How Did The Young Lady Go Bankrupt? - Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Blindness

The young lady’s real name was Duan Zishu—a very ordinary name without any profound meaning. According to her, her mother picked it simply because it rolled off the tongue. If eight out of ten people secretly nicknamed her “My Lady”, the remaining two would inevitably call her “E-book”. It was the only thing about her that didn’t follow a high-end, upscale trajectory.

Now, she stood at the entryway dragging her small suitcase. Because she was drenched from the rain and still dripping water, she didn’t walk into the apartment.

The suitcase was mint green, very small—only about knee-high—and couldn’t hold much. It looked plain and unremarkable, but Lu Zhiyao estimated that if she looked up the brand, it would turn out to be an exorbitant price.

Everything was happening so inexplicably that Lu Zhiyao lost her temper; she simply turned around to grab a towel. The moment Duan Zishu reached out to take it, their fingertips brushed. They were ice-cold.

“You should go take a shower first,” Lu Zhiyao said. “I’ll go make dinner.”

Duan Zishu nodded and murmured a “Mm,” but didn’t move. Lu Zhiyao knew why and sighed, pointing toward the bathroom: “Wash up in there. Hot water on the left, cold on the right. The yellow bottle is shampoo, the blue one is body wash. I’ll bring you pajamas and a towel.”

“Mm.” Duan Zishu nodded again. “Thanks.”

She was the type of person who constantly said “please” and “thanks,” yet somehow managed to make you feel like she had no manners at all. Many years had passed, and she was still that same, authentic “My Lady.”

Lu Zhiyao found a fresh towel, delivered it, wiped away the water stains Duan Zishu had left behind, washed her hands, and went to the kitchen to cook. For a moment, she felt as if she had turned into a devoted, long-suffering house-elf—a habit entirely cultivated back in high school. Back then, though she didn’t have to mop the floors or cook, she had often run around doing various chores for Duan Zishu like a personal page.

“Tsk.”

The water boiled. She took two servings of dried noodles and tossed them into the pot, thinking to herself that this broken temple and its meager offerings probably weren’t good enough for this golden noble. Lu Zhiyao instinctively felt that Duan Zishu wouldn’t want to eat these plain noodles that cost less than five yuan. Since the other woman could casually pull out a tattered curtain that was actually a bespoke piece from some “XX Family” brand worth thousands or tens of thousands, surely she would only find a hundred-yuan-per-strand noodle worth eating. She admitted she was a bit bitter, but who among those who have worked for years could be completely immune to hating the rich?

Fortunately, Duan Zishu didn’t pick at the noodles. After offering a standard “thank you,” she picked up her chopsticks. As a “My Lady,” she naturally ate slowly and delicately, but today Duan Zishu ate rather quickly; it seemed she was truly hungry. Despite the speed, she remained quiet, making Lu Zhiyao feel embarrassed to bury her head in her own bowl and slurp noisily while watching a video.

Back in high school, she used to be completely captivated by Duan Zishu’s every move. Her mind was filled with thoughts of “goddess,” “elegance,” “celestial being,” and “beauty”—she’d been utterly bewitched.

They finished around the same time, and then Duan Zishu stood up. To Lu Zhiyao’s astonishment, she picked up both their bowls.

She—she—she wasn’t actually going to wash the dishes, was she?

Although a young lady from a wealthy family wasn’t mentally handicapped, and the task of turning on a faucet and scrubbing a bowl was something anyone could do. In Lu Zhiyao’s mind, these “heavenly dragons” who didn’t even deem it worthy to breathe the same air as commoners like them shouldn’t be engaging in such chores by hand.

She watched as Duan Zishu carried the two bowls to the sink, put them down, and turned on the faucet.

Water splashed loudly. Duan Zishu stood there, motionless, her arms braced against the edge of the sink, head bowed as if deep in thought.

Surely there couldn’t be a person in their twenties who didn’t know how to wash a bowl, Lu Zhiyao thought, disbelieving. Logically, if you knew how to take a shower, you should know how to wash a bowl; the principles were identical.

Duan Zishu stood silently. Just as Lu Zhiyao started to feel pained over the water bill, she slowly raised her hands, stared at her fingers for a while, and then rubbed them together. Even though she hadn’t really moved the muscles in her eyes or brows, one could clearly see an expression of disgust on her face.

Lu Zhiyao realized what was happening.

When picking up the bowls, one would inevitably touch the residual noodle broth. Perhaps Duan Zishu had wanted to wash them initially, but the moment she touched the oily broth, her sense of repulsion became overwhelming. If she was this repulsed by just a bit of soup, there was no way she would pick up a sponge and lather soap on the bowls.

“Alright, that’s enough. Leave the bowls and go wash your hands,” Lu Zhiyao said, walking over to turn off the faucet. She wanted to sigh again.

The persona of an “untouchable heavenly dragon” who didn’t eat mortal food was outdated; if Duan Zishu were a character in a piece of literature, she would be getting roasted by the audience.

Hearing Lu Zhiyao, Duan Zishu obediently went to wash her hands. After a while, she returned and stood behind Lu Zhiyao, watching her wash the dishes. She didn’t speak; she just watched, like a supervisor monitoring a subordinate, or a homeroom teacher standing at the back door of the classroom. Lu Zhiyao felt her skin crawl, having no idea what the other woman wanted.

Normally, the time after a meal was a casual moment for playing on one’s phone, but now that there was another person in the house, everything felt uncomfortable. Back in high school, Lu Zhiyao had longed to be glued to Duan Zishu constantly—the more private the setting, the better, two people touching and fidgeting, never able to stay still.

