Chapter 04
The curtains weren't completely drawn, letting in a slanting stream of sunlight. Zou Ping had woken up early, one hand still resting outside the quilt, feeling slightly cold. The room was silent, save for the slow ticking of the clock on the wall, each second hand movement a gentle reminder.
She opened her eyes but didn't move.
She knew the man had covered her with a blanket last night. She didn't fall asleep immediately, but simply closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. At that moment, she heard his footsteps enter the room, not heavy, even light. Then the blanket was spread over her by a hand, a steady, unhesitating hand. After covering her, he stood for a moment, without saying a word, and quickly walked out.
He is always like this, coming and going silently, and even his kindness has polite boundaries, like pushing a cup of warm water to you but not drinking it with you.
She turned over and looked at the curtains by the French window. The fabric on one side was not tightly drawn, like a piece of clothing hanging in the air, soft but unreal. She suddenly felt like crying, but she had no reason to cry.
He was good enough for her. Really.
She lived in his house, and three meals a day were served on the table on time. He had her painting tools delivered, each one exquisitely selected. Without her even mentioning it, he arranged a studio for her and even found a high-gloss Nordic-design floor lamp, taking into account the angle, color temperature, and color contrast.
He is always so meticulous, yet so distant as if standing outside a glass.
She had tried to approach him with smiles, warmth, and words, but his reaction was always like a solid rock, silently catching you but never responding to your tenderness.
She didn't know if this counted as love.
But she knew she had truly fallen in love with him. It was in the details, in the way he said, "There's no milk in the kitchen. I'll ask someone to bring it up later," while shuffling through documents; in the way he frowned while answering the phone on the balcony, but glanced at her and nodded slightly; in the way she brought him a glass of water while he was still working late at night, and he took it without a word but whispered, "Thank you."
She used to think that love was a matter between two people, but now she knows that love can be a one-person theater. She has to move the chair, open the curtain, give the applause, and then close the show alone.
She sat up, folded the blanket, and stood up.
It's not that she hasn't thought about leaving.
She had tried countless times to measure the distance between him and herself. Not geographically, but in terms of class, power, and a sense of control.
He was too rich, too calm, too rational. She also knew too well what kind of person she was—a person with no background, no power, struggling in the cracks of the city with only her paintbrush and her half-baked aesthetic sense.
She wasn't even sure if he liked her paintings or her as a "painter." Or—to be more cold-blooded—he just needed a "non-troublesome, quiet, and well-behaved" companion at a certain stage, and she just happened to look like that.
She stood at the door and opened the shoe cabinet.
Her bag was already packed. Not a large one, just a messenger bag that could hold a sketchbook, some painting supplies, and a change of clothes. She hadn't even decided where to go; she just wanted to get out of this chaotic space.
She put on her shoes and opened the door. There was a damp smell in the air, just like before the rain.
She hesitated for a second.
He was standing at the door.
He was carrying a bag of breakfast, from the same southern French bakery she'd mentioned once but never again. The bag was a dark blue paper bag, the edges slightly damp from the rain. His hair was still a little damp. He stood straight, his gaze fixed on her, calm and emotionless.
"Going out?"
She nodded.
"Where to?" he asked.
"...Let's take a walk." She whispered.
"Put this down first," he said, handing her the bag. "It's hot."
She took it, and the paper bag was warm, like the body temperature of someone holding their heart and handing it to them.
He added, "It's going to rain outside."
She was still standing at the door. He didn't ask where she was going, let alone if she was leaving. He didn't even show any reluctance. He just glanced at her and said calmly, "There's an umbrella by the door. Take it."
She suddenly didn't know whether she should leave or not.
It’s not that she hasn’t thought about leaving, but when he said to her in a matter-of-fact tone, “Take an umbrella,” she suddenly thought - did he actually know that she couldn’t leave at all?
Did he see through even the most fragile struggle in her heart?
She watched his back as he slowly walked away, his figure straight and calm, almost without pausing. He didn't try to keep her, nor did he drive her away.
He just laid everything out and waited for her to make her own decision.
She took a step back and closed the door gently.
The world became quiet.
She suddenly wanted to send a message to someone, saying, "I almost left just now."
But she had no one to send it to.
She walked over to the painting, sat down, and looked at the unfinished canvas.
The painting shows a back view.
She suddenly couldn't tell whether the figure was him or herself.
"Come and eat!"
Zou Ping was about to continue painting when she heard Tang Yuchuan calling her to eat.
She had already bought the ticket, but she didn't leave.
This was what he saw from her lit cell phone screen when he covered her with a blanket at night.
He didn't ask why, nor did he show any awareness. He just prepared breakfast as usual, hot milk, toast, some smoked bacon and lettuce on the table.
At this moment, he sat opposite her, watching her eat quietly. He didn't stare at her, but watched her out of the corner of his eye, as if waiting for something that might not happen.
"Did you sleep well last night?" he asked, his voice as smooth as water.
Zou Ping nodded, "Yeah." but didn't say much.
