The last day of December.

On New Year’s Eve, Zhao Ping Jin picked her up for dinner.

Seeing him again after two days, Zhao Ping Jin appeared much thinner, though his spirits seemed good. Xi Tang sat in his passenger seat and glanced at his profile, noticing he had gotten a new haircut. The hair at his temples and back of his head was trimmed extremely short and clean, each strand almost pressed against his scalp. His hair was ink-black, making his handsome, sharp features even more pronounced, revealing that innate cold, resolute presence in his bearing.

They enjoyed a meal with a pleasant atmosphere.

Xi Tang knew that the day before the holiday was for her, while New Year’s Day itself was for family.

Halfway through the meal, Zhao Ping Jin asked her if she wanted that role, saying he could try to secure it for her.

The company was recently negotiating her next film. A producer from Hai Xiang’s team had approached the company, and reportedly, the company had signed a strict confidentiality agreement even for the single page of script with just two lines of dialogue they received. Xi Tang had been notified and had prepared for an audition, but there had been no follow-up. Mu Hai Xiang’s previous film earned Qin Wu Wu the Best Actor award at the Berlin Film Festival four years ago. The script, polished over several years, meant the selection of actors was extremely cautious.

Xi Tang smiled and shook her head.

Zhao Ping Jin was generous with her. She had no doubt that if she continued to stay with him like this, she could live the best life—clothed in brocade and fed with jade, with abundant resources, spending most of her time wielding power in film crews, and a small portion waiting to be summoned, accompanying him for meals and sleep in the dark, luxurious corners of the world until he tired of her.

After dinner that night, Zhao Ping Jin took her on a drive through the city. Beijing’s night was ablaze with countless lights.

This ancient city had activated its holiday night lighting. The vermilion palace walls extended endlessly, ancient buildings stood in orderly rows, perfectly square, a vast expanse of brilliant lights, majestic and beautiful.

They moved slowly through a flowing city of gold.

Zhao Ping Jin drove for over an hour. When he finally took her back, the night wind had grown strong, dispersing the smog, and the sky had begun to sprinkle with scattered sleet.

Xi Tang looked up. Across an intersection, the hotel at the end of the alley was already visible in the distance.

Xi Tang suddenly pressed his hand and said, “Pull over for a moment.”

Zhao Ping Jin didn’t understand why, but he complied, slowing down and stopping by the roadside.

Perhaps in that instant, he already sensed something amiss. Zhao Ping Jin turned his head and gave her a puzzled look.

Xi Tang gazed straight ahead and said calmly and clearly, “Zhao Ping Jin, I’ll say goodbye to you here.”

Zhao Ping Jin was momentarily stunned.

Xi Tang reached into her bag and took out two packages. “I have a gift here for Qing Qing. Last time when she was pregnant and invited us for dinner, I didn’t have time to prepare anything. Maybe I won’t see her again, so please give this to her for me.”

Zhao Ping Jin had no choice but to accept it. He tried to speak: “You could give it to her yourself…”

But Xi Tang had already prepared everything and had no intention of giving him time to buffer or speak. Her voice was soft and gentle, yet carried an unquestionable determination: “The other one is for you. I know you don’t need anything, but because of you, I’ve been able to act in such good productions. For this, I’m truly grateful.”

Zhao Ping Jin glanced at the white box.

Xi Tang said, “Kai Lun went back to Hong Kong last week, and I asked her to bring this. I can’t give you anything too expensive. You can keep it for yourself or give it to someone else—either way, it’s easy to handle. It’s just a small token of my appreciation.”

She couldn’t give him anything too intimate—shirts, coats, ties, watches. All his daily necessities were his wife’s domain. She had understood long ago that she wasn’t that fortunate. This gift was Ni Kai Lun’s suggestion. Kai Lun had said it was trendy, and practical, yet lacking in sentimentality.

Xi Tang thought about it and agreed. Zhao Ping Jin changed his phones frequently, partly because he liked technology products, and partly because he didn’t take much care of his belongings. Scratches from bumps and knocks were common, and sometimes he would break the screen in less than a month. Last time, when his phone got dirty while taking her to the hospital, he simply replaced it with a new one.

She was so considerate in her actions that there was nothing more to say.

Zhao Ping Jin was completely unprepared for this sudden farewell, half dazed.

He looked at her and said hoarsely, “Hey, Huang Xi Tang…”

Xi Tang immediately cut off his words: “I’ve booked a flight back to Shanghai for tomorrow.”

Zhao Ping Jin bit his lip, furrowed his brow, and responded fiercely, “I don’t agree.”

Xi Tang raised her head with displeasure but caught his eyes—the pain in his eyes at that moment made Xi Tang wonder momentarily if it was an illusion.

Zhao Ping Jin’s voice tightened a bit: “Xi Tang, can you—stay a few more days?”

Xi Tang looked at him and smiled—somehow managing to force out a smile: “Aren’t you getting married on January 8th? If you keep me in Beijing, are you planning to invite me to your wedding banquet?”

Zhao Ping Jin’s face suddenly turned pale, his expression as if someone had stabbed him in the chest.

From the corner of her eye, Xi Tang saw his hand gripping the steering wheel, trembling slightly.

The two sat in silence in the quiet car, neither willing to speak first, fearing that the next words would have to be goodbye.

After a long while, Xi Tang gently asked, “May I look at your wallet?”

Zhao Ping Jin obediently took it out.