Now? Lu Zhiyao felt awkward.

They had parted on bad terms, and having not seen each other for so many years, it was hard to even find things to reminisce about. Duan Zishu had never been a woman of few words, but now she sat in silence, perched on the sofa like a statue. Lu Zhiyao snuck a glance and saw the other woman staring down at the floor, lost in thought.

It was a struggle to make it to nine o’clock, a time when nightlife was just beginning for most young people—before Lu Zhiyao stood up abruptly.

“Time for bed!”

Sleep, just sleep. Once she woke up, Duan Zishu would have to leave. Actually, even now, Lu Zhiyao hadn’t fully grasped the situation: how Duan Zishu had suddenly appeared at her door, how she’d come in so naturally to eat a meal, and how she’d stayed the night so matter-of-factly. But whatever, she would definitely be gone tomorrow, right?

They had no relationship left; even sharing a room felt awkward.

There was only one bed in the house, so Lu Zhiyao left it for Duan Zishu, the guest, and slept on the sofa herself. After scrolling through her phone for two hours, she tilted her head and drifted off.

Perhaps because she had been obsessively revisiting high school memories, she fell victim to the saying, “What you think about by day, you dream of by night.”

She dreamt of those bright yellow days of the past.

Lu Zhiyao’s love for Duan Zishu was a very cliché case of love at first sight.

As a scholarship student at a private school where wealthy heirs and heiresses were a dime a dozen, Lu Zhiyao felt like an outsider. The kids from wealthy families weren’t all demons and monsters—her desk mate was a second-generation heir who loved corn cakes and never showed off her wealth. But the differences in upbringing, outlook, and temperament brought about by their different backgrounds couldn’t be easily erased. The heirs possessed a certain confidence that came from never worrying about money, while students from poor families like Lu Zhiyao possessed a sense of pride that fifteen or sixteen-year-olds had in abundance.

Lu Zhiyao didn’t shrink away because of her background; instead, she looked down on classmates who had immense educational resources yet still couldn’t outperform her academically. Relying on her knowledge of the wealthy from novels and TV dramas, she always felt these spoiled brats were idling their lives away, wearing gold and silver but lacking substance.

One day, she went to the art building for music class—a subject she held in contempt. She always brought her textbook along, thinking it better to solve math problems than to listen to music; the better her grades, the higher her scholarship. Suddenly, she heard the sound of a piano coming from a room she’d never seen anyone enter. Lu Zhiyao didn’t understand music theory, but she thought the piece was incredibly pleasant.

At that time, her heart was filled with indescribable romantic fantasies, such as the idea that someone playing piano in a room that was never used must be a hidden master.

The door was ajar, and Lu Zhiyao couldn’t resist her curiosity and peeked in.

I don’t know if the sun was really shining just right that day, or if memory had taken the liberty of adding a filter to the past. In the dream, under the bright yellow light, Duan Zishu sat before a beautiful piano, playing the final movement of the piece.

Everything was perfect.

The impassioned music grew slower and deeper, until it faded away, leaving only a lingering resonance. Even to someone who didn’t understand music, it sounded heartbreaking. The pianist’s fingers rested on the final note for a long time before pulling away. Lu Zhiyao remembered clearly that Duan Zishu was wearing a white shirt that day, and after the music vanished, she let out a soft sigh.

Then, she looked up toward Lu Zhiyao outside the door: “Please come in.”

“You play very well.”

“Thank you.” Duan Zishu reached out to touch the piano. “But I will never play the piano again.”

She was different from the others. Lu Zhiyao had thought that since the very first time they met.

Those classmates who didn’t have to study hard but just played around, waiting to grow up and inherit their family businesses—they all reeked of the vulgarity of nouveau riche, lacking depth. Their heads were stuffed with pleasure, their bellies with expensive food, living like NPCs, completely uninteresting. But Duan Zishu was different. Even though you shouldn’t judge someone’s life upon a first meeting, Lu Zhiyao felt exactly that way.

The simple sentence, “I will never play the piano again,” carried so much narrative weight that it compelled Lu Zhiyao to ruminate on it for a long time.

In the dream, she turned back into that high schooler, returning to a time when she had an endless supply of emotions. After stepping out of adolescence, Lu Zhiyao seemed to have lost the ability to be so joyful toward another person. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried new relationships—both sides were satisfied, and it wasn’t that she didn’t like them—but it just wasn’t the same. The feeling of liking someone so much that your heart twitched and you feared you might die of cardiac arrest—that sensation was gone forever.

Her heart was pounding, dopamine was secreting, and Lu Zhiyao was just enjoying the dream when she was suddenly nudged.

She felt annoyed, unwilling to give up such a pleasant dream. But the person nudging her didn’t give up, pushing her twice more. The dream was interrupted, and even if she went back to sleep, it might not continue. Lu Zhiyao was forced to open her eyes, not yet fully awake.

Under the dim moonlight, she saw the person from her dream.

But the waking Lu Zhiyao felt no heart palpitations, only the irritation of being inexplicably woken up. She glared at Duan Zishu with a frown so deep it could crush any living thing. The other woman’s expression was incredibly serious, as solemn as if she were participating in an election. Lu Zhiyao jolted awake, blurting out: “Is there an earthquake?”

Duan Zishu shook her head.

“I can’t sleep,” she said.

Lu Zhiyao clearly felt a vein above her eyebrow twitch violently.

“Let’s get back together,” Duan Zishu continued.

“Tsk.” Lu Zhiyao couldn’t help but click her tongue. Her only thought was to submit this story to a “Lesbian Bot” account online.