CHAPTER 11

After a night of nightmares, Xue Jing jolted awake from the old, worn-out Simmons mattress at dawn, with dark circles under his eyes.

Hugging the blanket, he pulled off the eye mask covering his eyes and stared blankly at the dim light outside the window for a while, as if he’d forgotten where he was.

When he finally glanced around and caught sight of the suitcase on the carpet nearby, gutted and torn apart, Xue Jing groaned in frustration and threw the blanket over his head, collapsing back onto the bed.

A cough, followed by two more, echoed in the room. The white comforter was arched into a massive dome, making it hard to tell whether the figure beneath was a just-awoken human male or a rabbit burrowed into its hole.

The hotel room remained silent for five minutes until faint rustling noises resumed. From under the left side of the comforter, an arm emerged, reaching toward the bedside table. Xue Jing’s slender fingers groped around for nearly half a minute before pulling the charging phone into his blanket.

Unplugging the charger, he was plunged into darkness under the blanket, except for the faint glow of the phone screen just an inch away from his nose.

The oddly angled light scattered from the bridge of his nose, casting crystalline reflections in his eyes. His dense eyelashes were like branches reaching toward the sky, their shadows flickering in his pupils.

There was no way he would go to dinner with her. Absolutely not. Over his dead body.

But the message in his inbox—the one he’d sent himself last night—didn’t exactly express rejection.

Exiting the message folder, he navigated into his WeChat contacts and skillfully found the account marked with a star, nicknamed “Ha Yue.”

Ha Yue’s WeChat nickname hadn’t changed since their university days: just a single letter, “H.” Xue Jing’s was the same: a single letter, “X.”

In June 2020, two years after their breakup, WeChat introduced the mortifying “avatar poke” feature, which still hadn’t been discontinued to this day. So when Xue Jing clicked on Ha Yue’s avatar, he held his breath, making sure his fingers didn’t slip and trigger a notification.

Ha Yue’s Moments feed was still a blank line. Her avatar was still that cute little dog—the Maltese—its image now dulled by years of internet overuse.

Judging from that empty line, Xue Jing couldn’t be sure if Ha Yue had wiped her Moments at some point when she was going through a rough time or if she simply hadn’t understood the message he sent her last night.

He truly didn’t intend to reignite any romantic sparks between them. But he was curious—if she found out he was still on her blocklist, what kind of expression would she make?

Opening their chat history, the screen displayed a painfully familiar conversation—the one they’d had after breaking up.

The green bubbles, representing Xue Jing, were messy and chaotic, radiating a pathetic sense of nervousness.

“Ha Yue, can we talk again?”
“Why does it have to end like this?”
“Please, just trust me a little. Not for long. One year. Just one year. If I can’t make it as a writer, I’ll get a job immediately.”
“I can give you what you want. I just need a little time. Don’t we have so much time ahead of us?”

The white bubbles, on the other hand, belonged to Ha Yue, her words as cold and sharp as a knife.

“No need.”
“We’re not suitable, and we never will be.”
“Wish you happiness.”

Following that, a message that read, “But breaking up won’t make me happy,” remained unsent.

At the bottom, a small line of white text read: The recipient has blocked you from sending messages.

Ha Yue had blocked him, unable to see the last words beneath it: I still love you.

After their breakup, Xue Jing hadn’t deleted the tens of thousands of messages he’d exchanged with Ha Yue. The reason wasn’t that he still loved her, as he’d declared four years ago, but because he needed this stain to remind himself that he wasn’t a victim of life. Whenever he felt himself losing motivation, he would reread this chat log to whip himself into action.

At first, the experience of rereading it was one of pain and grievance. Later, it turned into anger and unwillingness.

These complex emotions drove him to produce more than twenty works over the years. During graduate school, he attended classes during the day, wrote at night, and even during vacations, he kept up a daily output of at least 10,000 words. No matter the quality of the drafts or how much he eventually edited out, writing became a survival mechanism. He feared that if he stopped producing even for a day, he’d fall back into the abyss of self-doubt.

There was so much he wanted to express through his work, but most of all, he wanted Ha Yue to witness his success.

He wanted to prove that he could achieve his self-worth through the very act of creative writing she’d so disdained.

However, over the past year, he no longer needed to open that chat log deliberately. He knew he no longer felt any emotional resonance when recalling that part of his past.

Deep down, he’d long understood: while falling in love takes two people, breaking up only requires one to say no. And as an adult, the price of growing up was accepting all the cruelty others imposed upon him.

Sartre said, “Hell is other people.”

