Chapter 135 Kwon Ji-yong stares at the computer screen…

Kwon Ji-yong stared at the schedule on the computer screen, his mind wandering for quite a while.

March 15: The new company contract was finally signed.

March 18: New album production meeting

March 20: Tisch Art Academy curriculum confirmed

The cursor blinked in the blank space. He hesitated for a moment, then typed a line:

March 16: Coach Kim's follow-up appointment at St. Mary's Hospital.

The agent rushed in, carrying a thick stack of documents: "The legal department has finished reviewing the new contract, and there are a few clauses that need your confirmation."

Kwon Ji-yong absentmindedly took the document, casually flipped through a couple of pages, and said, "Just leave it here for now."

"I have to give you a reply today, they're pressing me hard." He knew Kwon Ji-yong's temper all too well; once he was distracted, not even the King of Heaven could get him back to his senses.

"Okay." He closed his laptop. "Check flight information for me."

The agent was taken aback: "Whose?"

"Ren Xiyao".

The manager's expression froze instantly, his pupils dilated slightly, and even his breath caught in his throat for a few seconds: "This..." To be honest, after all these years, hearing that name again from his lips still shocked him. His unwavering persistence was even more perplexing. This was completely unlike Kwon Ji-yong's usual style. He had followed him for many years, almost from his first solo career until now. There was only one person like this. His persistence was incomprehensible to him. When they were together, he protected her fiercely; after the breakup, she became an absolute nuisance. Over the years, he always referred to her as "she." Now, almost seven years later, he was still trying to force the issue.

To be honest, he was really shocked and genuinely didn't understand.

But Kwon Ji-yong doesn't need his understanding.

Ignoring his shock, he put on his coat with fluid and decisive movements. He looked at his agent, his eyes deep and complex, containing a multitude of emotions, speculations, and a hint of almost obsessive certainty: "Her coach is sick." He paused, his tone becoming even more resolute, almost muttering to himself: "She will definitely come."

Ignoring the documents on the table, I turned to go to my scheduled appointment with the psychologist.

The mental health clinic was always like this: the environment was gentle and warm, without a trace of aggression, and the doctors were approachable. He had been a regular here for years. But none of this alleviated his anxiety at this moment.

The psychiatrist adjusted her glasses, her gaze behind the lenses sharp yet calm, as if she could see through everything. Her pen tapped lightly on her notebook, making a rhythmic sound, attempting to coax Quan Zhilong into speaking.

"So, you're having trouble sleeping because you're worried about the awkwardness of meeting again?" the doctor asked calmly.

Kwon Ji-yong lay on the examination chair, his body sinking into the soft cushions, yet he felt no relaxation whatsoever. He stared at the rotating chandelier on the ceiling, the light and shadow blurring in his eyes. His voice was somewhat hoarse, as if something was blocking his throat: "It's not that I'm worried about being embarrassed."

What is that?

Kwon Ji-yong raised his arm to cover his eyes, feeling the warmth from his eyelids in his palm. He took a deep breath, as if to expel the pent-up emotions that had been building up in his chest for seven years: "I'm afraid she's not doing well." He paused, his tone tinged with self-deprecation and helplessness, and then added softly, "I'm also afraid she's doing too well."

A few seconds of silence fell over the consultation room. The doctor paused, pen in hand, and asked, "Could you explain?"

“If she’s not doing well, it will break my heart.” Kwon Ji-yong raised his arm to cover his eyes: “If she’s doing too well… it means she can live without me.”

These words were like a dull knife, cutting and grinding at his heart. He wasn't usually a conflicted person, but only when it came to her did he truly understand what it meant for "love to make one fearless, yet also timid." These past few days, a strong sense of connection had told him they were destined to be together. But in every vulnerable, uncertain moment, he couldn't help but think: if she were happier than when they were together, wouldn't his leaving be a form of fulfillment? This thought filled him with an indescribable sense of frustration and loss, pulling him back and forth, leaving him in a state of anxiety and unease.

The doctor didn't immediately press for details, but silently took notes. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice tinged with inquiry: "When was the last time you saw her?"

Without the slightest hesitation, Kwon Ji-yong instantly recalled that unforgettable scene, every detail as clear as if it were yesterday: "April 10, 2017, Las Vegas Airport."

"You remember it so clearly?" The doctor raised an eyebrow in slight surprise.

Kwon Ji-yong smiled, a smile tinged with an indescribable bitterness and sorrow: "Wedding anniversary."

However, that day at Las Vegas airport became their last meeting before breaking up. Their love was cut short at its most intense. He watched her pull her suitcase and walk into the boarding gate without looking back. That figure, like a slow-motion movie, played repeatedly in his mind for seven years. Every detail, every glimpse of light and shadow, was deeply etched into his memory.

“And it was the last time,” he added, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible, yet carrying an unbearable weight.

In the following days, the psychological treatment had limited effect on him, but the time for Ren Xiyao's arrival was getting closer and closer.

Until this day.

Kwon Ji-yong sat in the car, checking his mask and baseball cap for the nth time.

The man in the rearview mirror had dark circles under his eyes, and unshaven stubble on his chin. Weariness and anxiety were clearly etched on his face. He irritably unscrewed the mineral water bottle, splashing water everywhere.

