Chapter 117 Some people, some...
Zhou Yue turned the steering wheel slightly. "Don't go back to the hotel yet," he said in a low voice. "I'll take you somewhere."
Xia Zhiyao knew he had some mischievous idea up his sleeve, and glanced at him sideways: "Where to?"
"You'll see when you turn the corner." His tone was calm, yet it conveyed a sense of certainty.
As the car turned the familiar street corner, the streetlights cast their glow on the windshield, and Xia Zhiyao's heart suddenly skipped a beat.
It was a quiet street, with the shadows of plane trees intertwined along the roadside. The bar signs were still lit. At the end of that row of old houses, a red brick apartment stood quietly, its walls worn dark by time. A winding iron fire escape staircase led up the street, its rust gleaming a deep brown under the dim light.
Zhou Yue parked the car on the side of the road, got out, stood on the sidewalk, and looked up at the building.
"Still the same as always." When he said this, there was an almost imperceptible gentleness in his tone, as if he were talking about those days from the past.
They paused downstairs for a moment. Zhou Yue's finger hovered over the combination lock for a while before tentatively pressing the familiar number. The red light flashed twice.
"Never mind." Zhou Yue was about to leave with Xia Zhiyao when the stairwell door was suddenly pushed open, and a tall, thin Asian boy squeezed out, carrying two bulging black garbage bags in each hand.
Fine beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and the collar of his T-shirt was damp, clearly indicating that he had just finished working. The door behind him slowly opened, and Zhou Yue subconsciously reached out to steady it.
"Thank you." The boy didn't even look up, his voice tired, with a slightly familiar soft accent.
They exchanged a glance and followed each other inside. The smell of the stairwell instantly enveloped them—the unique waxy scent of old wooden floors. The warm light from the overhead chandeliers cast a soft copper hue on the worn handrails and mottled walls.
As Xia Zhiyao reached the corner on the second floor, her steps slowed down. Outside that familiar door, various cardboard boxes were piled up haphazardly, torn tape was tangled together, and foam fragments were scattered all over the floor. Looking to the side, an empty Lao Gan Ma chili sauce bottle stood quietly in the corner.
“How about…” Xia Zhiyao looked up at the boy who was still panting on the stairs and said in Chinese, “We can help you take all of these down with us? There looks like a lot.”
The boy slowly turned around, and after a few seconds of silence, his voice held a hint of uncertain surprise: "You're Chinese too?"
“Yes.” Xia Zhiyao stood up. “We used to live here too, in this very room.” She pointed to the door number. The faded brass number gleamed dimly under the light.
The boy's shoulders visibly relaxed. He switched the trash bag to one hand, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his free hand, and said with a smile, "Oh, what a coincidence!"
His Mandarin suddenly became fluent, with a slight southern accent at the end: "I just moved in this morning, and I haven't unpacked my things yet."
He looked around, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. "It's much better than I imagined, just a bit pricey. It's a typical old New York building."
Xia Zhiyao had already started cleaning up the foam on the ground, her movements as natural as if she were tidying up her own home. And so, they chatted as they cleaned up.
The three of them threw all the trash into the bin. "Thanks, really," the boy said with a shy smile. "Moving alone, I have to do everything myself."
Zhou Yue smiled and said, "I was the same way back then."
The boy's eyes widened instantly, then he burst into a hearty laugh: "You're not a Columbia alumnus either, are you?"
Zhou Yue laughed and said, "We both are."
The boy scratched the back of his head, his eyes darting between Zhou Yue and Xia Zhiyao, and tentatively said, "Why don't you two come in and take a look? See what it's like now?"
The door opened, and a freshly cleaned carpet smell wafted out, but Xia Zhiyao smelled something else—perhaps the lingering scent of time within the walls, or perhaps it was just her imagination.
The layout of the living room remained the same, with the open kitchen still to the right of the entrance. The sofa had been changed from their old beige IKEA model to a dark gray one, and a new poster on the wall depicted Iron Man with his arms outstretched. Half-eaten Chinese takeout boxes were piled on the coffee table, and a large book lay open next to it, covered with highlighter marks.
