Chapter 35
In the following days, a new, subtle rhythm gradually took shape in this space.
Zhou Ping'an always returned home between 7 and 8 p.m. No matter how busy he was at work, he seemed to accept the changes at home and the need to maintain a superficial, regular "normal routine."
Liu Yifan would prepare a simple dinner, sometimes a light takeout meal. The two of them would share a table, their conversation limited to topics like project progress, the weather at the studio, or the purely practical aspects of a new addition: “This rug feels nice underfoot” or “The sofa is softer than before.”
The atmosphere was polite but distant, more like two co-workers who happened to be sharing a house and working on the same project team.
He still spent most of his time working in the master bedroom or the cleaned-out study. Liu Yifan, on the other hand, primarily spent time in the living room and second bedroom. The public area became a space where they occasionally met.
Liu Yifan, under the pretext of "needing to watch classic films and study acting," purchased a 100-inch ultra-thin TV. The screen nearly filled an entire living room wall, making the already limited space seem even more cramped. However, it also instantly became the visual focal point of the home, exuding a strong sense of her own territory.
Sometimes, when he came out to get some water, he'd find Liu Yifan curled up on the sofa watching a movie. The flickering light and shadow on the giant screen made her profile flicker. She watched intently, sometimes hitting the pause button to rewind a scene, repeatedly pondering an actor's subtle expression or the way a line of dialogue was delivered.
Zhou Ping'an usually took the water in silence, his gaze lingering briefly on the screen that filled most of his field of vision before turning back to his room without commenting. To him, this seemed like just another routine extension of his work environment.
This kind of "coexistence without disturbing each other" has gradually become a new normal that is tacitly understood by both parties.
From the neighbors' limited perspective, Mr. Zhou's home, always driven by a luxury car driver, seemed more popular. At dusk, a woman with a striking appearance, whose silhouette was barely concealed even through a mask and hat, could often be seen going downstairs alone to throw out the trash, her steps hurried, leaving and returning quickly.
Boss Zhou himself continued to leave early and return late, his expression stern. They looked like a very low-key couple, reluctant to interact with outsiders. They were well-matched, yet there was always an invisible barrier between them. No one knew of the man's wealth empire, and no one recognized the woman's celebrity status.
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The door lock made a slight electronic sound and Zhou Ping'an pushed the door open.
A familiar, cool, dusty air blew in. The room was dark and silent.
He subconsciously stopped at the entrance, his finger touched the switch, and with a "click" he turned on the ceiling light.
The cool white light instantly dispelled the darkness, revealing everything in the living room: the sofa cushions neatly arranged, the coffee table empty, the earth-colored carpet smooth and wrinkle-free. The huge TV screen was black, like a deep pool.
Everything was exactly as he had left it that morning, perhaps even tidier.
Yet, a strange feeling, inexplicable, still silently crept over me. It was too quiet. So quiet... a little empty.
Over the past seven days, he'd almost gotten used to it. He'd gotten used to seeing a light on when he opened the door, perhaps even the flickering light and shadows on the TV screen, and hearing the subtle sounds of another person's life—perhaps movie dialogue, or the sound of water boiling in the kitchen. There was also a faint, elegant fragrance lingering in the air, very similar to the scent of her favorite shower gel.
That figure, whether watching a movie on the sofa or fiddling with the computer at the dining table, has become a default background in his homecoming scenes.
At this moment, the backdrop was removed, leaving behind an overly regular, almost rigid silence that seemed a little unreal.
He silently took off his coat, hung it up, and put on his slippers, his movements seeming a beat or two slower than usual. He walked to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and took out a bottle of water. As his fingertips touched the cold bottle, he suddenly remembered that in the past few days, there was always a pot of warm water on the kitchen counter.
He unscrewed the bottle cap and took a sip of ice water. The cold liquid slid down his throat, but instead of quenching his thirst, it made his stomach tighten slightly. He didn't like the feeling.
Walking into the living room with the water bottle, his steps involuntarily leaned towards the single sofa near the floor lamp - that was where she sat most often.
