She Comes Into My Dreams Every Night - Chapter 23

Chapter 23: The Most Awkward Part is the Morning After

When she woke up in the morning, the pillow next to her was already empty.

Su Huaiwang’s eyes were half-open and groggy. She stared blankly at the obvious indentation on the pillow next to her—a sign that someone had been sleeping there. It took her a moment to recall that she had invited Lin Jue to stay over last night.

All sleepiness immediately vanished. She leaped out of bed.

Why had she let Lin Jue sleep with her?! And where was Lin Jue?!

In truth, Su Huaiwang hadn’t drunk that much last night. She remembered everything, including leaning on Lin Jue, flirting with her, and inviting her to sleep together… she just woke up this morning unwilling to admit it.

Tumbling out of bed, without even time to change out of her pajamas, Su Huaiwang slipped on her slippers and rushed out the door, where she ran right into Lin Jue, who was carrying a tray from the kitchen.

Lin Jue seemed to be momentarily stunned when she saw her, then looked up at the clock on the wall: “It’s still early. Do you want to sleep a little longer?”

Su Huaiwang awkwardly scratched her head, trying her best to flatten her messy hair: “N-no need. It’s time to get up anyway.”

Lin Jue smiled, put down the tray, and poured her a glass of water, the movements as familiar as if she were in her own home:

“Do you want some water?”

At that, Su Huaiwang finally felt the dry throat that followed the second day of drinking.

Unable to refuse, she simply stepped forward and drank the water in the glass in one gulp.

“Sorry for using the kitchen. I’ve made breakfast. It’s almost ready. You can wash up and eat right away.”

“Mhm, mhm, okay, thank you.” Words popped out of Su Huaiwang’s mouth one by one. She turned around and walked back to the bedroom, almost walking with the same leg and arm.

Ten minutes later, a refreshed Su Huaiwang appeared at the dining table.

Lin Jue had already served her congee, accompanied by freshly made pancakes and eggs—a simple, homey breakfast, but it carried the warmth of a homemade meal.

Su Huaiwang sipped her congee in small mouthfuls, extremely reserved.

Perhaps the aftereffects of the alcohol were still lingering; she felt a little woozy, as if she wasn’t eating in her own house but being hosted at Lin Jue’s.

Thankfully, Lin Jue wasn’t eating breakfast opposite her; she was playing with the dogs, alternating between her left and right feet to teach Xiaohuang how to shake hands.

The two tacitly avoided mentioning last night’s events, at least that’s what Su Huaiwang thought.

Last night, she was initially too excited and restless with someone next to her to fall asleep, but somehow, drowsiness gradually overcame her, and she drifted off, completely unaware of how Lin Jue had slept.

She could only hope the other person hadn’t slept too poorly because of her disturbance, or she’d have to slap herself twice in the middle of the night.

Halfway through breakfast, Su Huaiwang suddenly remembered something and spoke:

“Do you want to try painting?”

Lin Jue was adding water to the cat’s bowl. Hearing her question, she looked up, a slight surprise in her eyes, but quickly agreed: “Sure.”

Su Huaiwang saw the task Lin Jue was performing and felt another wave of guilt. She had been too engrossed in her own world just now and hadn’t noticed Lin Jue running back and forth.

She put down her bowl, hurried over to Lin Jue, and nervously said, “I can do that! You should rest for a bit!”

While Lin Jue’s intentions were likely good, having her constantly doing things made Su Huaiwang feel guilty.

“Alright.” The rejected Lin Jue didn’t insist, but she lowered her head slightly in disappointment, making Su Huaiwang feel as if she had committed some outrageous offense.

She extinguished the inexplicable, untimely pity in her heart and firmly insisted on washing the dishes herself.

…

The art studio was on the second floor.

Lin Jue rarely came up to Su Huaiwang’s second floor, so she tilted her head curiously, looking around as she ascended.

Su Huaiwang scanned the second floor, her gaze briefly lingering on one door before naturally moving away.

