Just as Yao Qiyun had predicted, however impulsively Situ Jie had stormed out, she was always going to come back eventually. She’d once believed she could handle anything on her own, but the moment she actually left home, she discovered she was nothing at all. Wu Jiang had asked her more than once if she wanted to stay at his place for a few days, but Situ Jie refused—running away wasn’t a real solution, and besides, given how sensitive things were right now, the last thing she wanted was to cause more trouble for his family.

Situ Jiu’an never raised his hand against Situ Jie again, though that didn’t mean his anger had cooled. He cared too much about appearances; the daughter who’d once been his pride had become the family’s disgrace, and even though no one said it to his face, every time he thought back to all those compliments he used to receive about how well he’d raised her, he felt as though he’d been slapped himself—harder, in fact, than the blow he’d landed on her. This particular “family disgrace” would leave him unable to hold his head up in public for years to come. But he’d already hit her, already screamed at her, and the facts were what they were—he could hardly demand his daughter atone with her life. Not that he could have done it even if he’d wanted to; she was still his own flesh and blood, after all, and there was nothing left for him to do but stamp his feet in frustration. Fortunately, his wife had reminded him that there were more pressing matters demanding their attention—damage control, however belated, still had to be done.

And so, when Situ Jie came home that night, she was met with a strange kind of quiet. Everyone stayed shut in their own rooms; no one came out to accuse her further, and no one asked where she’d been or what state she was in. And yet she could sense, unmistakably, that none of them were actually asleep—they were all listening to her footsteps, each lost in their own private thoughts.

The next morning, it was Auntie Yao who left a set of bruise ointments in her room—some for oral use, some topical, carefully selected. This obviously hadn’t come from any tenderness on Auntie Yao’s part; it could only have been arranged by her mother, who had shed even more tears over the whole affair than Situ Jie herself. Yet when mother and daughter crossed paths downstairs that morning, her mother, on her way out the door, said nothing at all—just gave Situ Jie a look that was equal parts heartbreak and disappointment.

Not long after, the two original posts that had started it all vanished from the campus BBS without a trace, along with every reply discussing the matter, and the dozen or so photographs that had sent everyone’s pulse racing were scrubbed just as thoroughly. The site returned to its usual quiet, back to complaints about the cafeteria and the overwrought romantic musings of the young. Still, when Situ Jie went to return the last batch of novels she’d borrowed from the library before graduation, the usually listless clerk glanced at the name on her library card, and couldn’t help staring at her for a few seconds before quickly, awkwardly, looking away.

That kind of look had, by then, become an everyday occurrence for Situ Jie—if she still wanted to walk out in broad daylight, she simply had to get used to it. And it wasn’t only strangers. Among her friends, and she had plenty of them, every single one except Wu Jiang now avoided her eyes, evasive in a way that almost seemed more guilty than she felt herself. It reminded her of the way a healthy person might react on accidentally running into someone missing all four limbs, or a hospital visitor stumbling upon a terminal patient with only days left—the deliberate refusal to look, to mention it, all wrapped in a kind of flustered discomfort. Ever since running into San Pi and Xiao Gen on the street one day, Situ Jie no longer dared look back after passing anyone she knew; she was afraid of catching them mid-whisper, pointing her out to each other. Their embarrassment was more than she could bear.

Zou Jin’s office door stayed firmly shut. The university had formed a dedicated task force to investigate the whole disgraceful affair, determined to get to the bottom of it, restore academic integrity, and return the campus to a clean and wholesome environment. Zou Jin, now the focal point of all the gossip, had accusations against him that remained unproven either way—but it was an unspoken truth among everyone that he was in no position to appear at any official university function for the time being.

It was said that Zou Jin later tried to pursue legal action against whoever had obtained and leaked his private photographs, insisting that the person who had ruined his reputation was none other than his own student, Liu Zhisu. Liu Zhisu, however, admitted only to writing the “conscience” post himself, while flatly denying that the photographs afterward had been leaked through any channel of his. In fact, the IP addresses of the original poster and whoever had posted the photographs didn’t even match; if the investigation confirmed his post’s contents were accurate, there could be no case for defamation either, leaving Zou Jin’s accusation entirely toothless. Situ Jie thought, with quiet irony, that for a man who’d lived so many years, Zou Jin was still laughably naive—in some respects, he wasn’t even fit to be a beginner compared to his own disgraceful student, which perhaps explained his humiliating downfall, and the pile-on that followed once he’d already fallen. As voices of support for Liu Zhisu, and outrage on Tan Shaocheng’s behalf, grew louder and louder—no small number of them from respected figures both inside and outside the university—more and more of Zou Jin’s professional and personal misconduct began surfacing as well, and before long he’d become the target of near-universal condemnation. Even those who had once admired and looked up to him began to see the light.

