Chapter 42 Zhou Yue, what exactly do you want...?
The car slowly drove through a red light. Zhou Yue gently stepped on the brakes, and the car stopped. He remained silent, as if there was a sentence stuck between his lips, but he never said it.
The rain pattered against the windshield, making a soft, echoing sound that seemed to travel across the entire city.
Jiang Qiran turned her head and looked at her brother's silent profile. It was a face that was usually calm and aloof, but now, under the dim streetlights, it revealed a hint of fatigue.
“Brother,” he repeated softly, his tone softening, “you don’t always have to work so hard.”
Zhou Yue slowly turned his head to look at his younger brother. Under the orange streetlights outside the window, the contours of his young face were softened, but his eyes and brows revealed a calmness and clarity that did not belong to his age.
The tentative question, "What do you know?" concealed an unwillingness to admit weariness, as well as too many emotions that should have been faced long ago but had been avoided.
Jiang Qiran turned his head and glanced at him. "I don't know the whole story, but I can guess some things," he said, his tone soft but without backing down.
After a pause, he suddenly asked, "Have you been wanting to go back to China for a long time?"
The rain was still falling, its patter tapping on the roof of the car, the rhythm slowly sinking in like a heartbeat. The lights from outside shimmered in, casting layers of shadows inside the car, like ripples on water, softly and silently seeping into some corner that had never been touched before.
Jiang Qiran's tone was calm, yet bluntly cruel: "Look, I've been here for so many days, and apart from Lu Zhiwei, it seems like no one has asked you to have dinner. But you and her... don't seem like friends either."
"She always looks at you with a hesitant expression, and you two seem more like a doctor and patient than friends."
The moment the words were spoken, the car became so quiet that only the sound of rain could be heard.
Zhou Yue was about to say something.
“Brother,” Jiang Qiran finally spoke in a low voice, his tone softening as if afraid of hurting himself too much, “haven’t you noticed? Your obsessive-compulsive symptoms are quite obvious now.”
He listed them off one by one: "What time to get up every morning, how to match the colors of clothes, which side to put the books on, the kitchen seasonings arranged by color, even the toothpaste in the bathroom is placed on the left and right sides... That's not being particular, that's being anxious."
“New York is so big,” he said softly, his voice almost like a gust of wind after a rain, “you must be very lonely all by yourself.”
At that moment, all sounds faded away; the sound of rain seemed to be separated by a membrane, leaving only the sound of my heartbeat resonating in my ears.
Zhou Yue remained silent, because everything his younger brother said was correct.
Over the years, his life seemed to be wrapped in an invisible membrane, appearing perfect, orderly, and indestructible to outsiders, as if everything was under his control. But he knew that it was nothing more than an illusion cobbled together from a series of rules.
He filled his days with work, maintained himself through responsibility, and proved his value and meaning by taking care of his younger brother.
But what about at night?
He returned to his apartment where he lived alone. After taking a shower, he stood by the window with a towel around his neck and water droplets dripping down his collarbone. He stared at the neon-lit city skyline outside the window and suddenly froze.
He might forget for a moment how he managed to get to where he is today.
He was the eldest son whom his parents arranged to "make him proud," the person whom his family expected to "succeed," and the most reliable supporting character in his younger brother's life script.
He never considered what he would have left if all of these were removed.
Finally, Xia Zhiyao arrived and began to paint his black and white world with color, stroke by stroke.
But she left again, as if nothing had happened, taking with her the life that had just begun to warm up, gently, with a single stroke, severing all those colors, that warmth, those illusions that she was "about to believe."
Zhou Yue then realized that it seemed like he hadn't truly lived for "himself" in a long time.
The streetlights cast shadows on Zhou Yue's face, revealing a hint of hesitation in his eyes. He suddenly spoke in a low, husky voice, yet surprisingly calm: "Then tell me... what should I do?" It was as if he were asking his younger brother, or perhaps himself.
Only after those words left his mouth did he realize that he truly did not know the answer.
All he knew was that he had held on for too long and was truly exhausted.
Jiang Qiran turned to the side, looking at his well-defined yet tired profile. His eyes flickered slightly, and he spoke again: "Brother."
She paused, as if she had put a lot of effort into choosing her words: "Mom used to always say that I needed you to take care of me, and I believed her when I was little. But now I'm twenty-two years old, and I really don't need you to take care of me like this anymore."
“Look, I can do a lot of things by myself. I also studied in the United States for four years, found a house, moved, took the subway, dealt with strangers, and handled all sorts of messy things in life.”
He paused for a moment, but his eyes grew increasingly firm, and his tone was no longer just calm, but a gentle yet powerful declaration: "Brother, I'm not a child anymore. You don't need to give up the life you want for me."
Jiang Qiran suddenly spoke again, a sigh piercing through the night, "I know what Mom is thinking."
