I Heard That I am a HeartBreaker - Chapter 61

Qiu Shuang fell into silence. Yes, she was afraid and terrified—afraid that someone else’s healthy body might suffer damage because of her, and terrified of why someone would harm themselves for the sake of love. Did nothing else remain in this world but love?

Qiu Shuang truly could not understand why people sometimes viewed things that weren’t actually that important in their lives as more critical than anything else. She had always felt that love ranked second to the “self.” Completing oneself, seeking oneself, discovering one’s own value, and finding the soul one truly loved would always be more important than romance.

“Why do so many people regard love as something so heavy?”

Hearing Qiu Shuang’s question, Lu Chen did not move to refute her. Instead, he continued to voice his own perspective.

“Qiu Shuang, every person is a product of desire. When the most basic desires are satisfied, people always look toward higher ground. Those who pursue love are often those who no longer face any difficulty or entanglement in other aspects of their lives.”

“That’s why there’s a saying: ‘Sentimental seeds sprout in wealthy houses.’ For the poor, merely living takes every ounce of strength; how could they possibly put all their energy into the pursuit of love?”

In the university campus, the two walked side by side. Qiu Shuang listened intently to his calm words—there was no exhortation, no accusation, merely a sharing of viewpoints. Qiu Shuang had to admit that speaking with Lu Chen was a very gentle process; he was like a mild spring breeze that made her feel at peace.

In the distance, Chen Wanjun watched the two conversing so well and clenched her fists. She regretted the move she had played back then. If she hadn’t done what she did, wouldn’t she be the one standing there now, speaking normally with her and chatting about life?

In the deep hours of every night, Chen Wanjun felt annoyed and hated herself. In the past, she had treated the other’s affection as something ordinary, yet now, she treated sincere love as a game.

But when it comes to feelings, how can one speak of winning or losing?

Chen Wanjun didn’t consider herself a particularly moral or good person, which was why she exposed her original purpose the moment the other showed kindness. Her so-called morality was merely a disguise maintained for Qiu Shuang’s sake. Thinking of this, Chen Wanjun smiled; no wonder the other wouldn’t choose her.

Perhaps in the past, Qiu Shuang falling in love with her was also like a “flower in a mirror or the moon in the water.”

Chen Wanjun could no longer find herself.

After wandering outside for the entire day, Qiu Shuang returned to the dormitory. Seeing how dark it was inside, she fell into thought before finally turning on the light, only to see Qi Sijiao sitting there blankly.

Qiu Shuang looked at her, feeling extremely awkward. Eventually, she turned away, wanting to pretend nothing had happened.

“Senior, I’m sorry. If you’re unwilling to come back because of me, I can move out…”

Hearing Qi Sijiao actually speak like a rational human being was somewhat shocking to Qiu Shuang. When she had tried to inquire about switching dorms previously, the other had played Tai Chi with her, yet now Qi Sijiao was saying this was possible. Damned bourgeoisie…

Qiu Shuang was just about to say “fine,” but as she looked up into the other’s eyes, she fell into silence once more.

She was pondering a question: was her past self also this pitiful? That would be truly terrible. Qiu Shuang remembered herself from a few years ago—how wretched she had been under the yellow glow of the streetlights late at night, hoping the other’s gaze would land on her, only to eventually say with forced dignity, “It’s okay, I can leave.”

Qiu Shuang sometimes felt that the Heavens were cruel, or perhaps she was just born at the wrong time. When she used to crave love, Heaven bestowed upon her a cruel person; now that she no longer prayed for it, Heaven strangely rewarded her with so many people that no matter what she chose, someone would get hurt.

“You should know, or rather, you should understand what I am saying. In this world, there are always things more important than love.”

“Instead of wasting time on me, you should pursue your own ideals, your own hobbies, and the things you are good at. Turn yourself into a better version of yourself, and by then, what you hope for… might come to you on its own.”

“…If I become very excellent, will Senior see me then?”

Hearing her say this, Qiu Shuang felt even more hopeless. There really was nothing to say to a “love-brain.”

“Your learning is for yourself, not for me to see you. I am not the judge of your life, and you shouldn’t put all your heart and soul into me. Otherwise, this will only destroy you. You are young; you shouldn’t spend all your blood and passion on this.”

Qi Sijiao looked at Qiu Shuang, who was trying so hard to persuade her, and smiled.

“Have you ever said words like these to Chen Wanjun?”

Hearing Qi Sijiao mention that name, Qiu Shuang fell into silence. She didn’t know how to face her. Sometimes, Qiu Shuang felt a sense of relief at the warming of Chen Wanjun’s feelings—after all, it meant her past true love for her wasn’t a total waste. But at other times, reality constantly told her to stay sober.

