TBW - 21

21. Studying philosophy does have its uses.

By the time Cheng Simin finished ladling the soup and came back out, Shi Ying had already put down his chopsticks and stood up. He hadn’t been caught in much rain tonight, but his entire being felt charred on the outside and tender on the inside, as if struck by lightning multiple times.

His mood had seesawed wildly—just moments ago, he was at a high point, but now he had plummeted into an abyss. His scalp throbbed, and cold sweat prickled at his skin.

He’d been played. Cheng Simin was worse than her dog—she wasn’t interested in him at all!

The moment his brain reached the conclusion that he wasn’t welcome here, Shi Ying not only stood up but also began moving quickly toward the door.

He needed to go home—right now, immediately, without delay. He couldn’t bear to stay in Cheng Simin’s apartment for another second.

She didn’t like him—what was he doing here, making a fool of himself?

Unaware of the turmoil brewing in Shi Ying’s mind, Cheng Simin looked puzzled as she called after him, gesturing to the dumplings on the table: “Hey! Aren’t you eating? I went through the trouble of cooking them. You still have to pay, you know.”

Money, money, money—it all boiled down to this. She had no feelings for him whatsoever. Since Valentine’s Day, every message she sent him was just to find someone to split costs with. What fragile, sensitive girl? Cheng Simin was nothing more than a blood-sucking locust passing through.

And him? He was the idiot who ran off to the mountains to work as a farmer, trying to avoid her so-called affection. The arrows Cheng Simin shot weren’t from Cupid—they were crossbow bolts aimed at hunting down clueless bears.

Damn her. How could he forget that Cheng Simin had always been fickle, her likes and dislikes flipping on a whim, completely devoid of consistency?

Realizing he had misinterpreted everything, Shi Ying’s face hardened instantly. His sharp tongue itched to lash out, but at whom? This humiliation was entirely self-inflicted. After contorting his face in silent rage for what felt like an eternity, he finally walked back, picked up the plate of dumplings from the table, and forced out a single word through gritted teeth: “Eat.”

“Didn’t we agree that I’d come to buy your dumplings? If I’m not here to eat them, then why am I here?”

“I suddenly don’t feel like eating here anymore. Can I take them to go? I’ll transfer the money to you—I won’t short you a single cent.”

Thirty seconds later, both doors of Units 1201 and 1203 were closed. Inside his apartment, Shi Ying was seething, on the verge of exploding. He stormed over to the trash can, stomped on the pedal to open the lid, and stared at the dumplings on the plate with a deathly expression, ready to toss the entire thing in.

But as his eyes landed on the plump dumplings, he hesitated. These had taken so much effort to make—he couldn’t bring himself to throw them away. With a loud clang, he slammed the plate down onto the only table in his room.

His head spun, his thoughts tangled in chaos. Hands on his hips, he paced around the room several times before finally stopping in front of the bathroom sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

The person in the mirror stared back.

Shi Ying brushed his bangs aside and suddenly realized how neglectful he’d been about his appearance lately. Working under the scorching sun at the winery, his once-pristine porcelain skin had turned a dull yellow, with a noticeable difference between the tone of his face and neck.

It wasn’t just that. He hadn’t gone home yesterday and had only washed his face hastily this morning. Now, stubble dotted his lower jaw, casting a bluish shadow. Leaning closer to the mirror, he scrutinized his features closely.

His facial structure was unchanged, but his eyes lacked vitality, dark circles hung heavily beneath them, and his lips were chapped from dehydration.

Damn it, who was this person? How could he look so hideous?

With a frustrated swipe at his hair, Shi Ying emerged from the bathroom in a daze, surveying the sparse furnishings of his home.

It was still the same public rental apartment—exactly as it had been when he moved in months ago, utterly bare and rudimentary.

When Shi Ying first moved in, he hadn’t thought much of it. The apartment was cheap, a temporary solution, a step-by-step approach until his situation improved and he could move out. But now, he found himself deeply disgusted by the fact that he’d simply placed his mattress on the floor.

Even homeless people under bridges in England knew to use storage bins to organize their living spaces. His place wasn’t a home—it was a doghouse, where eating and sleeping happened in the same cramped, chaotic space, utterly devoid of charm.

Suddenly, Shi Ying felt less resentment toward Cheng Simin for not liking him. With his current sorry state, who could possibly be attracted to him? Cheng Simin wasn’t blind.

From what he knew of her, Cheng Simin had always been drawn to flashy, superficial things.

In elementary school, when he played the trombone in the marching band, Cheng Simin envied him for walking at the front of the children’s parade. Every day, she eagerly watched him practice in the formation, neglecting her homework.

In middle school, when he worked as a broadcaster at the campus radio station on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Cheng Simin coveted his ability to choose which listener letters to read during music breaks. During computer class, she secretly messaged him on QQ to discuss her thoughts on pop music.

Cheng Simin used to prioritize packaging when buying things: colorful cellophane, cologne-scented wrapping paper, and pink satin ribbons. It didn’t matter if the product inside was a pen that didn’t write or correction fluid that dried up after two uses—as long as it had these elements, Cheng Simin couldn’t resist lingering in the school gate stationery shop, drooling over those pretty trinkets even when she was late.

She stuck plastic diamonds on pencil cases and drew colorful borders in her textbooks.