“When you were in school, your tuition was paid by your dad,” he said calmly, yet with unusual clarity. “He also helped you a lot when you were looking for a job after graduation. So she felt that you should make the most of your resources.”
“You’re still in the US, so you have to help me. You have to help me with the application process, you have to help me with my studies,” she said on the phone. She was very direct, saying, “You’ve been through this before, so you should guide me. And when I’m looking for a job in the future, I might need your referral.”
“Brother, you don’t need to listen to her.” Jiang Qiran’s voice suddenly carried a kind of determination unique to young people, with a sense of responsibility and sincerity that did not belong to his age. “I know you are not really willing to trap yourself here, it’s just that you have been too obedient and too resilient since you were a child.”
“But carrying isn’t love, nor is sacrifice. You owe me nothing, and you owe her nothing.” These words seemed to peel away the silence that had been buried beneath the surface of their lives for so many years.
Zhou Yue's breathing suddenly became unsteady. He pressed his fingers hard on the steering wheel, as if only by exerting so much force could he stabilize his turbulent emotions. The moment the wipers swept across the windshield, a glimmer of light was reflected in his eyes.
He asked in a low voice, "What did she say to you?"
“What can she say? She said you’re my best resource.” Jiang Qiran finished speaking with a hint of sarcasm on his lips, “It’s like I’m not her son, but an ‘investment’ she’s managing.”
“But I’m not an investor.” He turned his head, looking at Zhou Yue with clear and frank eyes: “Brother, neither are you.”
Zhou Yue's Adam's apple bobbed, and he finally let out a low, hoarse reply: "I know."
“If you want to go back to China, and who you want to find,” Jiang Qiran looked at him, her voice suddenly softening, her eyes clear, her tone carrying the warmth and certainty unique to young people, “you should go back and find them.”
“You’re so amazing,” he said, emphasizing each word, “you can live a very, very good life anywhere.”
At that moment, the red light outside the car window finally turned green, and Zhou Yue slowly released the brake. The car started moving again, like a beast that had been asleep for many years.
They drove through the rainy night streets, past the intersection that held old wounds. The brothers sat side by side, one finally learning to let go, the other finally learning to accept. And the road called "freedom" had truly begun at that moment.
Several months later, Zhou Yue officially submitted his resignation.
The company was brewing a new round of layoffs, and a sense of unease permeated the air. His letter was like a prophecy. The HR person took it almost without hesitation, glanced at him, nodded, and said politely but distantly, "Thank you for letting us know." There was no attempt to retain him, nor any surprise.
Zhou Yue stood in front of the coffee machine at the end of the office area, holding a paper cup in his left hand. A colleague from the next group, who had a Chinese background, had drunk with him a few times and talked about promotions and raises in the corridor.
The man whispered, "You left at the perfect time. There are layoffs next week, and I heard they're cutting at least 10% in North America. My manager's face has turned as black as coal these past few days; he's worried about being laid off in one fell swoop every day."
Zhou Yue turned to look at him, smiled faintly, and said in a voice so low it was almost inaudible: "Luck, I guess."
The other person nodded, didn't say much, just patted his shoulder lightly, and then turned and left, like all well-trained adults in the workplace, without asking, staying, or making a fuss.
Zhou Yue watched him leave, then looked down at the coffee in his hand. A ring of damp steam rose from the rim of the paper cup, and he realized it was full. Hot liquid slowly overflowed from the cup, but he felt nothing. It was as if his skin had gone numb along with his mood.
He stood there, his fingertips trembling slightly, and suddenly realized that this time he really had to leave.
It's not about leaving a particular job, a team, or an office building with a glass curtain wall; it's about completely withdrawing from the life he spent five years building.
On his last day at the company, Zhou Yue stayed late, sitting alone on the rooftop terrace. The city lights shone one by one, like distant, unreal star clusters, floating outside the dream from which he was finally leaving.
He leaned against the railing, the distant skyline tinged with the gray-blue of dawn, the outline of Manhattan shrouded in a thin mist, quiet, indifferent, observing him, just as he had observed himself over the years.
He lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating half his face in the wind. As he slowly exhaled the smoke, he looked down at the ashes, but his mind involuntarily drifted back to when he first came to New York. Back then, he thought that as long as he worked hard, he could become the person everyone envied.
A gilded resume, a perfect identity, setting rules within the glass curtain walls of Seventh Avenue skyscrapers, signing projects worth hundreds of millions of dollars, placing himself perfectly within the template of "success."
He once thought that was the answer, but later he realized that he was like someone locked in an invisible shroud, clean, calm, and self-disciplined to the point of being harsh.
But what's inside? Chaos, exhaustion, loneliness—nowhere to vent, only to be suppressed into silence again and again.
Anxiety gnawed at him like a tide in the dead of night; loneliness crept in quietly after each social gathering. He supported himself with work, pieced together his life with a schedule, and told himself, "I must succeed."