He stood in silence for a moment, then sat down.
The sofa cushions sank softly, and a faint, familiar aroma lingered at the tip of his nose. It was her scent. It made him feel momentarily dazed, as if she had only left for a short while.
He leaned back on the sofa, his gaze fixed unfocused on the dark TV screen opposite him. The room was so quiet that he could hear the hum of the refrigerator compressor starting up and his own breathing, which seemed a little clearer than usual.
Only then did he belatedly remember that he seemed to have received a call that afternoon. He was engrossed in a critical technical problem when his phone vibrated on the table. He glanced at Liu Yifan's number and pressed the hands-free key, his eyes and thoughts still fixed on the data stream on the screen.
"Hello." He responded, his tone absent-minded as if he was immersed in work.
Her voice came from the other end of the phone, clear and calm, with her usual straightforward style: "Mr. Zhou, the crew has adjusted their schedule, so I need to go back to Xiangbei for a few days. Come back next week."
"Okay. Got it." All his cognitive resources at that time were allocated to the technical node that needed to be overcome urgently. He simply recognized her voice message as "trip report" and did not process it further. His fingertips did not even pause in tapping on the keyboard.
The call might be extremely brief, or he might even hang up unconsciously after she said "Okay, bye." The whole process happened quietly and ended like a background process that did not take up too much system resources, leaving almost no trace on his main work thread.
Only at this moment, sitting in this silence that seemed particularly profound due to the contrast, did the content of that short phone call and the meaning behind it slowly permeate his consciousness like a belated tide.
She went back. That week of lights, subtle noises, and faint fragrances ended.
He felt a bit depressed, and he couldn't quite place the emotion. It wasn't sadness, nor anger, but more like... that slight feeling of weightlessness you get when you're used to a certain rhythm and then suddenly have it disrupted. It's like hearing a certain background music and then suddenly turning it off; your ears feel a momentary discomfort.
He sat quietly on the sofa for a while, thinking nothing, or rather, his mind was a little empty and he couldn't think of anything effectively.
In a trance, a distant and vague sense of familiarity, like a shadow under the water, quietly floated into my heart.
Two or three years ago, when Dai Xiaoyi left Rong with his suitcase and decided to develop in Haicheng, he seemed to have... had a similar feeling.
It wasn't a gut-wrenching pain, nor an unbearable emptiness. Just a faint, lingering feeling of... something was wrong.
It's like a piece of furniture that has been placed in the room for many years has been suddenly moved away. Although the space is wider and the light has changed, every time I pass by that empty space, my eyes and footsteps will subconsciously pause, and it takes a little time to adapt to the abrupt blankness.
Habit is a very strange thing. Sometimes it is so stubborn that it can anchor a person for a long time, making him stick to the old track, unwilling and unnecessary to change.
But sometimes, it can be easily broken. It only takes another person with a different atmosphere to break in and stay for a period of time that is neither too long nor too short, and the old marks can be covered up unknowingly, and a new order can be established gently but irresistibly.
But once this new order is suddenly withdrawn, the feeling of emptiness left behind is exactly the same as the old one.
Finally, he stood up, picked up his phone, changed his shoes, and went downstairs for dinner.
The cool autumn breeze blew on his face, and the streetlights stretched and shortened his shadow. He walked alone, and it seemed to him that the road seemed quieter than usual.
The noodle shop was bustling with activity and steam rising from the air. He sat alone in his usual spot against the wall, quietly finishing a bowl of beef noodles. The taste was the same as usual, but he ate more slowly than usual, his appetite seemingly less intense.
After eating the noodles, he did not go home immediately, but walked around the community aimlessly.
Looking up, the window of the house was pitch black, standing out from the other windows that were lit with warm lights.
For the first time, he realized so clearly that the feeling of the window with the light on and with the light off was so different.
After returning home, he washed up and went to bed earlier than usual.
The lights were turned off, darkness and silence enveloped them. No sound came from the second bedroom.
Absolute silence.
