Chapter 12: Why Can’t Life Be Easier?

Life is like a drop tower ride—climb one meter up, plummet ten meters down; misfortune knows no bottom.

After her failed confession, Yu Zhimei was fortunate enough to be caught up in a streak of overtime work, avoiding any encounters with Jian Zhaowen. According to He Jie’s advice, this wasn’t a failed confession at all—it was simply that Yu Zhimei hadn’t been bold enough. All she needed to do was confess again. Jian was handsome and intelligent; they could have a perfect romance. But according to Yu Zhimei’s “Law of Conservation of Luck,” merely imagining herself getting lucky would instantly bring misfortune. Life was like a drop tower—slow to climb, fast to fall, with endless bad luck. After meeting Jian Zhaowen, even when sulking, she felt oddly cheerful, which made her vaguely uneasy, as if disaster was about to strike.

And indeed, it did.

Xiao Ma, slick-haired with neatly shaved temples, a perfectly round head, thick round glasses, and yellow-brown leather shoes, looked like a wannabe gangster from Shanghai Beach who had time-traveled to usurp authority. When Yu Zhimei returned home from work and saw the greasy Xiao Ma, she thought she had walked into the wrong apartment. He was upstairs negotiating with a group of young women: “I’m taking this house back now. I don’t care when your lease expires. I’ll pay the penalty fee, but you have to move out within a week.”

“What about our deposit?”

“I’ll refund it, along with everything else.”

“Where will we move to?”

“Not my problem.” Xiao Ma’s glasses seemed to gleam with determination: “Look at how small your place is. There’s even a washing machine blocking the corridor. No one can get through. Hurry up and move to the suburbs and rent a bigger place.” Spotting Yu Zhimei on the stairs, Xiao Ma paused for a second but remained stern: “Do you live on the third floor? I’m Xiao Ma, grandson of your landlord. I’ve come to notify you: move out within a week. This house will no longer be rented to you.”

Yu Zhimei was still processing: “What did you say?”

“I said, move out. Don’t understand? I’m moving in.”

“You’re… evicting which unit right now?”

Xiao Ma’s finger swept across his line of sight, then pointed upward: “This floor and your floor—the second and third floors. I’m taking them all for my wedding.”

“A wedding requires so many rooms…”

“What’s it to you? Move out, period. By the way, do you know the person in 301?”

“Not really. I don’t have their contact information.”

“No problem. I’ve got plenty of time recently. I can wait. Start looking for a new place. Housing is tight around here—it’s prime downtown real estate.” The last sentence was emphasized, excitement leaking through his clenched teeth.

The young women renting together were already crying, but Xiao Ma showed no pity. Someone needed to step up. Yu Zhimei cleared her throat: “Xiao Ma, we’ve always dealt directly with Grandpa Ma. Why isn’t he handling this?”

Xiao Ma finally found someone to engage with: “My grandfather was hospitalized last month. He’s already written his will, and the house is mine now. So, please vacate. This contract is void, and there will be no lease renewal.” Xiao Ma politely avoided further argument: “Let me know when your neighbor in 301 comes back. We’ll discuss it together. I’ve got other matters to attend to, so I’ll leave now. Start looking for a new place.”

With that, he turned and left without a backward glance, leaving behind a group of sobbing girls brainstorming desperate solutions. Yu Zhimei muttered to herself: “Who does he think he is, bossing us around?”

The renters, strangers to one another, quickly banded together in their fight for rights. Late at night, they passionately discussed “how to protect their rights” in the group chat. A seemingly effective strategy emerged: first, act cute; then reason with him; escalate online, file complaints with consumer associations, and call 110. Xiao Ma also added her contact, sending messages every two hours: “Have you contacted 301 yet?” “?”, “Any news?” His words were concise, devoid of emotion. Yu Zhimei cared little for the tenants’ battle to keep their homes or their struggles to find new ones. They truly couldn’t reach Grandpa Ma—he wasn’t used to smartphones and always collected rent in person quarterly. He hadn’t come this month. Sitting on a stool among the flowers on her balcony, with Ruru jumping onto her lap, she opened her phone to check nearby rentals. The prices were horrifying. Nearby apartments were all large, flat layouts of over 100 square meters, and rents for downtown elevator buildings made her gasp. Luxury complexes boasted signs reading “No Shared Rentals,” ruling out co-living options. Old residential buildings had no available sublets, and the alleyways by the street were as dreadful as she knew from daily commutes. This room, which had been renovated before she moved in and painstakingly decorated, was not something she wanted to leave. But stubbornness wasn’t her style—she’d rather take the loss than lose her dignity.

Dignity—those two words always seemed to leave her in shambles. This was the only place she had left, and moving would cost her not just time but also the enthusiasm that had been slowly ground away. Migrating wasn’t something all migratory birds enjoyed. Thinking about it, she glanced at the neighboring balcony—the window and door were open, but there was no light.

Approaching the adjacent room, she called out tentatively: “Hey, Jian Zhaowen, are you home…?”

No response. Ruru looked up, sniffed Yu Zhimei’s nose, then bit into the cat grass on the balcony and started tugging at her owner’s hair—it was bedtime.