—Oh. So that’s the kind of man he really was.

Of course. We should have known all along. How could he possibly not be that kind of man?

Compared to Liu Zhisu, Tan Shaocheng’s ordeal drew far more attention and sympathy. There is simply too much injustice in this world, and when it comes to light unexpectedly, it strikes people all the harder. People who knew her and people who didn’t alike were moved to outrage and pity on her behalf; public opinion fell overwhelmingly on the side that she deserved justice, as though anything less would mean anyone could become the next victim of some filthy transaction. Rumors spread that media outlets with a nose for scandal were already circling. Situ Jie spent a long time wondering what role she might end up playing in those eventual news reports. Would she be cast as a woman who’d willingly debased herself? Or simply as someone utterly without shame?

But no such report ever appeared. Tan Shaocheng never stood on higher ground and hurled stones down at Situ Jie, trapped as she was at the bottom of a well. At the center of the storm, she stayed quiet.

Then, one day, Situ Jie found Tan Shaocheng seated at her own family’s dining table, treated as an honored guest.

Situ Jiu’an and his wife fussed over her with the utmost care, formally apologizing to her as Situ Jie’s parents, hoping only that she wouldn’t pursue the matter further, terrified she might name some condition they couldn’t meet.

“Say something, at least say one word.” Her mother tugged frantically at Situ Jie’s sleeve under the table. Her stubborn daughter simply stood there, saying nothing, staring at the family’s honored guest, refusing to sit down.

Before Situ Jiu’an could lose his temper, Tan Shaocheng spoke quietly to the room. “I never meant to use this to extort anyone, and I don’t want anything—except an apology, and she’s already given me that. That’s enough. Uncle, Auntie, Qiyun—you really don’t need to apologize to me. None of this had anything to do with you, and I won’t keep pushing the matter. Let’s just let it go.” She gave a self-deprecating little smile. “Honestly, running into Professor Gao during the graduate recommendation mess was its own kind of good fortune. And as for the scholarship—Situ Jie already gave me those four thousand yuan, which was enough for me to make it home in time to see my father one last time. We’re even now.”

Hearing this, Situ Jie nearly cried—tears, no doubt, of overwhelming relief and shame in equal measure. Yes. That felt right, necessary even.

After the meal, Situ Jie stood by the window, drawing back the curtain, watching the scene below—her parents, gratitude written all over their faces, seeing Tan Shaocheng out the door, while Yao Qiyun was instructed repeatedly to see her safely back to campus. It struck her as a little strange that Auntie Yao hadn’t come out to say goodbye too, given how openly fond she’d been of this girl who was Situ Jie’s opposite in every way—perhaps she was in the kitchen right now, dabbing at her eyes with her grease-stained apron. What a lovely girl.

Her parents came back inside. Situ Jie still stood there watching—watching the two of them walk side by side, watching them grow smaller in the distance. It had been a long time since she and Yao Qiyun had spoken. She resented him for it. The whole world could refuse to believe her—except him. And yet the tragic truth was, some part of her had probably already known all along that he didn’t believe her either. The whole world could believe her, and he alone would refuse to. He had never quite escaped the guilty panic of a thief—holding that piece of jade in his hand, yet never believing he could truly possess it, and that gnawing unease was bound, sooner or later, to curdle into doubt about the jade itself.

Maybe she shouldn’t have been so unyielding. At a moment like this, could she really afford not to bend? If she’d cried, if she’d poured her heart out, pleading and explaining, would it have made things easier for him? But Situ Jie understood, more clearly than anyone, that if Yao Qiyun had already decided, from the very start, not to believe her, then whatever explanation she gave would only sound like an excuse.

Her mother mentioned they’d invited Tan Shaocheng several times, and she’d refused each time, until Yao Qiyun stepped in personally to convince her.

Naturally Tan Shaocheng would grant him that favor. The two of them had never lacked things to talk about. Situ Jie had never once seen what she and Yao Qiyun looked like walking together from behind; she wondered whether it would look any more harmonious than the pair she was watching now.

