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Shi Ying fully respected Cheng Simin’s decision to sever ties with her parents. Perhaps it was the result of an emotionally charged argument, years of accumulated dissatisfaction, or simply that a family of four felt too crowded.
It was impossible for one person to completely inhabit another’s body and feel their pain. All he could offer Cheng Simin was rational analysis and emotional support—akin to a doctor’s diagnostic process of observation, listening, questioning, and palpation. He hadn’t reached the stage of prescribing remedies; he couldn’t cure her wounds.
But he had never imagined that the truth behind Cheng Simin cutting off her family would be so devastating, like the aftermath of a nuclear explosion. Over the past few years, she had been working alone in a distant city, enduring illness, resigning from jobs, selling property at a loss, and facing financial setbacks. What kind of emotional fortitude must it have taken for her to process her own origins?
Had she ever considered seeking out the parents who abandoned her to demand answers?
He had many questions swirling in his mind, but at this moment, all he wanted to do was embrace her and offer the cheapest form of comfort.
Even hearing those scenes secondhand was unbearable for him—how much more so for Cheng Simin, who was only human?
She must have been in so much pain.
She must have felt so wronged.
With these thoughts, Shi Ying acted accordingly. He rose and walked over to Cheng Simin, intending to lend her his shoulder to cry on. But somehow, the flames of conflict had shifted toward him. Cheng Simin’s face was taut as she rejected both his tissues and his embrace.
She tilted her head up, staring at his face with eyes like sweeping searchlights, as if trying to find evidence to confirm his guilt.
“Do you think you’ve misunderstood me? Do you think I’m cold-hearted, devoid of humanity?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie. I know you’re judging me in your heart.”
Cheng Simin’s eyes were hot, almost on the verge of tears, but her gaze remained icy, grinding astringent as it shifted, emotions overflowing without release. She wouldn’t allow herself to cry, so her mouth took over where her eyes left off.
Shi Kaiji had done wrong too, but Shi Ying’s evaluation of his father had been light and dismissive, as if spoken by a detached sage who still held affection for better things. He maintained a detached demeanor, unlike her—intense and sticky, struggling to let go, harboring grudges with remarkable tenacity.
“I’m not judging you.”
Shi Ying wasn’t a moral judge—what legal grounds did he have to pass judgment? He only saw a wounded soul trying to display strength.
But Cheng Simin didn’t believe him.
“Then why are you offering me tissues? Do you think that since I know he’s dead, I should shed a few tears to seem proper? But what can I do? I won’t cry for him. He’s right—I am an ungrateful wretch. I feel nothing for them!”
“I hate them.”
“I also hate the two people who abandoned me.”
“Why bring me into this world if they didn’t want me?”
“Why raise me if they didn’t love me?”
“I wish they’d suffer. I hope they all meet misfortune. I don’t care. I feel absolutely nothing!”
The kindness he extended became a knife. Cheng Simin was like an injured porcupine. Shi Ying set the tissue box aside, intending to remain silent amidst her curses. But he couldn’t bear to see her trapped in the vortex of her emotions, endlessly spiraling. In the brief pauses between her words, he gently said, “Cheng Simin.”
“Someone who truly doesn’t care wouldn’t spend two hours explaining how much they don’t care.”
Her repeated emphasis seemed more like an attempt to convince herself.
“I just hope that if you’re sad, you’ll cry. Don’t torture yourself with sarcasm. Being sad isn’t a crime. Shedding tears is as much your right to express emotion as laughing aloud.”
“There’s no such thing as good or bad.”
Like archetypal characters in stylized dramas, decisiveness is equated with strength, while hesitation is seen as cowardice. But human emotions aren’t binary—they aren’t strictly black or white. There must be room for gray areas.
She could allow herself to be vulnerable, even toward someone she deemed a villain.
Shi Ying’s silence might have been tolerable, and even his harsh, doctrinaire words could have sustained her anger.
But he insisted on saying things that corroded her heart.
It was like a child who falls and could endure the pain stoically, but if someone who loves them rushes over to comfort them, showing pity, the child feels encouraged to wallow in self-pity, escalating their cries, sobs, kicking legs, and dramatically displaying their wounds.
But who would tolerate such emotional breakdowns in a romantic relationship?
They were dating, not raising a child.
Shi Ying was her boyfriend, not her father. She didn’t want to lose composure entirely in front of him.