"It's a bit messy, sorry." The boy hurriedly tidied up the coffee table.
Zhou Yue slowly walked to the window, his fingers gently stroking the window frame. "This window," Zhou Yue's voice was somewhat ethereal, "will let in drafts in winter. You should buy some windproofing."
"Really?" The boy leaned closer to look. "No wonder it doesn't feel that warm."
“The radiator in the bedroom makes a knocking sound at night, which might keep you awake at first,” Zhou Yue said, looking towards the bedroom. “But once you get used to it, it becomes a lullaby.”
"How long have you lived here?" the boy asked.
Zhou Yue was silent for a few seconds, then his gaze fell on Xia Zhiyao: "I lived alone for more than three years." He paused, then his voice softened, "and lived with her for more than a month."
Xia Zhiyao turned her face away, pretending to look at the posters on the wall. That month or so was when they had just gotten together.
Every morning she makes breakfast in this kitchen, Zhou Yue grinds coffee, and the sunlight shines perfectly into the corner of the dining table.
“More than a month,” the boy repeated thoughtfully, keenly sensing the weight behind that number. “And then…”
“Later I returned to China,” Xia Zhiyao interrupted with a smile, “but he stayed here a while longer.”
As they were leaving, the boy saw them to the door and bowed sincerely, saying, "Thank you so much! Not only did you help me take out the trash, but you also did all this!"
He gestured, encompassing the entire apartment, his smile slightly shy, "I suddenly feel much more familiar with this place. It's no longer just an unfamiliar house."
"Don't be shy." Zhou Yue took one last look at the living room.
The motion-sensor lights in the stairwell sensed the silence and began to turn off one by one, first on the third floor, then at the corner of the stairs, and finally behind them. The light receded slowly like the tide, pushing them into the last small patch of dim yellow light at the stairwell entrance.
Xia Zhiyao turned around and looked up at the window on the third floor. Warm yellow light shone through the half-open blinds, casting mottled shadows on the iron frame of the fire escape. The figure of a boy occasionally flashed by, just like they were back then.
"Are you feeling a little sentimental?" Xia Zhiyao asked softly.
“A little,” Zhou Yue finally spoke, his voice carrying the calm that comes with age, “but mostly I feel fortunate.”
"What are you glad about?" Xia Zhiyao turned her head to look at him, the light from the street lamps shimmering in her eyes.
"I'm so glad we all made it through, went to farther places, and became better people."
He paused, his gaze falling on her face, his tone suddenly softening: "But the most fortunate thing is that after going around in circles, we've come back to each other."
Xia Zhiyao felt a lump in her throat, as if something was stuck there, forcing her to blink hard.
They walked side by side, and when they reached the street corner, Zhou Yue suddenly stopped.
"What's wrong?" Xia Zhiyao looked back at him, following his gaze.
He didn't answer immediately. The apartment building stood quietly in the night, its red brick walls tinged with dark brown by the streetlights. Behind every window lay a story, and theirs was just one of them.
“Zhiyao…” His voice was so low it was almost carried away by the wind, “Do you know, after you left, I spent more than a year alone in New York.”
Xia Zhiyao's breath hitched slightly. These were the days she least wanted Zhou Yue to recall—days without her.
Zhou Yue gazed ahead, his eyes deep and empty: "I've tried many ways to keep myself busy." His tone was calm, yet carried a hint of weariness.
“When I take on the most difficult projects, I’m still having meetings with domestic partners at 2 a.m., negotiating with clients during the day, and looking at data and modifying models at night.” Zhou Yue paused and gave a wry smile. “The moment I open my eyes, I see the conference room lights, and the moment I close them, I still see them. It seems that only that feeling of being overwhelmed and unable to breathe can make me temporarily stop thinking about other things.”
“Sometimes I even forget to eat, and I only remember when I’m so hungry that I can’t stand it anymore.” He looked down at his fingers, his voice growing softer and softer. “Later, I went to the gym, went swimming, went running, running ten kilometers, fifteen kilometers… until my lungs felt like they were going to burst and my legs were numb.”
