Chapter 03

The room was very quiet, so quiet that even the sound of the evening breeze blowing through the branches outside the window was particularly clear.

Zou Ping sat on a single chair in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, hugging her knees with her hands.

At this moment, she was wearing the pajamas that Tang Yuchuan had prepared for her. They were soft, loose, and the color was a gray-blue that she couldn't name. That color was like a drop of water on a rainy windowpane, transparent and chilly. Tang Yuchuan seemed to like this color very much.

Tang Yuchuan had just come down from upstairs, holding the scarf she had left at the entrance.

"Did you go out at night?" He spoke in a calm tone, as if he was asking about something that had nothing to do with him.

Zou Ping didn't answer immediately. She lowered her head and nodded slightly.

"Nothing. Just went out for a walk." Her voice was so soft that it was almost drowned out by the sound of the second hand of the grandfather clock.

Tang Yuchuan stood behind her for a moment before walking to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water and placing it on the low table beside her. He didn't ask any questions or accuse her, but just sat quietly across from her.

"It's very windy," he said.

"I know."

Their conversation was cut short, like a newly stretched string being suddenly cut. The tension in the air didn't explode, but rather slowly subsided.

Zou Ping didn't look at him, but she knew he was looking at her.

It was a gaze familiar to her—as if examining her, yet also as if attempting to understand her. The emotions in his eyes were always restrained to the utmost, barely perceptible. Yet, it was precisely this calm gaze that left her unable to quell her own panic.

She has been living with him for more than twenty days.

Ever since he brought her home on that rainy night, she has been living in this strange yet safe space.

He made no demands, nor did he try to control her freedom. She almost wondered if he simply didn't care about her existence. But he always offered her a glass of warm water, a clean blanket, or a look that seemed to indicate he'd thought of her beforehand, even when she hadn't asked.

That is an unspoken kindness.

But this kindness is too heavy.

"Why are you helping me?" she suddenly asked.

This was the first time she asked, but she actually already had an expected answer.

Tang Yuchuan did not answer immediately.

He sat back on the sofa, his long legs crossed, the top two buttons of his white shirt undone, revealing his Adam's apple. He tapped his knuckles on the rim of the cup, as if he were thinking, or perhaps trying to choose a relatively honest and pleasant explanation.

"When you paint...it reminds me of someone," he said.

Zou Ping's fingers stiffened, but she didn't look up.

After spending more than 20 days together, she had guessed he would say that, but she still wanted to confirm it.

How could it be such a coincidence? There are so many talented people and beautiful girls, and I haven't seen him bringing anyone home. Why did it have to be her?

As expected, it wasn't because of her as a person, but because her brushstrokes or certain moments were similar to those of others. She was like a kind of "echo," not the sound itself, but a projection reflected from a distant memory.

Why do you feel disappointed?

Zou Ping had always been a little hesitant to think about this question, but now the answer was clear.

Because she fell in love with him.

That night, he suddenly appeared, like a ray of light, tearing through the haze of her life. Her heart beat violently the moment she saw him, like a ignited flame, warm and blazing. She knew that it was the beating of her heart, the feeling of being truly seen and saved.

Zou Ping suddenly thought of herself three years ago. At that time, Tang Yuchuan's appearance made her very wary. She told herself not to get close to him, and she didn't want to get close to him. If she fell in love with Tang Yuchuan at first sight, why didn't she like him three years ago?

She smiled softly, "So you left me here because you missed her?"

Tang Yuchuan looked at her, neither denying nor nodding.

His silence was more powerful than any words. He disdained even deception and charity, which made Zou Ping feel even more deeply hurt.

She tried to sound like an adult, not a young girl who was picked up by fate, trapped in a house, and cared for from time to time.

"I don't want to be anyone's shadow," she said.

"I know."

"But every word you say, every decision you make these past few days... makes me feel like I'm just filling an empty space in your heart."

His eyes moved slightly, as if some emotion flashed in his eyes for a second. But he still didn't explain.

Zou Ping suddenly felt ridiculous.

She had no right to be angry—this man had saved her when she was almost desperate.

He silently prepared her three meals a day, her shampoo, her clothes, and even her sanitary napkins. She didn't spend a penny. She just lived, that's all.

But it was precisely because of this that all this made her breathless.

She is like a captive cat, seemingly free but without direction.

She wasn't sure what she was: a painter he'd accidentally noticed? A poor person? A collectible to be admired? Or... a phantom of one of his past relationships?

She didn't know and didn't dare to ask.

She stood up, her toes a little stiff, probably because she had been sitting for too long.

"I'll go paint for a while."

This was her usual way of escaping the situation recently. She knew that she was not someone who could have a conversation with Tang Yuchuan on an equal footing—whether in terms of age, experience, or any other ability to survive in society.

He didn't stop her, but just said softly: "It's a bit cold in the studio, remember to put on a coat."

Zou Ping turned her back to him and nodded. She almost wanted to turn around and say to him, "I don't need this kind of concern," but in the end, she held back.

The studio was on the east side of the house, a side room with a balcony. He had already cleaned it up for her, laying out paint-proof cloth, installing incandescent lamps, and even bought her a whole set of imported paints and some high-end-looking brushes that she had never used before.

Each of these things made her grateful, but also ashamed.

These things didn't belong to her. She didn't earn them on her own. Zou Ping even began to doubt the fact that "he liked my paintings"—did he really appreciate her painting skills when they first met, or did he simply like the way she resembled someone when she painted?

She hesitated to start painting in front of the canvas.

All I could think about was what Tang Yuchuan had just said: "When you paint, it reminds me of someone."

