Chapter 25 The day Xia Zhiyao left...
The city receded rapidly beside him, the sky grew increasingly gloomy, and thick clouds pressed down on the Manhattan skyline like a giant curtain. The wind rustled the bare branches along the roadside, as if even the weather sensed something was getting out of control.
Zhou Yue sat in the car, his hands still trembling, his fingertips pale and cold.
He seemed to be caught in a near-manic instinct, staring at his phone screen and repeatedly searching for the flights she might be taking.
London? She loves Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter; Paris? She said she wanted to sit in a café by the Seine and daydream for an afternoon; Berlin? Her college classmate lives there; Prague? They even made a promise to go to Eastern Europe to see the snow in winter next time.
They checked each one, and each one was rejected. Everything was blank; she left no flight records, no return journey, and no destination.
Like an evacuation precise to the minute, it was swift and calm, with even the retreating figure disappearing cleanly and neatly, as if there was never any intention to let him catch up.
With just a few short lines of text on WeChat, she really left, like a silent military evacuation, precise and decisive, as if she never intended for him to catch up.
Zhou Yue suddenly felt his blood run cold, his heart tighten, and all the sounds around him vanished, leaving only the lit screen in his hand.
The cold, white light reflected off his face, illuminating his bewilderment and embarrassment in every detail, as if mocking him for not even knowing which way to go.
He rushed into the house, and on the coffee table, a letter lay quietly, as if it had been waiting for a long time.
Zhou Yue stopped in his tracks, his heart clenched, and his throat tightened. He slowly stepped forward, his fingers trembling as he pulled out the letter.
Xia Zhiyao's handwriting is powerful, with crisp and sharp strokes, without any hesitation or ambiguity, even the last period is neat and tidy.
It was a kind of writing that carried a sense of control and self-discipline. Every stroke seemed to be carved with the force of the heart, calm and steady, yet suppressing an unshakable determination.
He read on, line by line, the words before him like a slowly tightening knife, his heart crumbling with each line he read.
She's really gone. There were no arguments, no tears, no farewell. Even her last trace was so clean it was almost cold.
However, just before signing his name, he noticed an unexpected flaw—a tiny, meaningless scratch.
It ruined the perfection of the entire letter, like a momentary loss of control in breathing, which she quickly smoothed over, but ultimately failed to erase the traces.
That stroke of the pen caused him more pain in his heart than any other word.
She carefully folded the clothes Zhou Yue had given her and neatly arranged them on the sofa. Even the US dollars she had brought were arranged in a square and orderly fashion, as if she were making a settlement without any emotional burden.
The only thing he took with him was the cell phone he always held in his hand.
She left with dignity, a dignity bordering on cruelty.
Zhou Yue knelt on the ground, his forehead pressed against the edge of the sofa, his knuckles gripping the letter tightly, the paper crumpled into fine creases, making his palms ache.
His chest tightened repeatedly, as if it were being torn apart, and the pain made it hard to breathe.
He murmured softly, his voice hoarse and cracking: "How could you do this... Zhiyao... how could you..."
That was the last bit of tenderness she left him, and also the sharpest cut, severing their connection from their very bones.
Outside the window, snow fell silently, swirling and covering the window sills, streets, and car roofs. The quiet, almost cruel white was like a funeral held for farewell.
This parting was without argument or hysteria, only the ending she had already written, and his helplessness that he only understood at the very last moment.
He lost her, truly and utterly lost her, and he no longer had a direction to pursue.
During the first week after Xia Zhiyao left, Zhou Yue began to suffer from complete insomnia.
He still goes to work as usual every day, even earlier than before, always impeccably dressed in a suit, with his hair perfectly styled and his shoes polished so smooth you can see your reflection in them.
He sat upright in the conference room, signing documents, holding meetings, and receiving clients, each step as flawless as a precision instrument.
But no one knew that it was just an illusion sustained by coffee and willpower. He had to maintain this superficial order so that the chaotic night wouldn't completely engulf him.
As soon as night fell, this order collapsed. The moment the door closed, it was as if he had been kicked into an endless black hole, and he fell straight into a silent abyss.
There is no home for her, no image of her sitting on the sofa folding clothes, no faint humming as she washes dishes in the kitchen.
The house was empty, as if all sound had been sucked away. Every wall and every floor tile seemed exceptionally cold, and even his shadow became blurry and unsettled, as if it could be swallowed up by the night at any moment.
He tried many methods: bringing work home and continuing to write reports and reply to emails at night; he also tried working out, running desperately, pushing his body to its limits; he even drank alcohol, one glass after another, trying to burn away the memories that belonged to her with alcohol.
But none of it worked.
He still suffers from insomnia, still sits on the sofa in the early hours of the morning, staring at the starless night sky outside the window. The silence is terrifying, like a vacuum, enveloping him completely, with only the sound of his breathing echoing in his chest.
Sometimes, he would hear her laughter in a half-dreaming, half-awake state, but when he suddenly woke up, all that remained was cold silence.
He once thought he had gone mad.
But what he fears more than going insane is the day when those auditory hallucinations will completely disappear, and her voice will vanish from his world without even a trace of illusion.