If there were ever someone in this world who would return a pearl for its box, that person would surely be surnamed Cheng.

Even her friendship with him back then stemmed from her admiration for his polished appearance, his shine, the way everyone liked and surrounded him—but most importantly, the sense of accomplishment she derived from being his best friend.

How could he not see that her reasons for fawning over him were shallow? But now, even this shallow affection was gone.

At present, he lived in a public rental unit, unkempt, buying discounted yogurt, and often wearing childish cartoon pajamas. Cheng Simin likely viewed him as nothing more than a comrade-in-arms.

If that was the case, there was still hope. As long as he overcame his current predicament, their dynamic could change.

He was an expert at flaunting like a peacock.

With this thought, the anger in Shi Ying’s heart dissipated, leaving him unexpectedly calm. He had only spent a year pursuing a doctorate in the humanities and social sciences, but he had mastered the art of self-consolation through philosophy. Who said studying the history of philosophy was mere navel-gazing? Kant and his Critique of Pure Reason were practically life-saving.

Shi Ying pulled over a chair and sat upright at his makeshift dining table.

The first dumpling was still warm as it entered his mouth. He bit into it, and the juices burst forth, filling his mouth with flavor. Chewing slowly, the aroma lingered on his palate. Cheng Simin’s dumplings were truly delicious. After a brief moment of stunned realization, he eagerly swallowed and quickly reached for a second, then a third, devouring them with the ferocity of a storm sweeping away the clouds.

By the time the plate was empty, Shi Ying patted his warm stomach and felt a genuine tear well up in his eye. Cheng Simin hadn’t exaggerated—this plate of dumplings was the best he had ever eaten in his twenty-six years of life.

Cheng Simin was a culinary genius. It was a pity she wasn’t making money from her talent. But wasn’t it just about money? How much couldn’t he provide?

As Georg Simmel had said: “Money is merely a bridge to ultimate value. One can never dwell on the bridge.”

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The previous night, Cheng Simin had gone to bed relatively early. No sooner had Shi Ying left than she collapsed onto the bunk bed.

Initially, she had planned to take a short nap, wake up to play a couple of rounds of a game to claim her free rewards, and then sleep properly. But after a full day of making dumplings, washing, and cleaning, she was exhausted. When she closed her eyes and opened them again, it was already noon the next day.

Outside the window, the rain hadn’t stopped. Last night’s downpour had given way to today’s drizzle. The temperature indoors had dropped a few degrees, and the fan blew a gentle breeze, creating a blissfully comfortable atmosphere. Cheng Simin lay awake on the bed, while Beibei below had grown impatient, standing up and pawing at the ladder of the bunk bed.

The dog had no ulterior motives—it was simply hungry.

Motivated by the belief that one shouldn’t starve oneself or one’s child, Cheng Simin rolled out of bed with surprising agility, climbed down from the bunk, and fed the dog.

As Beibei happily chewed away in the living room, Cheng Simin sat cross-legged on the sofa, staring blankly at the balcony.

Her gaze wandered from the dog’s towel to her own undergarments hanging on the clothesline. Only then did she belatedly realize that Shi Ying must have seen her cotton boxer shorts and sports tank top when he hung his towel on the balcony yesterday.

Upon reflection, Cheng Simin realized she had stopped pursuing attractive lingerie sets after graduating from university.

Her desire for such items hadn’t faded overnight. She had certainly been captivated by sexy undergarments at one point.

Initially, her interest in them stemmed entirely from the ubiquitous Tingmei advertisements that flooded the streets during her adolescence. The slogan “Being a woman feels great” sparked a peculiar fascination with push-up bras. She wanted them but was too shy to admit it, always secretly choosing the ones with the thickest padding.

Later, as Cheng Simin grew older, the Victoria’s Secret fashion shows made their way overseas and into the public eye in China. Victoria’s Secret became an overnight sensation, shocking the conservative masses. Even the fast-food restaurant where she worked brazenly aired those dazzling runway shows on TV.

But no matter how tempting the words “French,” “lace,” or “pure seduction” sounded, or how alluring the models looked in photos, the reality of wearing such garments was a different story. Whoever wore them knew the discomfort firsthand.

For comfort, intimate apparel needed to be breathable and loose to prevent illness. Ultimately, comfort and beauty were incompatible—a concept Cheng Simin had taken years to fully grasp.

Stretching lazily in her hole-ridden tank top, Cheng Simin scratched the back of her head, her mind unperturbed and without a trace of shame. Big boxer shorts—who didn’t wear them?

For all she knew, Shi Ying probably had socks with holes in them too. Misery loves company—no one should judge anyone else.

Her thoughts shifted, and Cheng Simin’s stomach growled. She began contemplating what to eat for dinner tonight.

She had eaten enough dumplings yesterday, so today she wanted something simple—perhaps a bowl of porridge. She still had salted duck eggs, century eggs, dried lily bulbs, and lotus seeds at home. Torn between sweet or savory porridge, she picked up her phone to look for recipes.

As soon as she unlocked the screen, Cheng Simin froze. There were two unread WeChat messages, along with 53 new notifications on her Moments feed—all from her neighbor Shi Ying, who had inexplicably spent the entire night liking and commenting on her posts.