Qiu Shuang told herself that in this life, doing something shameless once was enough. Just as a person cannot step into the same river twice, some people are meant to be passed by.

Young moonlight, please stay hanging high in the sky. You don’t need to step down from the altar, nor do you need to shine on one person alone. You can continue to sparkle, continue to be beautiful, or continue to be cold and arrogant. None of those things matter anymore.

They would have completely different life paths from now on and would never cross paths again. Thinking of this, Qiu Shuang looked up at Qi Sijiao.

“No. You are not the same kind of person, and our lives are different. So please, live for yourself.”

Qi Sijiao looked at her. To some extent, she actually wished Qiu Shuang were a “villain.” That way, it would be easier for her to give up on liking her.

But she wasn’t. Despite everything she had endured, Qiu Shuang was still trying to advise her. How could Qi Sijiao give up on such a person?

You should love someone who is inherently good, not someone who is good only for you.

Qi Sijiao sometimes craved the courage the other possessed. The other was always like this—equally friendly to everyone—and so she was the same toward her. No one doesn’t want to be the “unique one,” yet unfortunately, that kind of thing would never have anything to do with her. The sweetness she could chew on was actually something anyone else could obtain.

Qi Sijiao had originally intended to leave because she felt that if she continued like this, it would be difficult for her to sketch out her own growth. Letting the other get further away and returning to her own life seemed like the best choice.

But now, Qi Sijiao changed her plan. Good things are wanted by everyone; one must fight and scramble for them. She was going to stay by her side, watch her, and prevent new people from appearing. If she couldn’t have her, no one would.

Until the other chose her again in the long stretch of life.

“Senior, I won’t do those weird things anymore. You and I will be like ordinary friends, but if you have thoughts about dating in the future, I hope you can prioritize me.”

Seeing the other return to normal, as if nothing had happened, Qiu Shuang finally breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, things could go the way she wanted. Qiu Shuang really didn’t want the other to keep her eyes fixed solely on her. Being able to get these words was enough; she couldn’t control what the other thought privately, but at least after saying this, she wouldn’t do strange things.

“Okay. I hope you can put the focus of your life more on yourself.”

In the days that followed, Qi Sijiao was no different than before—perhaps even a bit better. The relationship between the two was just as it was at the very beginning. Qiu Shuang temporarily relaxed her mind, though a line of caution remained in her heart.

Perhaps because the previous Qi Sijiao had been too “abnormal,” Qiu Shuang was truly afraid she would evolve into a “Landmine Girl” again. Her hazard level could probably equal 0.8 “Chen Wanjuns.” If Chen Wanjun knew she had become the standard of measurement, she would certainly be very angry.

Qiu Shuang sat in the classroom watching the teacher’s explanation, diligently taking notes. She glanced at Chen Wanjun not far away; the other was studying seriously, no different from the past.

For a brief moment, Qiu Shuang felt as if she had returned to her high school days, with the two of them sitting together organizing notes and dreaming of a beautiful future. The future Qiu Shuang had once fantasized about seemed to always include the other. Perhaps, from that point on, the ending between them had already been foretold.

How can two people, who never gave each other promises and never included the other in their own future, stay together for long?

To this day, Qiu Shuang didn’t understand why the other had mysteriously fallen in love with her again. She had thought it might be lingering deep affection, or perhaps the other felt a sense of unwilling resentment. In the end, Qiu Shuang felt she didn’t understand it herself.

Chen Wanjun sat to the side. She could feel the other’s gaze linger on her a few times before completely vanishing. She didn’t know how to judge herself or the other, because it was Chen Wanjun who, step by step, brought their relationship to this point. In this relationship, the person who had never been pure and never been happy was, in fact, always her.

Chen Wanjun thought of the past. She would always involuntarily fix her gaze on Qiu Shuang—jealousy, attention, possession. She thought she must have had some arrogance; naturally, birds of a feather flock together, so people like them should stand together.

As for Song Ya, that clown who wedged herself between them, Chen Wanjun didn’t take her seriously. No matter how much wealth one possessed, it couldn’t compensate for an empty brain and an ugly soul.

Sometimes Chen Wanjun felt the world was truly bad and unfair. If she had been born into a wealthy family without a fear of homosexuality, would she have been able to get closer to her?

Of course, she knew all of this was mere fantasy. After all, if Chen Wanjun were truly a person of pure character, she absolutely would not have loathed the other just because the other liked her.

She herself was the most base, the most cowardly. Despite her words about others, Chen Wanjun knew the most timid person was herself. She craved the other’s body but didn’t dare express it; she truly loved the other but was the one hurting her. She had lived her life into that of a socially successful person, but a mentally pained one.

One step forward required courage she lacked; one step back left her unwilling. And so, she could only stand there, watching all the stories move toward an ending she did not desire.

“Qiu Shuang, I really hate myself.”

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