Chapter 05
One morning a few months later, there was still a slight gray-blue tint in the sky, and the air was damp from the rain.
Zou Ping sat by the French window, her trembling fingertips gently pasting competition posters on the wall: Lishui International Art Festival, Autumn National Youth Art Competition, Binhai Sketching Creation Award...
But the scraps of paper on the wall were mottled, and the red prints of "Regret," "Excellence Award," and "Not Selected" overlapped to form a dull gray pattern. She closed her eyes, almost hearing the sting of needles piercing old wounds.
In the past few months, she has devoted almost all her attention to painting!
I get up at six in the morning, have breakfast at seven, sit under the floor lamp at eight to adjust colors, conceive, or simply go sketching outdoors; at noon I hurriedly buy some bread and juice for lunch, continue painting until five or six, and then wait for Tang Yuchuan to come back.
During this period, her easel was always filled with half-dry palettes, the paint box was already full of tubes, and the palette knife tucked under her arm seemed to never stop the spiral rhythm of painting.
But no matter how hard she worked, the results of the competition still failed to make her feel proud.
She began to wonder whether she was painting for her dream or to break free from dependence?
Whenever she received the notice of rejection, the emptiness in her heart was like a fan blowing on glass, instantly turning into mist and covering all her enthusiasm.
She knew that she had strayed from the original meaning of creation and fell into a utilitarian vicious circle: only by winning and being affirmed could she temporarily forget the fear of "having no one to rely on."
Until last night, she worked until two in the morning and finally put the final touches on her latest entry - an oil painting with a city ruins as the background.
In the twilight, amidst the ruins, a white dove flaps its wings, trembling in its attempt to migrate. She poured all her emotions into this painting: desolation, rebirth, and the unknown.
After finishing the painting, she seemed to have exhausted all her strength. She didn't even bother to lie down, but just curled up on the old wicker chair behind the easel.
At daybreak, she slipped off the rattan chair, wiped the hardened toner off her shoulders, staggered to the dressing table, and slapped herself in the mirror.
She stared at herself in the mirror and suddenly felt a sense of strangeness and panic.
She found that even though she was painting like crazy, she still couldn't see the future.
Raindrops were falling outside the window, and the sound of rain hitting the window was light and fragmented, which made her a little upset. She felt that even the rain seemed to be mocking her obsession - painting, is it for survival or for the true self?
She sighed secretly, picked up her phone, and wanted to tell Tang Yuchuan, "The results of today's competition are out again. It's a pity that she still didn't get a good result." But when she clicked on the text message box, her fingertips suddenly stopped.
For such a long time, he never asked her about the results of the competition, but just gave her some quiet space.
For the past six months, Tang Yuchuan had been supporting her with an almost impassive calmness. He never asked how much she had painted, nor did he inquire about her competition results. He had suggested taking her to meet other famous painters for advice, or even organizing an exhibition for her, but she had refused. Since she had refused, he hadn't mentioned it again.
But it was precisely this kind of respect of "just do it if you want to" that made her feel the gap between them even more: he was a person who had his own world and many people, while she was just a small painter who was weakly pursuing the meaning of herself.
He allowed her to live here without earning a penny, allowed her to work hard on her painting, and even allowed her to pursue her dreams elsewhere; but this "permission" itself seemed like a carefully designed boundary.
Zou Ping felt that he did have requirements for her, but she had not yet touched his boundaries.
As long as she stayed within the boundaries, she could obtain his protection; once she crossed the boundaries he secretly drew, he would silently take back that peace of mind - but he never said the words "don't cross the line".
In this situation, his silence became the greatest deterrent.
A few days ago, she had a sudden idea and inquired whether a reputable art studio in the east of the city was recruiting teachers.
She sent out her resume—not because she believed she was 100% qualified, but because she wanted to test whether she really had the ability to break away from this precious yet suffocating dependence in front of her.
Unexpectedly, she received an invitation to give a trial lecture the next day. At that moment, her heart was pounding.
Everything about the future began to revolve around that invitation: if successful, she would really no longer depend on him day and night; if unsuccessful, she would return to the canvas in even greater pain, trying again and again to cover up the cracks in her heart with light and color.