Then, he began to think about her uncontrollably, that physical memory buried deep in his bones, carrying warmth and breath, carrying a longing that would silently awaken in the night.
Her fragrance, body temperature, and breath gripped his senses inch by inch, relentlessly dragging him from the edge of reason into those deepest, heaviest, and most unspeakable memories.
He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and saw her more clearly: her eyelashes trembled slightly, her lips parted slightly, and the soft breaths escaping her throat carried a temperature and trembling that was almost drowning.
He remembered those details so clearly, as if they had just happened, and he could still feel the touch of her hair falling onto his neck.
Her skin was excessively white, turning red at the slightest touch; sometimes she would gently bite her lip to suppress those soft sounds, but when she truly lost control, her voice would become low, rapid, and tinged with a broken sweetness.
She would suddenly embrace him, her breath hot and rapid, pressing her entire body against him to kiss him without reservation. It was an almost frantic urgency, not gentle, but forceful.
Sometimes he thought it wasn't just a kiss. It was her clinging to something she was afraid of losing, her way of holding onto reality, constantly reassuring him that he was still there.
That wasn't just simple desire; it was her love for him, her breakdown, her shedding all her pride, restraint, and defenses, leaving him with only a nearly naked version of herself.
He finally understood that this was not an impulse, nor was it merely sex. It was the lingering warmth of her presence in his body that had not yet dissipated, and the details of those nights, those embraces, and those moments of utter defeat after getting closer inch by inch, which had long been etched into his sensory memory.
Those images were never just about desire; they were of her, of Xia Zhiyao when she loved him.
After a long while, he suddenly chuckled softly, a hoarse and broken laugh: "...Xia Zhiyao," he murmured, "you fucking, do you even miss me?"
Another week has passed, and the streetlights are coming on one by one, casting dappled light on the car windows as the taxi slowly drives along Seventh Avenue.
Zhou Yue leaned against the car window, his face calm and almost blank, his posture perfectly upright, and his suit still neat and crisp.
He placed his fingertips against his brow, his gaze passing over the glass to the dimly lit street scene in the distance, his expression detached as if everything around him was irrelevant.
Only he himself knew that at this moment, he was only keeping on by the last remaining desire to move, which was keeping him from collapsing completely.
He didn't know his destination, only that he could no longer return to that empty house, could no longer sit beside that lamp, that letter, and everything she had left behind, and let them mold together.
The street scene receded before his eyes, and the warmth drained from his body. It wasn't until nine days after she left that he truly realized he would go mad if he didn't do something.
He was scrolling through his chat app with his head down, his fingertips moving slowly, but his gaze was unfocused. He didn't even look at most of the conversations, mechanically scrolling down as if he were blindly searching for an exit, something that would allow him to jump out of this dead silence.
Then a profile picture suddenly caught my eye: a pink-haired girl with exquisite makeup, sharp eyeliner, and bold lip color. She exuded an unreal, flamboyant aura even through the screen.
The face looked somewhat unfamiliar under the light, yet it also carried a sense of familiarity that made him instinctively stop, like a thorn buried deep in his memory that had been unexpectedly touched.
He opened the chat window: [In Midtown?]
A few seconds later, the other person replied: "Want to grab a drink?"
Her tone was so relaxed, as if nothing had happened, with the nonchalance typical of nightlife, that you could almost imagine her smiling with her chin resting on her hand, her eyes seemingly unimportant.
Zhou Yue stared at the line of text, his fingers hovering above the screen, his fingertips slightly cold. His mind was blank, yet hundreds of images rushed into his head in an instant: her laughter, her departing figure, the light in the empty room.
He closed his eyes briefly, as if forcing himself to pull himself out of the chaos, caught his breath for a few beats, and then slowly typed: [Address?]
This is a newly opened bar with a neon sign that reads "NEW OPEN" hanging at the entrance. The decor is a blend of industrial and futuristic styles, with tiny laser beams hanging from the ceiling.
The room was mostly filled with young people in their early twenties, dressed in flamboyant clothes and with exaggerated makeup. The smell of alcohol and perfume wafted through the crowd, intertwining with the modified electronic blues to create a viscous and frivolous atmosphere.
As soon as Zhou Yue pushed open the door, he saw her in the most conspicuous spot in the crowd.
With pink hair, a short skirt, and long legs crossed, she leaned against a bar stool, whispering something to the bartender. Her eyes were slightly upturned, and the corners of her lips curved into a casual and languid smile, as if she didn't care about the world or whether she was being seen.
But when she turned to look at him, she smiled at him as if she had known he would come.
In that instant, it felt as if something had stabbed him hard in the chest. It wasn't just that head of pink hair, but also the angle of that smile—alluring, frivolous, yet carrying a subtle sense of anticipation, drawing him from her gaze all the way to his heart.
Zhou Yue felt a tightness in his throat, and his breathing became uncontrollably erratic. Reason told him he shouldn't, but his body had already moved first.
He walked towards her, unsure of what to say or how to begin. He hadn't been sleeping well for a long time, and she was like the recurring dream in all his sleepless nights.