He closed his eyes, but found the silence a bit heavy, and it wasn't as easy to fall asleep as it had been in the past few days. He lay in bed for a longer time than usual before gradually falling asleep.
A habit is broken, and it takes a little time to adjust back in. That's all.
A week later, it was almost dark. When Zhou Ping'an opened the door, the entrance light was on.
He paused for a moment before continuing to change his shoes. The air was filled with the delicate aroma of tea, a stark contrast to the mineral water he always kept in his refrigerator.
In the living room, the huge TV screen was dark. Liu Yifan wasn't curled up on the sofa as usual, but sat at the dining table, staring at her open laptop screen, her brow furrowed slightly as if she were processing a work email. She looked up when she heard the door open.
"Are you back?" She greeted naturally, her tone as if she was a roommate who had just returned from a short shopping trip. Then her eyes fell back on the screen and her fingertips slid across the touchpad a few times.
Zhou Ping'an hummed, his gaze lingering on her for a moment. She wore a soft, off-white sweater, her hair loosely tied up, a few strands dangling at the side of her neck. Her profile, under the halo of the screen, appeared soft and focused.
He hung up his coat and went to the kitchen to get some water. As he passed the dining table, he saw a steaming cup of herbal tea next to her and a small plate of washed strawberries.
The kettle was full and warm.
He came out with a glass of water, but instead of going straight back to the study as usual, he stood in the middle of the living room for a moment, seemingly hesitating, as if trying to process something.
The room was quiet, broken only by the occasional soft tapping of her keyboard and the sound of his own breathing. But this quiet was completely different from the hollow, echoing silence of the previous week. It was a full, living quiet, filled with the breath and presence of another person.
The subtle feeling of weightlessness that had troubled him for several nights last week disappeared quietly at this moment. Rhythm returned.
"Have you eaten yet?" Liu Yifan suddenly raised his head and asked, "I brought some light salad. If you haven't eaten yet, it's in the refrigerator."
Zhou Ping'an looked towards the refrigerator, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, with a helpless smile: "I can't eat that stuff. But, I've had dinner."
Upon hearing this, Liu Yifan raised an eyebrow and glanced at him. He said nothing, only a soft "Oh," his lips curling slightly as he continued to work on his emails. This answer, tinged with a touch of personal emotion and nitpicking, seemed more genuine and... more intimate than a simple "I've eaten."
He didn't return to the study immediately, but sat down on the single sofa and picked up the technical journal he had half-read and put there. He didn't ask her when she came or whether her trip was smooth, and she didn't deliberately greet or explain.
It was as if the week-long gap didn't exist, she was just here yesterday and today.
But some things are still different.
He read the journal more slowly than usual, his attention seemingly unable to fully focus. Occasionally, his eyes would lift from the page to the focused figure at the dining table, linger for a few seconds, and then return to the spotlight.
The faint scent of tea and fruit in the air, mixed with the smell of paper and ink, creates a strange and reassuring atmosphere.
About half an hour later, Liu Yifan closed her computer, breathed a sigh of relief, and took a sip of the now-lukewarm tea. She stood up, stretched her shoulders, and asked naturally, "How's that new sofa? Is the lumbar support adequate? I've had them send over a few cushions of varying firmness; they should be here tomorrow."
Zhou Pingan raised his eyes from the journal and seemed to carefully feel the support behind him before answering, "Okay. No need to change."
"That's good." She nodded, picked up the cup and saucer and went to the kitchen to wash them.
Zhou Pingan watched her back for a moment, then put down his journal. Although he wasn't hungry, he stood up and walked to the refrigerator. Out of some inexplicable curiosity, he opened the salad she had brought and took a look. The fresh vegetables and chicken breast were neatly arranged, and then he gently closed the lid.
As the night deepened, the two of them each occupied a corner of the living room, minding their own business, without further conversation. But that "coexistence without disturbing each other" was indeed mixed with a very faint, inexplicable tacit understanding.
It was as if there was an invisible, soft thread connecting him and her silently.
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