The words "thinking of someone" fell lightly, but were like a needle that pierced into her blood vessels, from her nerves all the way to her heart.

She couldn't ask who that person was, nor did she want to hear the answer.

She even knew that she had no right to ask.

She was a "taken in" person, not a loved one, and she knew it.

It's not that she didn't feel his tenderness—the kind of tenderness that made her indulge herself and mistakenly think she was close to him. But that tenderness was like a pot of flowers he watered carelessly. It wasn't partiality, nor was it deep love, but just habitual care.

He seemed to be very accustomed to taking care of others, so, had there ever been another person in this room who was taken care of in this way? Zou Ping secretly speculated.

She had tried to fight back. For example, she tried to move out, or refused his arrangements. But the reality was that she had no way out.

The invitations to art exhibitions stopped, old friends went their separate ways, and her parents withheld all her savings.

She struggled to submit her works, find exhibitions, and sell her paintings, but in the end she only received a few polite rejection letters.

The city is too big and she is too small.

He was the only one who said to her, "Stay here."

So she stayed there - with inferiority, vigilance, guilt and a hint of uncontrollable dependence.

She once drew a sketch of Tang Yuchuan.

It was not a deliberate drawing. It was just that one night, when she couldn't sleep, she began to sketch his silhouette for some unknown reason.

He stood by the study window, a glass of whiskey in his hand, the light falling on his shoulders, like some kind of sculpture. His lines were clean, thin, and hard, but his eyes were hidden deep.

She hid the painting behind her easel and never let him see it.

She was afraid that he would misunderstand her, but she was also afraid to admit it herself.

She really liked him. It was a girl's projection of her love for the hero, but also a long-lasting love.

She liked the way he controlled the steering wheel with only one hand while driving, liked the relaxed look on his face when he took off his outer shell and put on his home clothes, liked how he was calm and restrained in everything, and how his eyes would only pause for a few seconds when he saw her drawing.

But she couldn't express these feelings.

She knew that even if she told him, it would be a gamble that was bound to lose.

Tang Yuchuan will not respond to any "obsession" or "begging" emotions. He does not belong to anyone, and will not allow himself to lose control for anyone. He is the kind of person who can give you everything without giving you any promises.

She began to understand that the essence of this relationship was not love - or rather, it was not equal love.

Instead, she was unconsciously drawn into his emotional rhythm. He gave her a safe shell, and then calmly watched her struggle, dependence, and attempts to break free and come back from outside the shell.

It was like… he was “observing” her.

It was late at night and there was no sound in the house.

Zou Ping stood in front of the canvas for a long time. In the end, she only painted a few strokes of gray-blue background, like an unfinished night sky.

She didn't feel like painting anymore. Her eyelids felt a little heavy, but her mind was unusually clear.

Just as she was about to turn off the lights and leave, the door was gently pushed open.

Tang Yuchuan stood at the door and did not come in.

He just leaned against the door frame, his voice so low it seemed to float out from the shadows of the corridor: "Is the painting finished?"

"I don't have much inspiration." She answered calmly, trying not to let the slightest panic show in her tone.

"Are you thinking about what I said?"

“…Which sentence?”

"I said, your painting reminds me of someone."

She was silent for a few seconds and nodded.

"You don't have to think too much." He walked a few steps closer and stopped behind her, but didn't get too close. "I just said I remembered it, there's no other meaning."

Zou Ping couldn't help but look back at him.

"But you didn't say who she was."

“There’s no need to talk about it,” he said. “That period was very important to me, but it’s over.”

"But your heart still lives in that time." She whispered, as if speaking to herself, "That's why you feel that I am like her."

He looked at her, his eyes seeming to penetrate the murky light in the studio and fall on the most vulnerable part of her heart.

"Zou Ping," he called her name for the first time, a little seriously, "You misunderstood."

"Really?" She smiled, a smile as thin as a piece of paper. "Then why did you let me stay? Why did you help me? Why did you give me these?"

"You need it." He only said three words.

"So, you're giving me alms?"

He frowned, "You know that's not what I meant."

"What do you mean?" She was a little excited, her voice choked in her throat. "You gave me everything, but you refused to say you loved me, that I was important to you, or that I wasn't important. It's not love, nor is it sympathy. You treat me like a painting in your home." She paused, her voice lowered a few degrees, tinged with grievance, "But I am a human being, Mr. Tang."

The air suddenly became quiet.

Tang Yuchuan looked at her, his eyes showing something more than usual. It wasn't guilt, nor was it an explanation, but a deepness that she couldn't understand.

When he spoke, his voice was very soft, but with a certain irresistible firmness: "Zou Ping, I can't be the kind of person you imagine."

"I know," she smiled bitterly, "because there's already someone living in your heart, am I right?"

She looked him straight in the eyes.

He didn't deny it.

"I'm going to sleep," she said.

He did not leave immediately, but stood there staring at her. Zou Ping felt that he was looking at her as if he was looking at a drowning person struggling to swim back to the shore.

At night, she tossed and turned.

She began to wonder what she really wanted.

Should I continue to live in his house like this, using his money and the painting supplies he prepared, and weave a lie that "maybe he likes me too" in his occasional gentle gaze?

Or leave?

She had no answer.

But she knew that if she continued, she would become less and less like herself.

Maybe tomorrow, maybe a month later, she would find the answer. But at the moment, she just wanted to sleep and not think about those things like "love or not", "similar or not", "equality or not".

She fished out medicine from the bedside table—a tranquilizer—and swallowed it with warm water.

The wind outside the window blew through the white gauze curtains, which was very similar to his calm and silent eyes - never hugging you, just watching you slowly sink.