As if sensing something, the girl turned to look at him. Her gaze swept over him for a few seconds, then she raised her glass to him and said lazily, "Ethan Hey, Vivian."
He didn't know her Chinese name, and her profile picture was blurry as if seen through a fog, but in that instant, he truly felt as if he had been pulled into a play that he couldn't avoid by a pair of eyes.
He walked over and sat down beside her, his gaze fixed on her eyes. He swallowed hard, then suddenly spoke in a low, restrained voice in Chinese: "Are you Chinese?"
Vivian paused for a moment, then raised an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips, and laughed, "You can tell? You are too?" Her laughter was light and cheerful, her southern accent lingering in the last syllable, carrying a moist and soft quality.
It wasn't Xia Zhiyao's voice. Xia Zhiyao's voice was clean and clear, with a crisp northern accent.
But at that moment, only one word remained in his mind: like.
He ordered a whiskey, and Vivian ordered a Long Island Iced Tea; even their choices on the drink menu were the same.
He didn't say much, just drank with her, his gaze fixed on her profile, following the cold light gleaming from the delicate silver earring on her earlobe, slowly sliding down to her long, over-bleached, dry, split-end pink hair, which somehow made her feel dazed.
Vivian suddenly leaned closer, her hand gently touching his arm, her scent, tinged with the aroma of alcohol and perfume, enveloped him. "You keep staring at me, is there something written on my face?"
He shook his head, his voice so low and hoarse it was almost inaudible: "...No."
When the alcohol went down, his chest burned, but his mind was as cold as ice. He knew very well that she was not her, but he couldn't control himself.
As they walked out of the bar, fine snowflakes drifted down the streets of New York on a winter night. She linked arms with him, very close, her laughter clinging to his ear, carrying the warmth of alcohol and the sweetness of perfume, seeping into his skin inch by inch.
He didn't turn around, but hailed a taxi. The moment the door opened, she slipped in, her movements so practiced it seemed she was used to the routine. Her shoulder was against him, her hand on his leg, and she turned her head to smile: "Why are you so quiet?"
He didn't answer, but only looked up at his reflection in the car window.
In the elevator, she wrapped her arms around his waist and whispered something in his ear, but he didn't hear it, nor did he want to. The sound slid past his ear, and he just stared intently at the elevator mirror, as if looking at a strange man, living like an empty shell, but having nothing left.
"Ding—" The elevator doors slowly opened, and she took Zhou Yue's hand and walked into the room.
The moment the door closed, she tiptoed, whispered a breath close to his ear, and her voice, tinged with laughter, drifted lightly into the night, "This isn't the first time you've reacted like this, is it?"
Zhou Yue lowered his head, looking at her so close to him. Her smile lit up at that close distance, radiant and provocative, yet carrying a deliberately feigned nonchalance. But at that moment, he still felt that she was just like that snowy night.
That night, Xia Zhiyao lost her coat, phone, and wallet. She didn't know how much she drank, but she hugged him and said, "It's good that you lost them all, so no one will recognize me."
That expression of crying and laughing, like self-destruction mixed with coquetry, was as if she had shut the whole world out, and he was her only way out.
Before he could pull himself out of his memories, her lips covered his, cloyingly sweet, the lipstick mixed with the bitterness of gin, spreading little by little between his lips. He didn't flinch, and finally lowered his head to kiss her back.
He knew his body was reacting; an absurd throbbing sensation spread along his blood vessels and nerves, reaching every extremity beneath his skin.
His breathing became erratic and out of control, his throat was dry, and a rapid urge deep within his body was pulling at him, urging him to succumb to his instincts.
But his consciousness seemed to have been thrown far, far away, coldly watching all of this happen.
The scent of perfume wafted towards him, but it wasn't the scent he was looking for; it wasn't Xia Zhiyao's.
It's not that clean, aloof scent, but rather a lingering fragrance that subtly lingers; it's jasmine and a hint of musk—that's her unique aroma.
He opened his eyes, and there was clearly another person in front of him, but his mind was filled with her: the barely perceptible stiffness in her furrowed brows; her eyes, breathing erratically yet still holding on tightly under his palm; and her leaning against him, saying in an almost broken voice, "I'm so scared."
That scene was like a thunderbolt, striking his world and distorting his senses. His heart suddenly clenched, his breath caught in his throat, and he abruptly released his grip, taking a half-step back as if burned.
She was still stunned, the smile lingering on her lips: "What? You regret it?"
At that moment, he suddenly came to his senses. What had just happened didn't feel like he was kissing someone, but rather like he was watching himself kissing someone else through a cold pane of glass.
He looked down and saw that several buttons on his shirt were undone. His chest heaved violently, but the impulse felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over his head, making his knuckles tremble slightly.
My body was still restless, but my heart felt as empty as if I had died once—absurd, even disgusting.
Not to her, but to myself—a person who uses their body to numb their nerves, a person who consumes strangers as substitutes.
He suddenly realized that even his desires were no longer his own. After a long while, he managed to squeeze out a sentence, his voice low, hoarse, and restrained: "...I'm sorry, I can't do it."
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