Over the years, through success, stagnation, and ultimately arriving at his current state, Xue Jing’s hell had shifted from Ha Yue to himself.

The world is never perfect, and there’s no need to go out of your way to hate someone.

He had typed out a message in the chat box but thought for a moment and deleted it.

Sending a message to Ha Yue last night had been a mistake, and now he couldn’t compound that mistake further.

He shouldn’t feel curious about Ha Yue’s present or future. That was both polite and self-restrained.

To err further would be absurd. It would be like lifting a rock and smashing his own foot, only to bend down, grit his teeth, and use the same rock to shatter his other foot as well.

Who would willingly be a masochist? Xue Jing wasn’t some sick deviant.

Throwing off the covers, Xue Jing’s pale, well-defined features were exposed to the light. He unscrewed the cap of the complimentary bottled water from the hotel and gulped down half of it. As usual, he opened his email, logged onto Weibo, and replied to the important messages before stretching lazily. He carefully selected a clean outfit from his suitcase and walked into the bathroom.

The slightly ostentatious attire he wore yesterday wasn’t suited for hiking. Today, he planned to dress more practically.

At 8:30, he was scheduled to ascend the mountain with Director Zhao from the Cultural Bureau. Before that, he planned to find somewhere nearby to have breakfast, familiarize himself with the streets, and take a walk. Most importantly, he needed to buy some backup medicine.

Regardless of his mood, physiologically, his throat had indeed felt a bit dry and sore after being exposed to the cold wind on Ha Yue’s rickety three-wheeler yesterday.

He had a weak bronchial system. If the coughing couldn’t be suppressed after catching a chill, it would escalate into a fever, with red, sleepless eyes that burned throughout the night. This childhood affliction, despite all efforts to nurture and manage it in adulthood, lingered stubbornly—like a frustratingly shoddy building foundation, flawed at its core, no matter how much restoration was done.

Fortunately, his condition wasn’t severe today.

The shower turned on, the water was warm and plentiful, and soon steam seeped out from the gaps in the bathroom’s glass door. Meanwhile, in the suitcase, no one noticed that the phone casually thrown aside suddenly lit up.

That morning, Ha Yue and Zhao Chun Ni had a hearty breakfast.

The spread included Laba porridge with red dates and lotus seeds, scallion pancakes that could be cooked quickly without defrosting, and radish strips from home—dried, cleaned, and seasoned with sugar, sesame oil, and chili powder.

Beyond these vegetarian dishes, there was also a large bowl of steamed egg custard topped with shrimp and crab meat.

For these dishes, Ha Yue had gotten up half an hour early to prepare.

Before going to bed last night, she had already taken out her winter quilt from the cabinet. With the heating turned on in the house, the room was much warmer.

In this comfortable temperature, she fell into a deep sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, without having to think about any of her worries. She slept until the alarm went off.

This morning, Zhao Chun Ni didn’t spill the washbasin. On the contrary, while Ha Yue was preparing the ingredients, she proactively went outside to empty the water and even picked up a broom to sweep up the goose feathers scattered across the yard.

So, when the two of them sat face to face at the round table for breakfast, Ha Yue carefully observed Zhao Chun Ni’s rosy complexion and began drafting her words in her head.

While steaming the egg custard earlier, she had checked the discount airfares for the past two months. Next week, there was a budget flight from Lincheng to Jicheng.

Another brain CT was necessary. This time, she also wanted her mother to undergo a cognitive test to assess the progression of her condition.

If the situation turned out worse than expected, she wasn’t sure how to handle it going forward.

One step at a time, she thought. Deal with each challenge as it comes.

Lowering her head, Ha Yue stirred her Laba porridge with a spoon, pretending to casually call her mother’s attention.

When she raised her head again, Zhao Chun Ni unexpectedly put down her chopsticks at the table and, without waiting for Ha Yue to speak, began to ask, “Have you thought about what I discussed with you yesterday?”

“What are you talking about?” Ha Yue looked confused.

“What am I talking about? I mean the two piglets I said we should get yesterday. Did you forget everything after one night of sleep?”

“Mom... but pigs aren’t…” Ha Yue’s spoon dropped back into her bowl, and her brows furrowed.

The moment Zhao Chun Ni saw her expression, her temper flared. Before Ha Yue could finish speaking, she slammed her hand on the table and angrily stood up, scolding, “You still know I’m your mom? Now my words don’t count for anything? What’s the big deal about raising two pigs? They grow up on scraps. I can take care of them myself. I won’t need you to help.”

