Zhou Mi washed her hands in the bathroom before returning to the private room. When she pushed open the door, it was still lively inside—colorful lights and wine, almost demonically decadent revelry and play.
She walked over to Ye Yan, who was playing finger-guessing games with colleagues, and bent down to tell her, “I’m leaving.”
Ye Yan didn’t hear clearly and lifted her head, looking at her in confusion. She seemed to have been crying; there were two grayish-black liquid streaks under her eyes.
Zhou Mi raised her voice: “I’m going home!”
The male colleague who was still playing rock-paper-scissors also looked over at her.
Ye Yan’s expression became a bit clearer: “Okay, take care.”
Zhou Mi gave an “mm” and went to get her bag from where she had been sitting.
At this moment, Jiang Shi, who was still immersed in his solo performance, also stopped and directly asked through the microphone: “Zhou Mi, are you going home? Let me take you.”
His expression was as earnest as if he were about to propose in public, just short of pulling out a ring and kneeling on one knee.
Everyone was supportive, with a chorus of encouragement almost lifting the roof.
Zhou Mi froze for a moment, then turned back: “No need.”
Jiang Shi didn’t put down the microphone, his voice echoing around the room with reverb: “What? I didn’t hear clearly.”
Zhou Mi pressed her lips together, found another idle microphone on the table, and stared at him with bright eyes, without thinking: “I said no need. I don’t want my boyfriend to be angry.”
The sound was crisp, shattering like glass candy, with invisible sharp fragments flying in all directions.
The entire private room came to a standstill. No one moved, leaving only the background music playing lonely.
Zhou Mi’s chest rose and fell rapidly.
But the emotions that had been suppressed all evening suddenly emptied, transforming from heavy lead to hydrogen balloons, whooshing out from her body. That yellow line no longer existed, as if neatly cut like a ribbon-cutting ceremony.
At that moment, Ye Yan also sobered up and walked over, rubbing her forehead: “Mi, are you leaving?”
Zhou Mi’s eyes felt hot, but she forced them back, making herself appear calm: “Yes, my family wants me to go home early.”
“Okay, let me call a car for you.” Ye Yan was still a bit disoriented, even holding her phone upside down. “It’s so late.”
Zhou Mi put down the microphone: “I’ll do it myself, Yan. Thank you for your kindness.”
—
Zhou Mi took a taxi directly back to Xindi Huajun.
Along the way, she kept wondering what they would discuss tonight and how they would evaluate her after she left; then she told herself: who cares, for people and things like this, you must burn the bridges and be done with it once and for all.
When she arrived at Zhang Lian’s place, her heart was still beating rapidly.
She showered for a long time, as if wanting to wash away all the lingering anxiety and stickiness in her heart.
Afterward, she sat hugging her legs on the rattan chair on the balcony for quite a while. At this hour, the city center still seemed like a dream, with skyscrapers outlined like coral by neon lights, and the night wind a gentle ocean current.
Zhou Mi’s emotions gradually calmed.
Close to half past twelve, back in her bedroom, she suddenly remembered she needed to call Zhang Lian back. She hurriedly took out her phone, pondered for a moment, and dialed.
After ringing for a while, he answered.
Perhaps because the call at the nightclub had ended somewhat awkwardly, Zhou Mi suddenly didn’t know how to begin and silently waited for Zhang Lian to speak first.
But the other side didn’t speak either.
This coincidental silence seemed to take form, lifting her, wrapping her in a thin, slight weightlessness.
Zhou Mi gradually bent her legs, asking uncomfortably: “Not asleep yet…?”
Zhang Lian made an “mm” sound.
Zhou Mi fulfilled her promise to report her whereabouts: “I’m back, and I… bravely refused. Thank you for today.”
He still just “mm’d,” his tone bland.
Zhou Mi asked curiously: “Where are you?”
Zhang Lian replied: “Hotel.”
Zhou Mi: “I mean, which city?”
Zhang Lian: “Hong Kong.”
Zhou Mi suddenly felt awkward at making conversation, plainly reporting her location in return: “I’m in—”
A short, low laugh: “Where are you?”
Zhou Mi said in a muffled voice: “I’m in Yi City.”
Zhang Lian asked again: “Where in Yi City?”