Later, when she thought back on that day, she felt that she had taken things for granted! However, it was undeniable that at that moment, because of this job, she did feel a long-lost sense of security.
On the way back from the studio interview, it was already dark and the street lights were dancing in the wet air like wandering fireflies.
She pushed the door open nervously and saw Tang Yuchuan sitting at the dining table. Under the lamp, he looked quietly distant.
He sat very straight, his elbows resting on the edge of the table, his chin supported by his knuckles, and looked at the food in front of him expressionlessly, as if he was preoccupied by some long and difficult thought. He was in no hurry to speak, nor was he ready to eat.
He wore a dark shirt, his sleeves loosely rolled up, revealing his wrists and distinctly knuckled metacarpal bones. As the light fell on his face, the contours of his features were silently sculpted even deeper, like the portraits of men on old canvases that had been exposed to the afterglow of sunset for a long time—silent, sharp, and a little tired.
Zou Ping looked at Tang Yuchuan and was dazed for a moment. He was too much like a dream that she dared not touch. She suddenly felt that it was normal for her to like him, even if she didn't consider whether he saved her or took her in... Just looking at such a person, her heart seemed to have suddenly forgotten how to beat next. It paused, then hurriedly made up for it, as if she was hurriedly hiding something.
"What's wrong? Is there something wrong?" Tang Yuchuan noticed her gaze.
"No..." How can I say you're pretty? Zou Ping secretly complained in her heart for once! She was once again entangled in the tangle of their relationship. If they were truly completely equal, would she not dare to say it?!
"Well, put down your things, wash your hands and eat." Tang Yuchuan said lightly.
A simple dinner was laid on the table—steamed fish, vegetables, and a bowl of steaming soup. A few slices of golden ginger floated on the surface of the soup, like a few strands of warmth for the heavy night.
She forced herself to remain calm and rummaged through her pockets: "I... have something I want to tell you."
He raised his eyes and motioned her to sit down, his voice soft: "Go ahead."
She swallowed and sat down across from him, crossing her hands on the edge of the table. The veins on the back of her hands bulged slightly from nervousness. "I...went to an interview at a studio in the east part of the city. They want me to give a trial lecture for two days, and I have to start work next week."
He looked at her, surprise flashing in his eyes, but he quickly calmed down as if he had expected it: "Really."
She was slightly stunned, then suddenly asked: "Don't you agree? I... I really want to..."
He waved his hand, interrupting her, but his tone was as if he was answering a question that should be asked as it should be: "No, I respect your opinion. If you want to go, go ahead. It's just that the east side of the city is not very close to here, so you have to be careful."
She was stunned. This simple and restrained support was like a pre-sewn coat that she could put on without having to try it on, but it couldn't warm her increasingly cramped heart.
"Thank you." She managed to say, but she still felt like a heavy stone was pressing on her chest.
While eating, she picked up a small piece of fish with chopsticks. As she chewed, the aroma of soy sauce, green onion and ginger did not dispel the depression in her heart.
She looked at him, trying to gather an answer from his face, which was full of indifference: would her position in his heart change from this moment on? Was he giving her the "freedom of choice" because of her, or was it because he inherently respected everyone's pursuit of self-worth?
After dinner, he put the dishes and chopsticks into the kitchen. She watched his back, a surge of anxiety in her heart: she longed to return to the relatively complete world of canvas, but she was also afraid of losing his self-evident sense of security.
She hesitated for a moment before she said softly, "I'm in a hurry for work, so I might be back late."
He nodded slowly as he washed his hands in the sink. Although his eyes were fixed on the water, he didn't look back. "It's okay. If you don't come back for dinner, we can send each other a message."
"Oh." She responded, feeling a little complicated, so she decided to go out to digest the food and relax.
She went out quietly. The night wind was chilly, but her heart was pounding with passion.
For the next few days, she felt like she was oscillating between two worlds.
On one side, there was a novel and noisy atmosphere in the studio: a dozen young children regarded her as the "best painting teacher" and looked at her with admiration.
On the other side, there was the empty but warm tranquility in Tang Yuchuan's home. The busy schedule made her have fewer random thoughts, and just looking at her often relieved her inner fatigue, emptiness and anxiety.
