, beneath this cinematic yellow filter, they were just riding in an old taxi toward a rundown building in the old district.

Once they exited the elevated road, roadside stalls would appear: braised meats, fruit stands, a tiny flower shop that didn’t sell pricey Louis XIV roses but humble bundles for ten bucks.

Such a life was worlds away from Wen Zenian—far enough that even the ever-cautious Meng Ning saw no need to shield her anymore. After this dream played out with her, Wen Zenian would fly off to greater heights, never to appear in such a setting again.

Meng Ning spoke, pressing her chin down like a cat rubbing repeatedly against Wen Zenian’s forehead. “Tired? If you are, you can nap for a bit.”

Wen Zenian probably thought she was being unusually compliant tonight, suspicious of an ulterior motive. She joked, “You won’t ditch me on the roadside while I’m asleep, will you?”

Meng Ning smiled. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

Her frank admission convinced Wen Zenian she had no intention of bolting. Wen Zenian really was tired—dealing with those investors all day had worn her out. Or maybe Meng Ning’s slender shoulder was just too comfortable to lean on, free of perfume and carrying a girl’s natural fresh scent.

Even the taxi’s poor suspension turned into a lulling rhythm. She relaxed and drifted off.

When they reached the old building, the driver turned. “Here…”

Meng Ning cut him off in a low voice. “Sir, park here a bit longer. Let my friend sleep off her buzz. Keep the meter running—I’ll pay.”

The driver glanced back at the sleeping woman in the back.

Driving nights was exhausting; he rarely paid passengers much mind. Only now did he notice: the woman in the suit was dressed in high-end fabric, while the other wore a gray hoodie and jeans. Apart from their equally striking faces, the two couldn’t have been more different.

In his mind’s eye, one strode through towering CBD skyscrapers with some fancy-brand coffee in hand. The other pedaled a shared bike to some obscure little company, a box of rice rolls for breakfast dangling from the handlebars.

He wondered why they were so close.

His gaze carried a rare spark of nosy curiosity, but the woman who’d made the request had already turned to stare out the window, her expression cool yet perfectly natural, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

People were like that. When someone acted too casually, you couldn’t help thinking: Yeah, what’s so weird about it?

He turned back, meter ticking, engine idling. The car radio murmured on, turning this into a stolen little break for him.

How long passed? He checked the jumping meter and glanced back.

The cool-faced woman noticed and checked the meter herself. She showed no reaction, just turned to the window again.

The driver grumbled inwardly: Fine, don’t let the plain clothes fool you—she’s probably some rich girl slumming it. Doesn’t bat an eye at letting the meter run while napping curbside.

Finally, the suited woman on her shoulder stirred. “When did we get here? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Just now.” Meng Ning opened the door, pulled her out, then slid into the front passenger seat. “How much, sir?” She scanned her phone to pay.

As she got out and the taxi drove off, Wen Zenian asked, “Did you let me sleep a little longer?”

“Yeah.” Denying it outright would sound fake, so Meng Ning added, “But not long.”

“How much for the cab? I’ll pay.”

“I know you’re loaded.” Meng Ning gave a lazy smile.

Wen Zenian paused with her phone halfway out, looking at her.

“Didn’t you bring me allergy meds last time? I haven’t paid you for the helicopter ride, and I can’t afford that anyway.” Meng Ning grinned. “Cab fare I can handle. Consider it my thanks, okay?”

Wen Zenian gave up on her phone and accepted it, her expression softening. “You keep good accounts. I give you one, and you give me one back.”

Under the dim streetlight, boosted by an extra bulb from the fruit stall, Meng Ning studied her face and thought: What a shame.

Wen Zenian, freshly woken, had a rare hazy softness—her usual pride melted away, revealing a delicate vulnerability seldom seen on that strikingly featured face. It hid in her slightly arched brows, her shimmering eyes, and the faint drawl in her voice.

Like hibiscus petals blooming at night.

Such beauty shouldn’t vanish in an instant. This was a dream. Even if Wen Zenian had left the island to enter her life, it was bounded by Wen Zenian’s eventual departure—just with a more everyday backdrop.

In a dream, one should savor every beauty, every tender moment, without extraneous emotions.

She took Wen Zenian’s hand and led her into the building, stopping at the second-floor landing.

Wen Zenian looked puzzled. “Isn’t your place on the fourth floor?”

“It is.” She wrapped her arms around Wen Zenian’s slim waist.

Wen Zenian started at the sudden initiative. Meng Ning tended to overthink. Every time she climbed these stairs, hearing Qi Xiao and Song Xiao chattering away while she stayed silent, she’d think how the moonlight on this second-floor corner was the most beautiful spot.

It made one want to fall in love.

Back then, she’d turned down every suitor, keeping romance at a distance. Now, she boldly held Wen Zenian’s waist and murmured with a smile, “If I kissed you right here, would you be scared?”

Wen Zenian cupped her face and leaned in for the kiss.

Their tongues gently teased lips and teeth, intoxicating as moonlight. Meng Ning closed her eyes. This old building housed only retirees who’d lived here half their lives and refused to leave—nobody would be stirring at this hour.

The sounds of their kiss flowed like a stream under the moonlit night, stirring their thoughts into a damp tangle.

When their lips parted, Wen Zenian stroked her cheek again. Seeing her still smiling, she pinched lightly and asked, “Why do you keep staring at me?”

Looking at Wen Zenian now was just like at the bar entrance earlier—the same thought:

Wen Zenian, the fact that you could never fall for the current me—it’s such a regret, and yet so beautiful.

As someone always planning to leave, only like this could she dare let herself like you, just a little.