"Crazy..." he muttered to himself, "I'm not twenty." Then, as if remembering something, he laughed self-deprecatingly. Even when he was really twenty, he had never been this nervous. Back then, he had never felt this kind of heartfelt anxiety and unease, except when he was immersed in his own self-directed melodrama. It was like being torn apart. Every nerve in his brain felt like it was being gnawed at by ants.

The windshield wipers swung rhythmically, washing away the thin fog on the windshield, much like washing away the unease in his heart. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, his palms slightly sweaty.

Then, when he saw Ren Xiyao step out of the taxi, all his self-mockery and rational analysis vanished instantly. His fingers unconsciously tightened, his knuckles turning white.

She wore a simple turtleneck sweater with a camel coat and suit pants. Her hair was longer than during the Beijing Winter Olympics, loosely tied back. A canvas bag with the "NYU" logo was slung over her right shoulder.

Just as I imagined.

It was even more real than he had imagined, and it made his heart flutter even more. Seven years seemed to have left little change on her; she was still the pure and beautiful girl in his memory, with a touch of aloofness.

Kwon Ji-yong instinctively reached for the car door handle, leaning forward as if he were about to jump out and rush to her. But his hand stopped when it touched the cold metal. He watched her retreating figure as she walked towards the hospital entrance, her back slender and straight, carrying a unique resilience that belonged only to her.

He suddenly became unsure whether he should show up.

Kwon Ji-yong stood at the corner, watching Ren Xiyao come out of Coach Kim's ward.

As the nurse pushed the medicine cart past, he instinctively took a step back, almost knocking over the trash can.

Ren Xiyao turned her head to look over, and Quan Zhilong quickly slipped into the fire escape.

His heartbeat was ridiculously loud. He took out his cigarette case, but then remembered that smoking was prohibited in the hospital, so he could only bite the filter and take a couple of dry puffs.

My phone vibrated. It was a message from her agent: "We found Ren Xiyao's flight. It's KE081 tomorrow, departing at 13:20."

He replied, "Book me on the same flight."

Are you really sure?

Kwon Ji-yong looked at his blurry reflection in the glass of the fire door and simply replied with an "Mm," but his eyes were more determined than ever before.

As Coach Kim stared blankly out the window, the door was gently pushed open.

"Why are you back again..." He turned his head, the words stuck in his throat.

Kwon Ji-yong stood at the door, carrying a fruit basket and supplements, looking like a high school student who had done something wrong: "...Hello."

Kwon Ji-yong knew Coach Kim, but had never met him. Coach Kim had worked at Seongbuk Club for 20 years. He knew Seongbuk as well as his own company. His occasional appearances at team test matches were partly due to the head coach turning a blind eye. They simply tacitly avoided pointing it out. Coach Kim sighed, "She just left."

"I know." Kwon Ji-yong placed the things on the bedside table. "I saw them."

"Then why are you still hiding?"

"The closer I get to home, the more apprehensive I feel." He said this in Chinese, then chuckled self-deprecatingly, "You know what I mean."

Coach Kim pointed to a chair: "Sit down."

“She’s going to New York,” Coach Kim said.

"Um."

You know?

"I guessed." Kwon Ji-yong touched the photo frame: "She has always loved art history, and the Sino-American history research at NYU is very advanced."

Coach Kim suddenly coughed, and Kwon Ji-yong quickly went to pour water. The old man took the glass and gave him a meaningful look: "You seem to know her better than she does herself."

Kwon Ji-yong smiled and lowered his head, but didn't reply.

The sound of an ambulance siren came from outside the window, growing louder as it approached, and then gradually fading away.

It was drizzling in Seoul late at night when Kwon Ji-yong parked his car in the middle of the bridge.

There was a glass of hot lemonade that I had just bought from a convenience store on the passenger seat.

He took two sips; it was too sweet, cloyingly sweet. He forgot to mention he didn't add sugar.

The car radio was playing a demo song, which somehow ended up playing on the wrong track. It was the song he wrote for Ren Xiyao in 2015, but it wasn't included in an album because it was too personal.

The following afternoon, Kwon Ji-yong, wearing a baseball cap and a mask, mingled in the check-in line.

Ren Xiyao was five people ahead of him, looking down at her passport, a sliver of fair skin peeking out from the back of her neck. These past few days, he had been observing Ren Xiyao closely—her hair, her skin… every tiny detail told him something. He was finally getting closer to her, and an indescribable excitement washed over him. He was using almost all his reason to control his words and actions.

He pulled out his boarding pass with trembling hands and looked at it: 13A, window seat.

Ren Xiyao suddenly turned around, and Quan Zhilong quickly lowered his head and pretended to tie his shoelaces.

"Sir?" the ground staff called to him, "Do you need to check your luggage?"

“No need.” He lowered his voice. “Just one carry-on.”

The group moved forward, and Ren Xiyao's figure grew increasingly distant.

Zhilong stared at the retreating figure, unconsciously stroking the dark jade ring on his right hand. It seemed that doing so gave him more strength.

Seven years have passed, and he thought it was time for a fresh start.