But he was never truly happy.
His younger brother told him firmly, "Brother, you don't need to give up the life you want for me."
He remained silent for a long time. Then he suddenly understood that he could also get tired, he could also give up, and he could choose not to push himself anymore.
He finally dared to ask himself, "Zhou Yue, what kind of person do you really want to become?"
He's not the perfect investor, not anyone's role model, and not everyone's ideal child. He just wants to be someone who can face reality, have freedom, and love openly.
He looked down at the cigarette between his fingers, which had burned to the end. He flicked it gently, and it fell into the ashtray at his feet.
The night had not yet completely faded, but he knew that dawn would break soon, and he would have to leave this place.
The entire city was shrouded in the gaps of the cold night, and the lights of the distant high-rises went out one by one, leaving only the orange light of the convenience store on the street corner that had just come on.
The air was filled with the dampness of the earth after the rain, mingling with the aroma wafting from the bakery not far away, making one feel, for a moment, that this city actually had a touch of gentleness.
Zhou Yue stood at the street corner, sniffing the familiar yet unfamiliar smell, and suddenly realized that he was a little hungry. He walked aimlessly, but his steps seemed to be led by his memories, turning into the familiar neighborhood.
As if by some strange twist of fate, he returned to Katz's Delicatessen, the old restaurant where he first brought Xia Zhiyao.
It was past 10 p.m., but the lights were still on in the store, and the staff were packing up, looking like they were ready to close at any moment.
He chose a seat by the window, where a quiet street stretched out before him, and his slightly tired silhouette was reflected in the glass.
Steaming hot beef piled high on the bread, the aroma of mustard wafting through the air. With each bite, the salty and savory flavors mingled with memories, stirring his stomach and his heart.
She was sitting right across from them. Those were their simplest and warmest days, when only two hearts, so close together, were quietly warming each other in the winter nights of New York.
Now, she's gone. He sits alone in the same spot, facing the old table and chairs, eating the same sandwich. The taste hasn't changed, the scenery hasn't changed either; the only thing that has changed is the empty space on his chest.
He ate slowly, wanting to savor the familiar warmth and flavor for a little longer, as if that would allow him to hold onto her for just a few more moments.
He had been in this city for five years, but had never truly stopped to walk through it. Now, he just wanted to slow down and quietly walk through the streets he had overlooked countless times: the intersection of Wall Street, the park bench where she waited for him on a snowy night, and the farewell she hadn't uttered amidst the trembling of the tracks as the last train departed that day.
This time, he wasn't running away, nor was he failing; he was simply finally willing to let himself go.
This farewell was without applause or ceremony, but it was the most resolute and dignified turn of his life.
Before he left, he had a meal with Lu Zhiwei.
Before all the food had been served, Lu Zhiwei spoke up: "Really leaving?"
Zhou Yue paused in her chopsticks, looked up at him, and chuckled softly, "Yes. I'm leaving."
Halfway through the meal, Lu Zhiwei suddenly put down her chopsticks, glanced at him, and said, "I can't predict whether you'll be in a better or worse state after you go back and see Xia Zhiyao."
Zhou Yue didn't say anything, but just gripped the cup a little tighter.
“Don’t be upset. I’m not questioning your decision to return to China,” Lu Zhiwei paused, her tone softening. “It’s just that your current state is too emotionally volatile. Don’t try to tough it out after you return; continue your treatment.”
Zhou Yue looked up at him, her eyes momentarily still, before she nodded faintly: "I know."
"You know it, but you're particularly good at pretending nothing's wrong. Self-discipline is your strength, but you need to allow yourself to have moments when your emotions break down."
“You’re going back for her, that’s true, but it’s also for yourself. For the past two years, you’ve been living in the shadow of her leaving. Even if you meet her again now, it’s not to chase her back, but…” She paused, looking at him intently, “to find yourself.”
Zhou Yue suddenly looked up and gave him a half-smile: "But let me tell you, Zhiwei, you can help me look after Jiang Qiran, but don't do anything to my brother."
Lu Zhiwei looked up and smiled innocently: "What do you mean?"
"That's the gist of it," Zhou Yue said calmly. "My brother isn't a playboy."
Lu Zhiwei looked at him, raised an eyebrow, and smiled meaningfully: "That's not necessarily true."
Two weeks later, Zhou Yue boarded a flight back to China. As the plane took off, the view outside the window was of New York in the early morning, with swirling clouds and the city gradually receding and shrinking until it finally disappeared among the clouds.
He didn't look back, nor did he think much about it. All the scenery he should have seen, the nights he should have stayed up, the things he should have lost, and the things he should have let go of over the years were all left behind.
When the cabin announcement came on and the voice switched to standard Mandarin, he closed his eyes, with only one thought in his mind: it's time to start the next chapter of my life.
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