Her heart felt burned through with acid, her eyes growing hot in waves. Just as tears threatened to fall, she suddenly stood up from her chair, glaring with round eyes and shouting loudly: “I’m not sad! I’m not sad! I’m not sad! How can you not understand what I’m saying!”
“You’re not me—how do you know I’m being sarcastic? I told you I’m not!”
“It’s useless talking to you. I need to go home and finish my drawings—it’s a waste of time talking to you.”
With that, Cheng Simin grabbed Beibei’s leash to take the dog home. But the puppy refused to follow, tail tucked, hiding in the gap between the sofa and the balcony, its triangular black eyes darting between her and Shi Ying.
In her urgency, catching sight of Shi Ying approaching from the corner of her eye, fearing her carefully adjusted emotions would unravel, Cheng Simin flung the leash and snapped at the dog: “If you want to stay, stay! I’m leaving! Stay here as long as you want!”
Bursting out of Shi Ying’s apartment, she returned to her own room, closing the door behind her. Her heart still pounded wildly in her chest.
Thankfully, Shi Ying hadn’t followed her out—otherwise, she might have collapsed into uncontrollable sobs the next second.
Alone now, in her private space, she moved like a zombie back to the couch. Her eyes weren’t eyes anymore—they flowed like a broken faucet. After a while, as her numb arms regained strength, she exhaled heavily and fumbled for her phone with tear-soaked hands.
After several mistaken taps on the screen, she finally found Cheng Wei and Chen Xiaofen’s avatars in her WeChat blacklist.
“How could he possibly be dead…”
No matter how dire the circumstances—even if the shop was gone—someone like Cheng Wei wouldn’t die. How ruthless was his heart? Before she blocked his contact, he was still tallying expenses on WeChat, calculating every bill since the day he brought her home—food, clothing, medical bills, tuition. Over twenty years, principal and interest amounted to 460,000 yuan.
Since they had severed their parent-child relationship, she owed him that money in full.
How meticulous Cheng Wei was—if he hadn’t received her repayment, how could he willingly die?
Even from the grave, he’d crawl back to collect his debt.
Clicking on Cheng Wei’s avatar, it wasn’t the perennially unchanged storefront photo anymore—it had been replaced by a small flower nestled in greenery. Cheng Simin’s eyelids twitched; her intuition told her the news Shi Ying had received was inaccurate. Cheng Wei wasn’t dead. Scrolling, she removed Cheng Wei from her blacklist.
Eagerly opening his Moments feed, she found… nothing. Cheng Wei barely knew how to read or write and rarely used his phone. This WeChat account had been registered under his identity years ago when Cheng Simin helped him set up a payment code for the shop.
She couldn’t confirm whether Cheng Wei was still using this account or if anyone else was operating it.
The simplest way was to call and investigate. But after returning to the chat window, after several internal struggles, Cheng Simin couldn’t bring herself to click the video call button.
She wasn’t ready—not yet. Three years hadn’t been enough to dilute her emotions. How could this short span of time suffice?
After blowing her nose over a dozen times until her nostrils cracked and her eyelids swelled, Cheng Simin forced herself to sit at her desk and focus on her work.
She had spent too much time at Shi Ying’s place recounting reasons why she shouldn’t feel grief. Outside, the afternoon sunlight had already slanted onto the sofa.
Work was work. She couldn’t let her emotions derail her ability to earn a living.
An hour later, having finalized the wine label details, she packaged three draft designs and sent them to Shi Ying ahead of the agreed deadline.
Shi Ying received the files and typed something in the chatbox. Perhaps because she had spoken so harshly earlier, he ultimately decided not to continue the previous topic.
Instead, he steered clear of the argument and sent a work-related message.
“Thanks for your hard work. I’ll give you feedback tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
She thought she’d feel relieved, but staring at her phone, Cheng Simin’s heart remained heavy. She typed a message, then deleted it, wrestling with herself for twenty minutes before sending a dog-related comment.
“Are you going out for a meeting? I’ll come get Beibei.”
“Sure. I’ve left the key under the mat.”
A photo accompanied the message, taken just minutes ago—the spare key placed under the coconut shell doormat. Shi Ying had already left with his documents, driving away.
This was for the best. It spared him from seeing her tear-streaked face.
Opening her mouth, taking a deep breath, Cheng Simin set her phone down and went next door to retrieve the dog. As the security door of 1203 clicked shut behind her, the phone lying beside the mouse briefly lit up, then went dark again.
The sender was Cheng Wei’s WeChat account.
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