She was unwilling to accept it and didn't want to admit it.
She spent the entire afternoon yesterday wondering whether she should leave. She watched Tang Yuchuan answering the phone and processing documents on the balcony, occasionally nodding at her. His gentle yet distant expression made her feel suffocated. He never really approached her, nor did he ever retreat.
It's like a keeper and a little beast that has not yet been tamed.
"I'm going to the art supply store today. My previous paints are almost gone." She spoke in a casual manner, with a subtle hint of courage in her tone, trying to regain her normal life.
"Do you need me to take you there?" he asked.
"No, I can just take a taxi myself."
He said "OK" and said no more.
But she felt even more uneasy. She had expected him to ask, "Where are you going?" or "I'll go with you," or even just "Come back soon." But he knew his limits too well, as if ready to pack everything up for her the moment she pulled away.
It was as if she was just a temporary guest.
When she walked out, the wind was a bit cool, hitting her face. When she walked into the familiar coffee shop on the corner, she realized that she hadn't brought anything with her - her phone, wallet, and list of painting supplies, all of which were left on the entrance cabinet.
She was stunned for a moment, and just as she was about to turn around, she bumped into a familiar figure.
Tang Yuchuan stood at the door, holding it open for her. He was wearing a gray-blue windbreaker, standing tall and straight. His face was expressionless, but his eyes held a familiar gaze.
"If you really want to leave next time, at least take your cell phone with you," he said, his tone so calm that it didn't sound sarcastic, but every word pierced the heart.
"I didn't intend to—"
"Walk?"
She was stunned, her throat seemed to be blocked and she couldn't utter a complete sentence.
He handed her the small bag in his hand, "I brought your things for you."
She took the bag, and her fingertips accidentally touched his hand. But he didn't take it back immediately like before, but paused for two seconds, looking at her with a complicated look.
"When are you going to tell me?" he asked.
She pursed her lips, "Tell you what?"
"You bought a ticket."
The air stopped at that moment.
She lowered her head and said nothing, her lips tightened. After a pause, she said, "I'm not leaving."
"I'm not angry," he continued, "I'm just curious...what made you stay?"
She looked up at him, her eyes showing the panic of having her secret exposed. "I don't know."
"You changed your mind at the last minute," he whispered, "but I can sense... your desire to leave hasn't completely disappeared."
She neither denied nor nodded.
She just looked at him and asked word by word: "Have you known for a long time that I don't belong here with you?"
Tang Yuchuan did not answer immediately.
He looked at her, his eyes silent for a moment.
"You belong to no one," he said, "but to yourself."
The words sounded gentle, but she could hear that he was still maintaining that decent and clear distance. He never said "I need you to stay", he only said "You can stay".
Then she suddenly laughed.
"You know what I'm most afraid of?" she whispered. "That you treat me like a human being, but not completely like a human being."
"What's the meaning?"
"You let me live in, you took care of me, you accepted me, but you also hung me like a painting on the wall. You didn't touch me, you didn't destroy me, and you didn't return me."
He didn't say anything.
"Do you know how parasitic it feels?" She almost choked. "Every day I wonder if I should just walk away, but I... I can't bear to leave you."
Her voice became softer and softer, as if she was afraid that once she finished her words, she would no longer have the right to stay.
Tang Yuchuan finally spoke: "You are not a parasite, nor a decoration."
"Then what am I?"
He didn't answer immediately, his Adam's apple moved slightly, as if something was stuck in his throat.
"Let's not talk about this, okay?" he whispered, his tone more like a request than an avoidance.
She was stunned.
It wasn't indifference, nor was it perfunctory, but a suppressed weakness that almost revealed his emotions. She had never seen him look like this before - a little tired, a little resistant, and with old wounds that could not be hidden.
He didn't explain, but it was as if he gently opened a crack in the most hidden crack in his heart in front of her.
At that moment, she suddenly felt a little shaken.
She had never truly seen his vulnerability, but now, she saw it.
It’s not the answer, but it’s better than any answer.
"Do you like me a little?" she finally asked.
He didn't answer. He just gently led her to her seat, ordered hot cocoa for her, and put his windbreaker on her shoulders.
"Have something hot," he said.
She bit her lip and didn't ask any more questions.
She knew that this silent response was actually more painful than an answer.
She still hadn't packed her luggage when she returned home at night.
She took out the canvas, spread out the paint, and planned to paint something, but her hand stopped in mid-air.
She remembered that he had draped his windbreaker over her shoulders in the cafe just now, and she had never returned it to him.
She lowered her head, smelled the clean sandalwood scent on her collar, and suddenly wanted to cry.
"What should I do?" she murmured.
The night outside the window was as dark as ink, and the lights of the city were lit one by one, as if no one noticed her struggle. But in this long and unbearable silence, she suddenly heard a subtle sound coming from the door.
"Don't paint too late." It was his voice, soft, like the night wind passing through the hall.
She paused writing and did not respond.
But at that moment, she suddenly understood - she might not have to leave, but she could never stay where she was.
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