Just as their figures were about to vanish from view, Tan Shaocheng seemed to stumble over a stone underfoot, her body pitching sideways—Yao Qiyun caught her in time. Even as Situ Jie stood on tiptoe, straining to see, unable to make out anything more, he never once let go of her hand.

That was the moment Situ Jie’s stubborn resolve finally began to crack. She hated Yao Qiyun—and yet, however violently they fought, however bloodied they left each other, in the end it had always been something between just the two of them. Even in the moments she’d sworn to herself she’d never forgive him, she’d still, deep down, thought of the two of them as one whole—like a pair of jade rings, each rightfully the other’s other half, never once imagining that a piece of jade could join with something else and still form a complete circle.

She called Yao Qiyun. The dial tone rang out, hollow and empty—no one answered. Without thinking, Situ Jie rushed out the door. She had no idea what exactly she was chasing after—only the desperate thought that if she ran fast enough, maybe she’d still make it in time.

At the intersection, she came upon Yao Qiyun, walking back alone. She seized his arm, then flung herself into his arms, holding him tightly, refusing to let go.

“I’ll say I’m sorry, okay? Just don’t leave. I’m sorry…”

Her tears startled him. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re angry with me, aren’t you? I’ll apologize, I don’t want you to be with her.”

He fell silent for a moment, as though something had finally clicked into place, and tilted his head back slightly to look into her tear-filled eyes.

“You don’t think you’ve done anything wrong. Why apologize?”

“That day, my mind was such a mess, I didn’t want to explain anything—I was afraid you wouldn’t listen even if I did. I never traded anything with Zou Jin, I had no idea what he was doing behind my back…”

Situ Jie found she couldn’t go on, because just then she noticed Tan Shaocheng standing quietly about ten meters away, waiting, hands folded in front of her, clutching that worn, faded backpack of hers. A car passed by, and for an instant the streetlight lit her figure up as bright as day, before shadow swallowed her again.

Yao Qiyun gently pulled away. “I forgot my phone—I was worried your parents might need to reach me, so I came back for it. Shaocheng’s still waiting; I need to walk her back.”

“I’ll come with you.”

He gently lifted the arm she had wrapped around him. “Why bother? Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“I don’t care whether it’s a good idea. I have something to say to you. I can tell you exactly what happened, from start to finish—and if a single word of it is a lie, may I die badly and never find peace…”

“A’Jue, you really don’t have to do this.”

“This is my business, and I need to say it clearly. Fine, go walk her home—I’ll wait for you to come back. If you’re worried it’s awkward to talk here, let’s meet at ‘Behind Time.’ I’ll be waiting for you there.”

“No need. I’ve got other things to take care of, I might be back very late.”

“I can wait as late as you need.”

“I told you, I can’t come. You don’t need to wait. Why won’t you understand?” His voice, for the first time, had a real edge to it.

“You can’t come because of her? I don’t believe you actually like someone like that!” Situ Jie pointed sharply in Tan Shaocheng’s direction.

Yao Qiyun glanced back at Tan Shaocheng, standing perfectly still, then turned back to Situ Jie and said slowly, “What do you mean, ‘someone like that’? Actually, something you said the other day was right—you said you didn’t know why we were even together. A’Jue, you and I are actually two completely different kinds of people… Maybe it’s not that I’ve fallen for someone else. Maybe I just can’t stand you anymore. I’m tired.”

He shook off the hand she still had resting on him. It seemed he’d abandoned the idea of going back for his phone; he turned and walked toward Tan Shaocheng instead.

Situ Jie gave up trying to make sense of it, staring blankly at his retreating back. “Remember this—I’ll be waiting there for you the whole time. You don’t have to come. But I’ll wait until the very last minute of today.”

But as that day drew to its close, Yao Qiyun never came.

A’Yuan left Situ Jie a blank slip of paper for the one hundred and first time.

“Do you believe time can flow backward? If you could go back, what would you do?”

In the past, Situ Jie had never once bothered to answer, just laughed it off.

In the very last minute, she hastily scratched out the words she’d already written on the slip.

What had originally been written there was: I want to find the Situ Jie of back then, and tell her: whatever you do, don’t fall in love with that man.

Beneath the crossed-out lines, she scrawled, in the messiest handwriting: If someone, somewhere in the past, happens to meet a man named Yao Qiyun, please tell him, for me, that on July 4th, 2001, right up until the very last second of that day, I was still here, waiting for him.

