I Heard That I am a HeartBreaker - Chapter 65

Perhaps Qiu Shuang should have felt hurt by those somewhat stereotypical remarks, but it didn’t matter. She knew that tomorrow morning, her mother would wake her up gently, acting as if nothing from tonight had ever happened, and would have her favorite dishes prepared along with everything she needed.

This home had already become like this; there was no need to force a change anymore, was there?

Qiu Shuang lay there in silence while her mother just watched her daughter.

Sometimes, Qiu Shuang didn’t understand what her mother was thinking when she looked at her. Was she thinking of her own equally beautiful appearance when she was young?

Qiu Shuang was very beautiful. Her beauty came from both her father and mother; perhaps it was because they were both beautiful people that they had come together in the first place.

Qiu Shuang knew her mother didn’t have an easy life. She had already experienced many terrible things in her youth. These two orphans had come together merely to create a family, becoming a “mother” and a “father” like those on television. They continued the genes of the previous generation’s craving for reproduction, passing down the frantic bloodline, which converged into a river that became Qiu Shuang.

She didn’t know how to judge them, so she only offered a smile.

Qiu Shuang wondered: if her parents knew they had raised a lesbian daughter, what would they think?

At this thought, Qiu Shuang couldn’t help but laugh. She smiled while looking at her mother; perhaps the other woman was startled by this sudden, unexpected smile. Her mother wasn’t really at fault; she just wanted to find some comfort with her daughter in the middle of the night.

But Qiu Shuang truly had nothing left to give. She herself was so parched she was nearly cracking apart.

Sure enough, the other woman fell silent. Without saying a word, she fled Qiu Shuang’s room, not even forgetting to close the door behind her.

Qiu Shuang sat up and pressed her ear against the wall to the next room. As expected, she heard the sounds of an argument next door. It was only loud at the very beginning before the voices were suppressed, likely out of fear of her hearing them and ruining the surface-level harmony of the family.

“Why is there always fighting?”

She felt tears sliding down from the corners of her eyes. Why was she crying? Why was it that even after seeing it so many times, she was still so sad? Meanwhile, her phone kept chiming with notifications.

It was Er Dami.

Qiu Shuang didn’t want to reply. She held up her phone and, using the black screen as a mirror, saw her own face. She looked truly pitiful.

After a moment of silence, Qiu Shuang finally opened the chat box. Perhaps changing her mood would make things better.

She felt she was being selfish. At this moment, Qiu Shuang hoped the other person could bring her some happiness.

Zhang Heming looked at the time on her phone. Given the specific time and the specific IP address, Qiu Feng must be unhappy right now.

It seemed to have been like this before; whenever this period of time arrived, the other person would become cold and aloof. Zhang Heming knew she had things weighing on her mind, so she was always a bit more enthusiastic than usual. It was fortunate they weren’t friends in real life.

Otherwise, this behavior would actually be quite overstepping.

Online friends can be like this—since no one knows anyone, they can say their inner secrets freely. Perhaps that is why people like online dating.

Qiu Shuang wiped away her tears, gathered her spirits, and chatted a bit with the other person.

Zhang Heming could sense from the text that Qiu Feng’s state of mind wasn’t good.

Er Dami: I feel like you’re not in a great state. Did something happen? Or are you just exhausted from being too tired?

Qiu Shuang indeed had a lot to say, but after thinking it over, she lapsed into silence. What should she say? About her friend’s suicide, or the chaos within her family?

The other person shouldn’t have to become her emotional trash can; it wasn’t fair.

Qiu Feng: I can handle it myself.

Zhang Heming fell silent after seeing the reply. Finally, she placed a voice call, but Qiu Shuang immediately hung up.

Zhang Heming stared at the cold response on the screen.

Er Dami: Qiu Feng, you’re crying.

For some reason, when Qiu Shuang saw that sentence, the tears that had finally stopped began to flow like a faucet that couldn’t be shut off.

She must be sick now, unable to control her emotions, unable to restrain the fear and anxiety in her heart.

Perhaps in the eyes of others, Qiu Shuang’s future was bright, but she still felt lost.

Zhang Heming saw the “typing…” indicator, but no message came through for a long time. She remained silent.

Er Dami: Qiu Feng, pick up the phone.

With Zhang Heming’s persistence, Qiu Shuang finally answered the call. This was the first time she had heard the other’s voice; after all, for online friends, this was somewhat intimate.

The moment the call connected, Zhang Heming heard the other woman’s muffled, suppressed sobbing. She didn’t know what to say.

To be honest, this was different from the Qiu Feng she usually knew. The Qiu Feng Zhang Heming knew seemed to be just a person who worked hard for life, someone very cheerful and strong. She had never seen the other person display such extreme sorrow.