Sometimes, she felt that her insecurity and sense of security all came from Tang Yuchuan. This made her always a little scared when facing Tang Yuchuan, but she couldn't help but indulge in the time they spent together.
That morning, she was demonstrating the technique of overlaying colors in oil painting to the children in the studio. After she finished, a little girl about ten years old tugged at her clothes, her eyes wide open, and asked, "Teacher, why do your paintings always look so sad?"
She paused for a moment, then looked down at the painting "White Dove Falling from a Nest" on the easel, her heart aching. The bird peering out from the ruins was a reflection of her own insecurity.
She squatted down and touched the little girl's head. "I don't know whether the painting is sad or not. It just records my feelings. If you feel sad, then it is sad; if you feel beautiful, then it can also be beautiful."
The girl tilted her head and thought for a moment, "Then how should I draw so that happiness appears in my painting?"
She looked into the child's innocent eyes and suddenly smiled. "Happiness is like sunshine. You have to feel it with your heart and express it with colors. Don't think about winning, just think about making yourself happy."
At that moment, she seemed to speak to herself. She told herself: winning or losing in the competition is not everything. What is important is the state of mind when painting - even if there is pain in the heart, it can be covered with a layer of golden light.
Not only competition, but also love.
In the evening, she hurriedly finished her last class and it was raining when she came out of the classroom. The raindrops wet her coat and the ends of her hair.
A message from Tang Yuchuan suddenly popped up on the phone: "We're having your favorite sweet and sour pork ribs for dinner tonight."
She tightened her coat, her heart warmed, but at the same time she felt a pang of pain: He knew what she liked, was it from a casual complaint she made, or from any other unintentional expression of her feelings?
The feeling of being seen by him made her want to fall in love even more, but also want to escape even more. His understanding was respectful, but also carried a sense of aggression, as if it was invading her boundaries and her original life.
She replied "OK" and walked in. He was standing in the kitchen, spatula in hand, the pot bubbling, the aroma of sweet and sour pork ribs slowly spreading in the air.
"Did you encounter anything interesting today?" he asked with concern.
She shook her head, thought for a moment, and then said, "The children asked me how to draw happiness. I told them that they just need to feel it with their heart." After saying that, she looked up at him, her chest throbbing.
He just smiled faintly, turned around, handed the spatula aside, and motioned for her to sit down first.
On the table, sweet and sour pork ribs were served with stir-fried vegetables, and a few slices of crispy tofu floated in the broth. He picked up a piece of meat for her, his eyes a fleeting tenderness. "I saw that picture you drew yesterday, 'White Dove Falling from the Nest,' and it really touched me."
She almost choked and took away her chopsticks. "That was just what I felt..."
He nodded, his voice soft, "I like its loneliness and longing, like you."
She looked up, meeting his gaze, and saw the light in his eyes, like a deep pool, too deep to easily penetrate. He added, "Is everything going well in the classroom?"
She took a bite of her food, grinned, and tried to look at ease. "It's okay. The kids are cute, but sometimes they make so much noise that it gives me a headache."
He chuckled: "That means you haven't taken full control of them yet. They still treat you as their 'sister'."
She looked at him, feeling that his words were both a joke and a concern. She thought to herself: No matter how I pretend to be strong in front of him, he can always see through my softest part.
It was late at night, and only the orange desk lamp remained glowing in the room. She sat at her drawing table, opened her phone, and prepared to write a lesson plan for tomorrow. Suddenly, she remembered the rejection notices from the competitions, the children's naive questions, and the tenderness in Tang Yuchuan's eyes.
The inky night seemed to stretch endlessly. She reached out and flicked the light switch, dimming the linear light to its lowest setting. Everything suddenly became hazier, yet it also brought her clarity.
She picked up the pen and lowered her head to sketch the outline on the drawing paper: a white dove that had fallen from its nest, but it was not isolated in the ruins, but was ready to flap its wings and fly towards the dawn outside the window.
The dove's feathers will glow a warm golden color in the morning light. She poured all her hidden desires and fears into her brush, but this time, she placed the dove in a higher position, rather than letting it wander among the ruins.
The white doves under the brushstrokes seemed to wake up from the paper, like a pair of slightly trembling wings, ready to take off. She closed her eyes, and the back of Tang Yuchuan appeared in her mind: he always stood straight, but...
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