Zhou Mi said, “Xindi Huajun.”
“Mm.”
She became like a fruit-flavored gummy with the packaging opening just a bit too small, squeezing out one piece at a time: “Building six.”
“Mm.”
“Unit 2901…”
Zhang Lian’s voice became more casual, with a hint of puzzlement: “Sounds like my home.”
“Is that so?” Zhou Mi’s thoughts began to flicker like a small TV with snow static: “I’ve taken over your nest.”
Zhang Lian asked: “How does it feel staying alone?”
“It’s okay,” Zhou Mi thought for a moment. “Anyway, the activity areas are just those places.”
Zhang Lian said, “My bedroom door isn’t locked. You can visit or stay there if you want.”
Zhou Mi’s cheeks suddenly burned: “What are you talking about?”
“What what?” Zhang Lian laughed.
“I don’t want to see it,” she replied stiffly.
“Suit yourself,” Zhang Lian said. “It’s almost one. Go to sleep.”
Zhou Mi made an almost inaudible “oh”: “You’re coming back the day after tomorrow, right?”
Zhang Lian said: “Should be, or tomorrow night if nothing comes up.”
Then he asked: “Why, checking on me?”
Zhou Mi’s tone quickened: “No, of course not. Just curious.”
Zhang Lian’s question had a kind of deliberate seriousness, as if sincerely asking for her opinion: “Should I try to come back tomorrow night?”
Zhou Mi’s heart collapsed uncontrollably: “You could permanently settle in Hong Kong and never come back for all I care.”
Zhang Lian laughed: “You’ve only moved in for a few days and already want me to leave with nothing.”
Zhou Mi’s eartips turned red. She had little resistance to his ambiguous words accompanied by laughter, and could only deflect: “What’s yours is yours. I have no interest at all.”
Somehow, they had arrived at the edge of a pink ocean, and Zhou Mi was eager to retreat to the safe shore, hurriedly concluding: “I’m tired. I want to go to sleep.”
“Okay, good night.”
“Good night.”
Zhou Mi hung up first, held her phone, and stared blankly for a moment. Her gaze returned to the screen, where at the top of the call list was the contact “Zhang Lian.”
Recalling the scene in the private room where she had nervously almost given herself away, Zhou Mi blinked a couple of times, clicked the edit button in the upper right corner, deleted the characters “Zhang Lian,” and typed anew: “Brother—Wolf…”
The corners of her lips unconsciously curved upward with the slow tapping sound on the keyboard.
Save.
Zhou Mi let out a thin scream in her heart, embarrassedly throwing her phone to the foot of the bed.
It must be the delayed effects of the beer. She covered her face with both hands, feeling her skin temperature extraordinarily high.
So annoying, so contradictory—struggling hard to break free on one hand, falling out of control on the other.
Lying down, she pedaled an imaginary bicycle in the air with a fierce expression for a while before her heart, both sweet and restless, finally settled a bit.
—
The next day at eight o’clock, Zhou Mi, who had dreamt a chaotic and colorful mess all night, dragged her heavy body out of the bedroom.
As she went into the hallway, she happened to meet Auntie Chen, who had returned from her hometown. Auntie Chen was carrying two large bags of vegetables and seemed somewhat surprised: “Mimi, you’re up so early?”
Zhou Mi replied weakly: “I need to go to work.”
Auntie Chen asked, puzzled: “Isn’t today the weekend?”
Is today the weekend? Zhou Mi froze, took out her phone from her pajama pocket to confirm: “Damn, it is Saturday.”
Auntie Chen smiled: “Go back to sleep for a while. I’ll prepare breakfast.”
“Probably can’t fall asleep again,” Zhou Mi felt herself mostly awake now and added, “Zhang Lian isn’t here these few days, so don’t prepare meals like a full imperial banquet.”
Auntie Chen’s eyes still curved in a smile: “He already told me yesterday. He instructed me to prepare your three meals well.”
Zhou Mi stood there, silent for two seconds: “I’m not picky about food. Even just a bowl of plain noodles is fine.”
“That won’t do,” Auntie Chen said, carrying her bags toward the kitchen. “Go wash up first. I brought some home-grown vegetables. Let’s see if I can make you a tomato mushroom noodle fish soup.”
