Chapter 82 – Facing Reality

The sleepless night stretched on endlessly. Su Yihui felt Cheng Shuguang’s gentle caress, his movements carrying a hypnotic effect, and a wave of weariness gradually washed over him. Yet, the question he had raised clashed with his drowsiness.

Su Yihui turned over, drawing his knees up and resting his hands on his chest. Both of them lay on their sides, eyes meeting.

“I feel like I owe her so much,” he said. In this world, he owed no one anything, except for his sister’s care and upbringing. Six full years—a span of over two thousand days and nights, over two thousand cycles.

He remembered how, in middle school, she argued fiercely with teachers on his behalf, and in high school, she clashed intensely with Chu Yixu and Tang Chao for his sake. She had always been a gentle, reserved girl; all her forced strength was for him.

Cheng Shuguang took Su Yihui’s hand. “It’s my fault. Maybe I should find some time to talk with your sister.”

“No!” Su Yihui pulled his hand away and sat up in bed.

“Why not?” Cheng Shuguang sat up too.

“My sister doesn’t know about us,” Su Yihui said, hugging his legs and resting his chin on his knees.

“That’s the perfect chance to tell her,” Cheng Shuguang edged closer. “You’ll have to tell her sooner or later, won’t you?”

“No, I can’t!” Su Yihui refused firmly.

Concealing the fact that he wouldn’t attend university had already shaken her deeply. The despair in her eyes was as cold as the ice age, piercing through him. These days, he had been racking his brain, searching for a way to thaw the frost in her heart. If, before resolving one painful issue, he were to create another tragedy, it would be too cruel to bear.

Yihui couldn’t imagine what would happen if Yishu found out he and Cheng Shuguang were together—would she faint from the shock? Some ingrained beliefs remain unshakable, no matter how many years pass.

In his mind, Yishu was someone of faint and easily overlooked emotions. Sometimes, he saw her curled up on the sofa, watching dramas where the leads were deeply in love, yet her face showed not a trace of envy. But then he recalled the first time she brought Xu Shixi home, the first time she cooked noodles for him, the first time they went on a trip together, the first… There must have been countless firsts like these—it was only that he hadn’t been there to witness them.

Only then did he realize that beneath an apparently cold heart, molten magma bubbled and churned.

“Why not?” Cheng Shuguang’s words grew softer after the “no.” Why not? Wasn’t this the very question he should be asking himself?

His wry smile froze on his face, fine crow’s feet branching from the corners of his eyes. Yet, surprisingly, they did not make him seem old; instead, they lent him a maturity and charm he had not possessed as a youth—an allure hard to put into words.

He wondered—if Yihui asked him the same question, asked why they couldn’t live together openly, why they must hide and cover their tracks, why every time his parents called about Li Nanzhi, he had to raise his index finger to his lips and signal for silence—what reason could he give?

He knew Yihui would never ask this of him. Yihui didn’t dare to, was afraid to. Or perhaps he already knew the answer and didn’t need to ask. After all, this love between two men, forced underground, hiding from the world, was not just about the eyes of others. They were never anyone’s anything; people’s words, their comments, their senseless provocations—they were like natural disasters one cannot escape. Against a natural disaster, there is no shame in seeking shelter. But the most important thing was their parents’ feelings and attitudes. If love required a break with one’s parents, even the price of life itself, that would be too cruel, too tragic. Love that had lost its life, like a plant deprived of sunlight, could only wither away.

“Please, don’t ask,” Su Yihui whispered, a tear tracing down his cheek. It soaked into the sheet, blossoming into a soft dandelion tuft. He gazed at it, thinking how much he wished he could become that tiny, drifting dandelion, free from all the world’s burdens. Then, in some fragrant, untouched land, he would take root and grow.

Cheng Shuguang held him close, his embrace full of pain, love, and guilt. “I won’t ask anymore. Do as you wish—say what you want to say, keep what you want to keep. I won’t force you. I love you so much, I could never do anything to hurt you. I only want you to know: no matter how hard the road ahead may be, I’ll always stand before you, clearing every obstacle.”

Outside, rain began to fall, thick drops beating against the window in clusters. Some of the rain swept in through the half-open window. Su Yihui stood, feeling for his slippers with his feet before walking to the window and closing the aluminum frame.

Without the flow of fresh air, the clouds pressed down on the earth like heavy, overlapping quilts, making the room stifling and hard to breathe in.

The autumn rain was endless, as if the summer’s pent-up heat could only be drawn away in this manner.

Su Yihui returned and embraced Cheng Shuguang, then lay down to sleep again.

“In a few days, I’d like to talk to my sister,” he said, gazing at the outline of the overhead lamp. “I mean, about not going to university. I owe her an explanation. Otherwise, for her, for me, for all of us, it will always be a hurdle we can’t cross. As for us, I’ll tell her that too, just—not now. I don’t know when, but I believe it’s only a matter of time.”

“Yihui,” Cheng Shuguang turned toward him again, “would you like to meet my parents?”

“I wouldn’t,” he answered flatly.

“Why not?”

“Because I know your parents are a mountain I can’t cross. They’re like the Himalayas—you have to withstand bone-chilling cold, thin air, and the constant risk of death to reach the summit.” Su Yihui stared at the lamp, the longer he looked, the more it seemed to reveal a ghastly human face. He shuddered. “And besides…”

“And besides what?”

“After you climb up, what if you can’t come back down—?”

“If you’ve already climbed up, why would you want to come back down?” Cheng Shuguang asked, puzzled. “Yihui, I know I’m cowardly. I don’t dare defy my parents, but don’t worry: with you, I’ve found strength too.”

He thought of how, in the past, he’d feared his father’s sternness because there had been no one worth risking anything for, no reason to rebel. He hadn’t even had anyone to come out for—so what was the point? His life, well into his thirties, had been as blank and clean as a sheet of paper—until he met Su Yihui. Now, Su Yihui was the one guiding his hand, writing out their story on that fresh, white page, filling it with elegant and everlasting characters. What he would write was the story of their days to come.

The next day, the two arrived at Zhishu Teahouse one after the other. To avoid suspicion, they never entered together. Once, when Cheng Shuguang picked a loose thread from Yihui’s hair, the kitchen aunt teased them.

—The boss treats Yihui differently, just like he treats the lady boss.

Two middle-aged chefs overheard and chimed in, making the atmosphere unbearably awkward. After that, any sign of intimacy between them became careful and restrained in front of others.

Cheng Shuguang closed the car door and strode ahead. Su Yihui waited until he entered, then slipped out from behind the car, head lowered, following the same path to the same place. The overnight rain had left the ground so damp it seemed to capture every footprint in wax; his steps still marked the surface, the rain yet to wash them away.

They thought they hid themselves well, never realizing that Li Nanzhi, sitting in the driver’s seat, had seen everything clearly. The rain had not blurred her eyes, but tears had.

Standing in the rain, sobbing—can one still distinguish between raindrops and tears?

Perhaps not.

But surely, at least, the pain in one’s heart can be felt?

Li Nanzhi was the third to enter. She saw Cheng Shuguang at the counter, going over the accounts, Su Yihui tidying tables, while the middle-aged chefs and the kitchen aunt busied themselves.

The kitchen aunt had not been working there long. She lived in a nearby neighborhood with her husband, her children all living elsewhere. She had retired just last year, but couldn’t stand to be idle. She was diligent and quicker on her feet than the young, though she tended to be a bit of a gossip. Yet, no one was much interested in her stories—after a few words, seeing the others’ lack of enthusiasm, she would quietly fall silent.