Chapter Sixty-Five: The Deeper the Love, the More It Etches the Soul

With the weight of two people pressing down on the staircase, the iron plates creaked beneath them. She let out a faint hum, almost like sleep-talking, “My head is spinning...” Instinctively, he slowed his pace, careful not to make her uncomfortable. She laughed softly, “But I’m happy... It feels like love is never quite so clear-headed.”

Creak.

The iron plates fell silent. He stopped, marveling at her persistence. In truth, when one truly loves, what difference is there between being awake and being drunk? He adjusted his arms, securing her more firmly on his back, and climbed steadily upward. At the doorway, he set her gently down, drawing her into his embrace. Out of courtesy, he murmured an apology before searching for her keys in the bag.

He opened the door, switched on the light, helped her out of her shoes, and tucked her under the covers. She slept soundly on the bed, her cheeks flushed and her brows slightly furrowed.

“Water...”

Alcohol brought thirst; he understood that feeling well. In the past, when entertaining clients, he often drank himself dizzy for the sake of a deal, wishing someone would be there to pour him a glass of water or pat his back.

Fortunately, he found a jar of honey in the cupboard and carefully prepared honey water for her. But she was no longer in bed. Anxious, he searched the apartment, only to find her sitting on the balcony’s rocking chair, an album spread across her knees, absorbed in its pages under the dim light.

Tonight, the stars shone brilliantly; a cool breeze drifted by.

“Drink some honey water—it’ll help with the hangover,” he said, setting the cup down. He made no attempt to pry into her privacy, but she generously tilted the album toward him, pointing out, “Look, wasn’t I adorable when I was in college?”

Knowing how much she treasured it, he leafed through the album with extra care. Each photo captured sweet moments between her and Lin Shuo: snapshots of her secretly photographing Lin Shuo while he studied, her hanging onto his shoulder with a radiant smile, and Lin Shuo holding her close to shield her from wind and rain. Unquestionably, her most beautiful and vivid memories of youth were all tied to him. Because of Lin Shuo, she learned the meaning of the word “falling.”

Gazing up at the boundless night sky, she seemed calm, murmuring, “Such a wonderful person, and I managed to lose him... No, I killed him. I feel so terrifying...”

He didn’t wish to ask what had happened; to him, it didn’t matter. What mattered was witnessing their sweet past firsthand—and he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of jealousy. Remembering the scene when he’d encountered Lin Shuo earlier, the inexplicable hostility in Lin Shuo’s eyes, he understood as a man that Lin Shuo had never truly let go, still cared, at least a little. Yet tonight, Lin Shuo had severed ties completely, knowing it would hurt, but doing it anyway. What determination and willpower that must take!

The conclusion came to him: “The most terrifying are those who can be ruthless even to themselves.” He sighed, closed the album, and when he looked at her again, she had peacefully fallen asleep after pouring out her sorrows—only the night wind continued to caress her hair, and his heart.

He took off his jacket and covered her with it. The coolness of Kunming’s early morning kept him wide awake.

He had never understood Xiaoxiao’s pain. Though not born into wealth, he had never known poverty; he grew up under the halo of a good son and model student, and later found a good job, never causing his family worry. He worked tirelessly, and within a few years became the regional manager, admired by all. Many believed he lived a life free of care, but he didn’t think so. He knew only endless striving would keep anxiety at bay—because he’d never tasted hardship, he feared it all the more, refusing even a hint of slackness.

As for love, it seemed he had little time to spare for it. He simply couldn’t comprehend Xiaoxiao’s feelings. Clearly, love has nothing to do with age; it’s not that the longer one lives, the more one understands, but that the truer and deeper one loves, the more profound the insight.