“I thought that would make things better.” His Adam’s apple bobbed slightly. “As long as I keep myself busy, I can forget you, forget that room, forget the taste of the coffee you made every morning.”
He chuckled, almost self-deprecatingly: "But it's no use. The more I push myself forward, the emptier my mind becomes, and the more easily I recall those details."
He looked up, his gaze falling on the darkness outside the window. "When I close my eyes, I can see you sitting by the window reading. Sunlight streams in through the blinds, dancing on your hair."
His voice trembled, “You were looking at the book, thinking, and then suddenly you looked up at me and smiled.”
Xia Zhiyao's eyes began to burn. She turned her face away, pretending to look at the graffiti wall across the street.
“The hardest time is when it snows.” His voice lowered, and he had to struggle to keep going. “In 2023, there was a blizzard that paralyzed the whole of Manhattan. I was trapped in my apartment alone, watching the snow pile up and I remembered that night when we watched the snow together.”
He paused for a long time, so long that Xia Zhiyao thought he wouldn't continue. "You said snowflakes are like shattered stars." He suddenly smiled. "Back then I thought you were too poetic, but now I understand that some beautiful things really do shatter."
"Zhou Yue." Xia Zhiyao finally turned around, her eyes shining brightly with tears. "If only time could turn back..."
“There’s no need to turn back time.” He reached out and wiped away the tears on her face, his thumb gently stroking her cheekbone. “Let bygones be bygones. The important thing is, haven’t we met again? In Beijing, in New York, in all the places I thought I would never see you again.”
He paused, took a deep breath, as if he had finally made up his mind, "This time, I won't let go again."
Xia Zhiyao looked at him, at the man whose eyes revealed undisguised deep affection and determination. The love that had remained sharp even after being polished by time shone brightly again at this moment.
Three years ago, on that snowy night, the missed embrace, the unspoken plea to stay, and the frantic longing that they had carefully suppressed in their hearts, all received a belated response in the late autumn night wind of New York, on this street they had walked countless times.
"Zhou Yue." After taking a few steps, Xia Zhiyao called him softly.
"Hmm?" He turned his head, the streetlight outlining his gentle profile.
She stopped and looked up at him. In that instant, she simply gazed at his slightly disheveled hair, the fine lines around his eyes, and those eyes that remained clear despite the passage of time.
"The snow that year was really heavy," she said slowly.
“Yes.” Zhou Yue squeezed her hand. “It was so big that I thought it could bury all the roads. So big that when I stood at the window, I couldn’t see the buildings across the street. So big that the whole of Manhattan was silent, with only the sound of snow falling.”
He paused, his voice becoming even softer, "So much so that I thought the path between us had been buried."
“But it still melted,” Xia Zhiyao said, her tone light and relieved.
“Yes.” He turned around to face her directly, moonlight filtering through the gaps in the clouds and falling into his eyes. “Spring will always come.”
He raised his other hand, his knuckles gently brushing against the corner of her eye. "No matter how heavy the snow, it can't stop spring. Just like..."
He paused, carefully searching for the right words, "Just like no matter how long the time or how far the distance, it can't stop people who are meant to meet from meeting again."
Xia Zhiyao smiled, the smile slowly spreading from the corners of her mouth until her eyes curved into crescents. In her smile were relief, emotion, the preciousness of something lost and found again, and the relief of surviving a disaster.
“Yes, spring will always come,” she repeated.
Even if it takes three years, more than a thousand days and nights, each day feeling like an eternity, even if it means circling half the globe, from New York to Beijing, and then back to New York.
Even if it means enduring countless lonely nights, those restless early mornings, moments of staring blankly at the phone screen, and sudden emptiness in a crowd.
But spring still came, just like now, in the late autumn night in New York, on this ordinary street, they walked side by side, their fingers intertwined.
In the distance, the spire of the Empire State Building shimmered, and the lights of the entire city spread out beneath their feet like scattered gold.
The wind blows, carrying the crispness unique to autumn, and also a hint of almost imperceptible warmth—a harbinger of spring, hidden deep within the season, waiting for the time to break through the soil.
Because some people, some loves, are like spring; no matter how long the winter, they will always return.
It will happen eventually.
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