But when the true last second actually arrived, Situ Jie had already set her watch back an hour.

She thought: if she just waited a little longer, he’d still come, wouldn’t he?

She had waited here for Yao Qiyun so many, many times before. He had never once broken a promise.

If Yao Qiyun had simply appeared before her, Situ Jie—who valued her pride more than her own life—would have gladly set aside every last shred of it, every principle she’d ever held, just to beg him to stay.

She could even have said: “Tell me what kind of person you want me to be. If it’s what you want, I’ll change.”

It was the distant chime of the clock tower in the square, striking twelve right on schedule, that finally shattered Situ Jie’s stubborn delusion, drawing a line under the whole thing. As the long, drawn-out toll of the bell rang out, she found herself trembling uncontrollably. She thought she would cry, but not a single tear came—it felt, instead, like waking from a long and terrible dream.

She tore the slip of paper to pieces, consumed with shame at her own recent madness and self-abasement, as though possessed by the most hideous of ghosts—a ghost whose name was simply: I loved him.

Situ Jie was born Situ Jie, and could only ever be that one kind of person, just as he was fated to be the Yao Qiyun he’d become. Neither of them could be changed.

The next morning, Situ Jie finally returned home, letting herself in with her own key. The whole family was already seated at the table having breakfast.

The moment Situ Jiu’an saw her, he flung the pair of chopsticks in his hand straight at her.

“Get out of my sight. If you don’t want to come back, then don’t.”

Xue Shaoping, in the middle of taking a phone call, pressed a hand on her husband’s shoulder, too preoccupied to intervene otherwise, and shot her daughter a look urging her to hurry upstairs.

Situ Jie picked up the chopsticks scattered at her feet and set them back on the table. Yao Qiyun reached out to take them from her. There was something unreadable in his eyes; after a long, strained pause, all he managed to ask was, “Have you eaten yet?”

Situ Jie shrugged, and, following her mother’s instructions, hurried straight to her room, closing the door behind her, though she could still hear her mother on the phone downstairs.

The call was from Wu Jiang’s mother. The Wu household was in chaos too—their only son was insisting on getting married, and his parents had just learned that his intended bride was tangled up in a horrifying scandal. No family could accept a disgrace like that, and yet Wu Jiang had made his decision.

Of course, all of this Situ Jie only learned about later.

Around the same time, Situ Jie also heard the news of Qu Xiaowan’s death. Qu Xiaowan had hanged herself in her dormitory room in the graduate student building—a simple knot tied into a pair of stockings, one end fastened to the iron bars of the transom window, the other looped around her own neck. She had always kept to herself, with no close friends to speak of; even her roommate had moved out, sharing an off-campus apartment with her boyfriend instead. Since it was already summer break, the graduate dorm building was largely empty, and given everything that had happened to her, when she disappeared for a while, most people simply assumed she was lying low somewhere to avoid attention. It wasn’t until the woman responsible for cleaning the building noticed a strong odor that she called security to open the door. By then, the body had been hanging for a very long time; in the height of summer, it had already decomposed beyond recognition. The security guard who first broke down the door reportedly vomited on the spot.

A police car circled the graduate building. Qu Xiaowan’s parents, living in a small town over five hundred kilometers away, rushed over through the night, and it took them a great deal of effort just to confirm that this was indeed their brilliant daughter—after which they simply stood there trembling, unable even to cry. Based on the scene investigation, police ruled the death a suicide. There was no note—not a single word left for anyone. Qu Xiaowan had simply locked herself in her room and slipped, without warning, into another world—though the motive, in the end, was hardly a mystery at all. The rumors and the photographs alone were more than enough to destroy any young woman who cared about her reputation. After analysis, investigators arrived at a preliminary estimate of the time of death: roughly eight to nine days before the body was discovered.

But Situ Jie knew the exact day. And she knew, better than anyone, that what Qu Xiaowan had cared about most had nothing to do with whatever “motive” the official account had settled on.

In truth, she had already died in the instant her hand reached out, and Wu Jiang’s hand slipped back out of reach.

Happiness always draws infinitely close, falling just short—forever just out of reach.

Situ Jie didn’t attend Qu Xiaowan’s funeral, nor did she have the courage to call Wu Jiang and ask how he was holding up. She curled up under her own blanket, a few defiant rays of summer sunlight slipping in through the gap in the heavy curtains, and still she shivered.

She felt that some part of herself had died along with that girl.