Of course, sleep was out of the question tonight. Yu Zhimei sent a brief message to He Jie: “I’m moving out.” But He Jie, who usually replied instantly, suddenly fell silent.

To the east of Miaolin Dessert Shop stood a heritage building, and next door was a kindergarten. Ou Jinghe didn’t like sunbathing, but around three or four in the afternoon, she’d step out of the dessert shop’s courtyard and stand in the shade by the road to watch the kindergarten children leave. The kids with their yellow hats emerged from the three-story building, resembling mushrooms sprouting from the greenery, their smiles radiant. At this hour, the entire street came alive—childish voices chirping, laughter crisp, cries loud. She’d sit near the café entrance, listening, unconsciously smiling along. When customers were present, she’d leave the courtyard gate open and sit as close to the entrance as possible, hoping to catch sight of little yellow-hatted “mushrooms” passing by. Some visitors mentioned that one shouldn’t underestimate the neighboring kindergarten; the small three-story building was a prestigious district school. Families from Bihu Tiandi, despite having access to private kindergartens, preferred sending their children here. Children were innocent, and only at this age could they hold hands without considering social class—or realizing the millions of yuan that separated them.

The visitor who shared this tidbit was her neighbor from Phase Three of Bihu Tiandi, someone who lived lavishly, mixing counterfeit luxury goods with authentic ones. Businesspeople couldn’t pick their customers, but whenever she encountered someone who flaunted their wealth, she wanted to close shop early. Only those who had achieved class mobility obsessed over the word “class.” This acquaintance had drawn close because she saw them as equals. But Ou Jinghe disliked it, even found it annoying. She only pulled out the term when criticizing Yu Zhimei for not being clever enough.

When she returned home, her husband was already seated in the living room eating. Gao Yuan, her junior high classmate from a private school, had secretly admired her during puberty and finally gotten his wish as they neared thirty. Life after that… was complicated. At the long dining table, he sat at the far end, a wine barrel aerating red wine in front of him. The filet mignon on the table was medium-rare, the sliced ox tongue still oozing blood. Ou Jinghe caught a whiff of the metallic smell as she entered, her appetite waning. She considered ordering takeout from the dessert shop instead. Gao Yuan casually scrolled through his phone, replying to messages with voice notes, glancing up briefly to acknowledge her—a perfunctory greeting. The nanny had already retreated to the maid’s quarters, leaving the two of them alone. Ou Jinghe sat at the other end of the table and quietly opened LoveDate.

“My parents might come to Shanghai soon. We should have dinner together—you arrange it.”

“Alright.” His parents lived in a villa in Pujing, and their visit certainly wasn’t to see her. Ou Jinghe swiped left and right on her phone, finding the motion monotonous and boring. Across from her sat Gao Yuan, which added a layer of malice to her thoughts.

“They asked on the phone if you’re very busy, why you don’t even call them.”

“At the shop.” Ou Jinghe took a deep breath: “What else can I do? And—didn’t you tell me last time not to call your parents?”

“That was in anger. What normal woman plays drifting? That’s a man’s game, full of danger and accidents. Women shouldn’t touch such risky sports.”

Ou Jinghe smirked, waving at a boy on her phone: “It’s no different from driving. Besides, it’s not just men who can do it. I told you, the coach is my friend—and she’s a woman.”

“Only beasts crave speed and lose control. Women shouldn’t get involved in dangerous activities.”

“I’ve already stopped, so drop it.”

“Wouldn’t attending Mrs. Xu’s spiritual retreats or beauty salons be better?”

“Those are lessons in being a dutiful wife and mother. Wouldn’t I look ridiculous there?”

Gao Yuan exhaled sharply, his lips pressed tight with the gravitas of a forty-year-old despite being thirty. He stood up: “I have a meeting tonight, so I’ll head out first. I’ll be in Shanghai for a while and will celebrate your birthday again next week.”

“No need.”

“You should make a wish.”

“I have no wishes. My only wish is that someday men and women will truly be equal, and women will have true freedom.”

“Look at the house you live in and the clothes you wear—do you even have the right to say that? I must’ve lost my mind today to come back and see you.” Her husband stood up: “Don’t wait up for me. I’ll sleep in the south bedroom tonight.”

The corridor lights went out. Ou Jinghe stared at the bloody streaks on the porcelain plate—the whole ox tongue, barely cooked, quivering like a dying heart. The maid needed to clear the tablecloth first, and the tongue twitched rhythmically. The south and north bedrooms were connected by a three-meter-long corridor, each with its own bathroom and study—a hallmark of upper-class life, offering quiet solitude at night. But Ou Jinghe hated that silence the most. Whenever she passed by bustling old neighborhoods, she’d slow down at hardware stores and small supermarkets, inhaling the pungent scent of daily life. Watching couples cracking sunflower seeds, dressed plainly, she’d sometimes slip in for a bowl of sesame sauce wontons. Markets made her happiest—the familiar calls of vendors and greasy aromas pulling her into the liveliness. Even being jostled by children brought joy; she hadn’t been vacuum-sealed into isolation. Standing by the window, the sudden drop in temperature cloaked Shanghai in a gray mist. Buildings stretched endlessly, their distant lights blurred by the fog. The glass reflected her image, casting her into the night, threading her into a string of glowing pearls.