Xi Tang accepted it and flipped through it. Inside was a stack of bills in two or three currencies and several platinum cards, nothing else.

Zhao Ping Jin held her hand as Xi Tang, pressed by his somewhat cool fingers, opened the deepest part of the inner compartment. Zhao Ping Jin turned it over and shook it slightly, and a small black and white photo of a baby fell out.

Xi Tang picked it up and understood at a glance. It was her hundred-day photo—limbs like white lotus roots, eyes curved with laughter, showing a toothless little mouth, and chubby cheeks.

She had only one copy of this photo, in her house in Jiayuan. She thought it was lost, not realizing he had taken it.

Xi Tang burst into tears immediately.

Tears flowed, yet she also smiled.

Zhao Ping Jin asked in a hoarse, low voice, “How did you know?”

Xi Tang said, “Zhen Zhen told me.”

“She probably went through my coat when I was drunk one time.” Zhao Ping Jin glanced at her sideways. “She’s much smarter than you.”

Xi Tang glared at him. “It’s our last meeting, can’t you say something nice?”

Zhao Ping Jin suddenly fell silent, his lips pressed tightly together, brows deeply furrowed, not saying a word—the most extreme defensive posture after receiving a heavy blow.

Xi Tang’s voice grew softer, speaking to him in a gentle whisper: “After you get married, just live a good life.”

Zhao Ping Jin initially refused to speak. Xi Tang stubbornly waited. After a long time, she finally heard him reply, “Alright.”

Xi Tang’s nerves, which had been taught all along, contracted uncontrollably at the moment she heard his voice, though she had thought she would feel relieved.

Zhao Ping Jin took a deep breath and finally began to speak: “In the future, quit smoking, it’s not good for your health.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“If your hand still hurts often, get regular check-ups.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Don’t stay up too late when filming. Ni Kai Lun will sign off on your daily work schedule.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“If there’s anything you can’t handle, have Ni Kai Lun contact Shen Min.”

“Okay.”

Zhao Ping Jin raised his hand and carefully stroked her hair: “When you date again, find someone better.”

Xi Tang forced a light smile: “What counts as better?”

Zhao Ping Jin thought seriously, the thinking so arduous it was as if a small stone was grinding in his brain, causing minute pain inch by inch: “Someone who is a good person, has some means, respects your work, and someone whose family treats you well too.”

A surge of bitterness rose in Xi Tang’s nose.

Zhao Ping Jin’s voice trembled slightly: “Don’t find someone like me again.”

Xi Tang’s tears fell again, but she looked up at him and smiled: “I won’t.”

She wiped her tears and smiled at Zhao Ping Jin: “I’m quite satisfied. When we separated before, it was so ugly. At least this time, we’re both okay.”

Zhao Ping Jin bit his teeth and turned his face away, restraining a violent, piercing pain that rose in his throat.

Xi Tang finally said, “I’m leaving.”

She reached for her seatbelt.

Zhao Ping Jin lowered his head, took her hand, and pressed lightly. The buckle released with a click, like the sound of a breaking heart.

Xi Tang picked up her bag and turned to open the door.

Zhao Ping Jin pressed on her shoulder, his voice revealing a trace of choking: “Go.”

Xi Tang wanted to turn back for one more look.

Zhao Ping Jin wouldn’t let her turn around.

His strong hand gripped her arm tightly, firmly pressing on her shoulder. He refused to let her look back.

Zhao Ping Jin leaned slightly over her from behind and reached out to push the car door open for her.

Xi Tang smelled the outside air—it was the last night of December, pitch-black, cold, austere, free.

Zhao Ping Jin’s palm touched her cheek, while his other hand pressed against her back, personally sending her out of the car. He still wouldn’t let her turn around.

Xi Tang stepped onto the snowy ground, standing tall and straight.

The door of the large, black car closed silently behind her.

Xi Tang felt a choking pain in her throat, hot tears continuously welling up. She stood by his car, sobbing audibly, walked a few steps, and couldn’t help but break into loud cries, then began to run down the road.

Zhao Ping Jin’s hand gripped the steering wheel so tightly that the winding veins on the back of his hand showed a striking dark blue. His entire arm and chest were trembling continuously.

The bright headlights illuminated the road, where a foot of thick snow covered the flowerbeds, and a thin, small girl was running like mad on the sidewalk.

That was the girl he loved most in his life.

She was leaving him.

In a daze, he recalled many years ago.

After work one evening, he went to school to pick her up after class. She was so tired from rehearsing that she fell asleep in the back seat. He would drive especially smoothly, from Haidian District to the Central Business District. High-rise buildings lined Jinbao Street, with neon lights of all colors reflecting on the car. He turned his head for a look, and once, Huang Xi Tang had woken up without him knowing and was writing with lipstick on his car window.

When they got home, he carried her out and turned to look at the window, seeing that she had written a line of poetry: “Beijing, let me toast to all your lights.”

That was the Beijing where they had loved each other.

Many years later, he finally understood that the days he had deliberately tried to forget with his life were the happiest moments in his reckless life.

But there was never another chance.

Zhao Ping Jin looked out intently again, but her figure had already disappeared from the road.

His heart seemed to stop.

He raised his hand slightly and pressed a button at the front of the car, turning off the headlights.

The road before him suddenly went completely dark.

The entire world was left in darkness.

In the darkness, he raised his hand and covered his face.