Even if bad things happened, she usually shook them off quickly.

“Qiu Feng, are you okay…?”

Zhang Heming felt that these words were practically useless. The other person’s state was truly not good, but whether she chose to share what had happened was her choice.

She could only respect it—respect all of her choices—but she similarly didn’t want her friend to feel sad.

“It’s okay… I…”

Qiu Shuang tried her best to tell the other person that she was truly fine, but she couldn’t even finish a complete sentence. She felt as though she hadn’t cried this hard in too long, and she was struggling to catch her breath.

“Qiu Feng, I think of us as friends. Our relationship is quite good, and we can talk about anything. But through this incident today, I feel like a failure. I’m not a good partner; I don’t know you at all.”

“It might be a bit presumptuous to say this, but I still hope you’ll tell me what happened. As your friend, I have an obligation to share my friend’s burdens.”

Qiu Shuang closed her eyes and finally decided to share a little—not everything, just a tiny bit.

But then she didn’t know where to start, as there seemed to be far too much that could be said.

“Er Dami, sometimes I really wonder if I’m a very bad person, and that’s why heaven gives me so much pain. You are my friend, and after starting university, I seemed to make many friends. I was very happy.”

But saying this, Qiu Shuang’s voice faltered. She had indeed been happy, but those friendships didn’t seem so pure.

“But I’m a bit sad. Many of them seem to like me and want to have a deeper connection with me. I don’t understand—is love really produced so easily? If I say it out loud, you might think I’m crazy, but I have so many pursuers now.”

Zhang Heming fell silent upon hearing this. For an ordinary person, being unexpectedly loved by many might be something to brag about, but she knew Qiu Feng wasn’t that kind of person.

Inexplicable love only brings pain to the recipient because what was supposed to be pure and sincere feels cheapened when it’s produced in such bulk so suddenly.

“You have to understand one thing, Qiu Feng: relationships are mutual. Love actually has its own logic. It’s like filling out university applications—your score determines where you can go. Someone with a high score might apply for a lower-tier school, but someone with a low score is never allowed to apply for a top-tier one. Many people like you because you are very good.”

“I understand your pain. You feel that love is inexplicable, but love itself is inexplicable. Or perhaps it’s the problem of those pursuers. They only express their own affection without taking action, without giving enough confidence or encouragement to make you believe in their love. That is their problem, not yours.”

Zhang Heming was being somewhat ruthless, perhaps because she was older—at least, that’s how she saw it.

If you love someone, how could you leave them feeling lost? Therefore, the “love” the other person spoke of was either just words or completely insincere.

At the very least, Zhang Heming believed that in the adult world, love should involve commitment—it costs money, time, and energy.

Judging by what Qiu Feng said, no one was pursuing her long-term; it sounded more like mass harassment.

Zhang Heming couldn’t quite describe her own feelings. Thinking about how those people could interact with Qiu Feng in real life made her incredibly jealous. She looked down on those people, even as she herself was wearing a disguise.

She sincerely hoped Qiu Feng wouldn’t end up with anyone, even though she knew she couldn’t be with Qiu Feng either.

Love is inherently selfish. Even though Zhang Heming told Qiu Shuang over and over that love is selfless and inclusive, she herself was not acting that way.

“Er Dami, sometimes I keep thinking: did I do something to cause a misunderstanding, which is why they have this mindset toward me? Even though I know I haven’t done anything wrong, I can’t help but think it over and over. Especially when they hurt themselves for the sake of ‘love,’ I feel terrified.”

“If they really get hurt or die because of me, what should I do? Is this how it is for other people when they date? Because I didn’t say yes to them, they get angry? They are excellent people, why can’t I like them? So it must be my problem; it seems I’ve lost the ability to love.”

Zhang Heming listened to the voice on the other end of the phone. She admitted that at this moment, she wanted the other person to say more—she wanted to keep hearing her voice. But as she listened to the content, she also grew silent.

“Love is invisible and cannot be judged by anyone. Maybe it makes you happy when you are with that person; maybe just mentioning their name makes you happy. But everyone’s way of expressing love is different. Qiu Feng, you can’t deny yourself just because you are different from others.”

Zhang Heming felt that Qiu Feng’s psychological state was very serious; the other woman was constantly negating herself, which wasn’t normal at all.

She didn’t know if the other person was just good at pretending or if it was the influence of her environment, but it seemed like no one around her cared about Qiu Feng’s internal struggle.

That wasn’t right at all. How could people close to her not notice something was wrong? How could family living under the same roof not see those anomalies?

Zhang Heming didn’t dare to think or imagine any further, because at this moment, she didn’t know what kind of living hell the other person was enduring.

“Qiu Feng, it’s been hard for you, walking this path all alone.”

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