“Dirty? Messy? That’s just an excuse. Didn’t you used to spend your winter and summer holidays at your grandma’s house in the countryside? You weren’t bothered then. How bad can raising a couple of pigs be? You just don’t want me to be happy.”

The more she spoke, the angrier she became, her eyes bulging like copper bells.

“You’re always like this—gloomy, full of bad intentions, constantly opposing me. I told you not to attend college far away, and you went behind my back to change your application. If you had to go to college, why pick the most expensive one? Once you got to college, you ran wild like a stray dog, barely coming home for four years. Then, in your senior year, I broke my leg while getting supplies and was bedridden for two months. Do you remember how you had the audacity to ask me if I could scrape together money for some overseas workshop?”

At this point, Zhao Chun Ni seemed possessed, listing grievances in a never-ending tirade, as if determined to recite every wrong Ha Yue had committed in her lifetime.

“And then what? After graduation, I thought you’d achieve something. Aren’t you capable? Aren’t you smart? Why haven’t you bought a big house in Jicheng to bring your old mom over to enjoy life? Let me experience the return on raising a kid for once.”

“And what happened? Here I am, still struggling with that tiny shop. Do you know how cold it gets in there during winter? I try to save on the electric bill, but my toes get so frostbitten they ooze pus!”

These exact words—almost identical—had already been hurled at Ha Yue a month ago. Before that, such complaints were her mother’s favorite rant during any fit of anger. So Ha Yue didn’t bother to argue or justify herself. She stood up—not to escalate the fight but to pat her mother on the shoulder and calm her down.

“Mom, take it easy and listen to what I have to say.”

Zhao Chun Ni refused to let Ha Yue touch her. She took a step back, standing guard like a fortress, pointing a finger at Ha Yue’s nose. “You think I don’t know what’s on your mind? You must hate me to death for having this illness, don’t you?”

“You feel so wronged, don’t you? Huh? For having to come back from Jicheng to take care of your old mother?”

“How many times have I told you? This illness of mine was a misdiagnosis! There’s nothing wrong with me at all! Who gave you the right to keep me from going out? Who gave you the right to stop me from raising pigs? Who gave you the right to control everything I do? You’re always making me take medicine, medicine! I think you’re just taking revenge on me.”

“Can’t medicine have side effects? Are you trying to poison me to death?”

Her accusations escalated from personal attacks to imagined criminal intent.

Seeing that Ha Yue neither retorted nor reacted, her expression becoming increasingly blank and indifferent, Zhao Chun Ni grew even more dissatisfied. Instead of feeling triumphant, she was overcome by an unease that seeped from her bones. It was as if she recalled something, but no matter how hard she tried, the thought slipped through her grasp. Anxiety took over, and she began shouting at the top of her lungs.

“Speak!”

“Speak!”

“Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“Speak! Say something! Go out on the street and ask anyone—what have I ever done to wrong you? I fed you, clothed you, and sent you to Jicheng for school. How can you be so ungrateful?”

“Do you even have a heart? You’re just like your damned father!”

“All you want is to go back to Jicheng and live your own good life, don’t you? Fine! Don’t say anything, then! Leave! I don’t need you to take care of me. I can manage on my own. I’m perfectly fine by myself!”

Of course, Ha Yue wasn’t going to leave just because of her words. But seeing that Ha Yue still showed no reaction, Zhao Chun Ni had no choice but to resort to the ultimate move—running outside herself.

With her lips pressed tightly together, Ha Yue grabbed her mother’s wrist.

In the past two years, Zhao Chun Ni had gained a few pounds, but at some point, the strength that had once allowed her to support an entire family had faded. Her body had grown frail, and Ha Yue, without much effort, was able to overpower her mother’s will and drag her into the courtyard.

Ha Yue quickly walked to the west wing, pushed open the door, and, without a word, firmly shoved Zhao Chun Ni inside.

Inside the room, two piglets that had just finished eating their feed were huddled together, napping. Hearing the commotion, they twitched their ears and scurried back to the feeding trough, squealing.

The pigs were there, and judging by the makeshift fence and other arrangements, it was clear they had been there for more than just a day or two.

But when exactly had they been raised? Zhao Chun Ni racked her brain, desperately searching for the memory, but couldn’t find the answer.

Her chaotic thoughts twisted into a tangle, and her expression grew vacant.

Zhao Chun Ni stood there sluggishly, staring at the two piglets in front of her. It was as if time and her body had petrified together. After about ten minutes, she finally turned her head mechanically. With a childlike look, as if trying to please an adult, she asked Ha Yue, “Yueyue, have we been raising these pigs for a long time?”