Zhou Mi looked at her back, no longer refusing the kindness, smiling: “That sounds delicious.”
Auntie Chen’s tomato mushroom oat noodle fish soup was indeed more flavorful than restaurant versions—a rich, sweet, and sour taste without losing its freshness, extremely appetizing.
Zhou Mi sat behind the counter, continuously scooping and praising enthusiastically.
Auntie Chen blushed from the compliments and kept saying: “Mimi, if only my daughter were like you. She has such a cold personality, rarely speaks, and I don’t even know if she cares about me as her mother.”
Zhou Mi said, “She loves you silently in her heart. The deeper people hide their feelings, the truer they are, you know?”
Auntie Chen sorted vegetables while saying, “Your personality is better—likable.”
“Actually…” Zhou Mi hesitated.
Auntie Chen continued on her own: “No wonder Mr. Zhang likes you so much. Since I’ve been his live-in housekeeper, I’ve never seen any other girls. Then suddenly he brought you, his fiancée, to live together. It’s a bit different from what I imagined.”
Zhou Mi’s expression froze, her body also becoming still.
Her movements in scooping the noodle fish became sluggish: “He didn’t bring partners home before?”
Auntie Chen said: “I haven’t seen any since I came at the beginning of the year before last.”
Zhou Mi muttered softly: “That’s because he was always outside doing… that…”
Auntie Chen didn’t hear clearly: “What?”
Zhou Mi smiled brilliantly, her words contradicting her heart: “I feel so lucky to know such a good man as Zhang Lian.”
“Yes,” Auntie Chen lowered her eyes. “If my daughter’s boyfriend had even one-tenth of his qualities, I wouldn’t have to worry so much.”
Zhou Mi remained silent.
In the afternoon, Zhou Mi returned to her school dormitory, planning to bring some of her dusty books to Zhang Lian’s place to enrich her new personal space.
Perhaps knowledge really is power—a stack of books that didn’t look heavy became extremely weighty when packed up, like carrying a pile of stones.
Carrying them in and out of the subway station, the steep slope of the stairs almost made Zhou Mi want to set up a stall and sell them off cheaply on the spot, but in the end, she persevered and decided to write herself an essay titled “Zhou’s Book Moving” to praise and commend herself when she got back.
When she arrived home, Auntie Chen was also startled by her nearly half-person-high stack of books: “Why didn’t you call me to help?”
Zhou Mi dusted her hands: “It’s fine, not many. I often carry things up and down at the company, too.”
Auntie Chen sighed: “You should have waited for Mr. Zhang to come back and let him drive you. If he knew about this, he’d be so worried.”
Zhou Mi twitched the corners of her mouth with a polite smile—how could that be possible?
Zhou Mi carried her books and laptop happily to her favorite balcony, sat cross-legged in the chair, and either wrote or read.
No matter how busy work was, she couldn’t put her thesis aside. After all, graduating successfully was the top priority, even if she now had a strange, deeper relationship with her advisor—she couldn’t be perfunctory.
She sat until evening, only leaving her spot to eat dinner. The night sky was like deep blue velvet, inch by inch covering the orange-red silk of sunset.
After nine o’clock, Auntie Chen brought a colorful homemade mixed fruit yogurt box to the balcony for Zhou Mi to fill her stomach.
Zhou Mi thanked her, was about to continue typing into her document, then picked up her phone, quickly glanced at WeChat, and put it back.
An hour slipped by unnoticed.
At ten-thirty, Zhou Mi’s phone rang.
She freed one hand to pick it up, saw the name, and immediately brought up her other hand to answer.
“Busy person,” she leaned back against the chair, her tone unconsciously a bit petulant: “Can’t make it back, huh?”
The other side was quiet for a second, then asked in a deep voice: “What’s the password for the door lock at home?”
Zhou Mi paused, frowning: “What password?”
The man asked: “What other password is there?”
Zhou Mi was confused: “Isn’t it the one you set?”
Zhang Lian said, “I suddenly forgot.”
Zhou Mi realized, her finger pressing against her upturned lips, pretending not to understand as she recited the numbers: “Oh, let me remind you: 0, 6, 1…”
She was directly interrupted, hearing his non-negotiable tone: “Come and open the door for me.”