That was the guest room she had prepared for Lin Jue last night, which, unfortunately, was unused.

They turned left and walked to the door at the very end of the corridor.

“Wait a moment,” Su Huaiwang told Lin Jue. “Stand back a little. It might be dusty. I rarely come here.”

Lin Jue obediently stood back.

Su Huaiwang opened the door. The expected dust didn’t appear. The studio remained as it always had, exquisite yet desolate.

Facing the door was a floor-to-ceiling window. It was a bright morning, and sunlight refracted through the glass, embracing the floating dust particles.

The studio was large but not empty. It housed many tools Su Huaiwang had used when studying art—easels, watercolors, plaster casts—all covered in white cloth, starkly out of place with the strong feeling of life in the rest of the house.

It was as if the owner of the house had already banished it from her life.

But today, for some reason, she was welcoming it back.

Su Huaiwang blew some dust off an easel: “I’ll prepare the painting materials. What are you most interested in?”

Not getting a response, Su Huaiwang turned around curiously.

The long-haired girl had lost her usual persistent smile, her gaze focused and intense, almost greedily studying everything in the studio.

“Lin Jue?” Su Huaiwang called her tentatively.

The girl snapped back: “Anything is fine.”

Her voice was soft, like a feather landing on the studio’s wooden floor.

More than the materials, she seemed more interested in something else in the studio.

Lin Jue walked to a painting that was also covered with cloth:

“Can I look at this?”

Her gaze and tone were so sincere that Su Huaiwang couldn’t refuse.

She nodded, and Lin Jue lifted the cloth.

A painting, both familiar and unfamiliar, appeared before Su Huaiwang. She, of course, recognized the clumsy brushstrokes.

It was probably a painting from her junior high days, back when she still had a little faith in her painting, and so did her parents.

But after a series of competitions, her parents quickly lost patience with her, and these art supplies were locked away in the depths of the house.

Su Huaiwang looked at the painting, a hint of nostalgia in her eyes.

“It’s painted very well,” Lin Jue praised, noticing the signature at the bottom.

Su Huaiwang just smiled and shook her head: “Thank you.”

Her acknowledgment was spoken as if it had nothing to do with her. And it was true: if her junior high self had heard that compliment, she might have been proud, skeptical, or embarrassed, but the current Su Huaiwang didn’t care anymore.

She had long lost all interest in painting.

If it wasn’t destined, then it should be given up early.

So, her lingering gaze was only directed at the junior high student who had once dreamed of becoming a painter.

But Lin Jue persisted: “It really is good. You can tell the painter had her own ideas.”

“Really?” Su Huaiwang was doubtful, leaning in: “I can’t see it.”

Like the thousands of master paintings in the art gallery, this painting was just a collection of twisted lines and color blocks in her eyes.

“Of course,” Lin Jue smiled, stating matter-of-factly: “Every painting contains the creator’s heart and effort and reflects the creator’s thoughts.”

Her finger gently traced the paper, treating it with utmost care.

Su Huaiwang shook her head: “It’s a shame I’ve forgotten what I was thinking then.”

It was probably just some boring stuff, little teenage troubles, the feelings that were kept most private.

“It is precisely because we forget that we choose to create. That way, the moment we felt is completely preserved.”

Su Huaiwang looked at Lin Jue. Her gaze was soft, yet it was directed at the painting—a painting she was not satisfied with, one she could even say she disliked.

Su Huaiwang suddenly felt an unspeakable jealousy rise in her chest.

She couldn’t help but ask: “Then what do you think when you see this painting?”

Her tone was somewhat abrupt, and she regretted it the moment she spoke.

But Lin Jue acted as if she hadn’t noticed, meeting her gaze normally:

“I see the little you.

“Probably a very driven, stubborn, and competitive person. These lines are hard and sharp. You really wanted to convey something, express something through this painting.”

Su Huaiwang was stunned.

She remained silent for a moment, then placed her hand on the painting, making a move to pull it away.

She turned around, her back to Lin Jue, and said in a joking manner:

“It seems showing others your paintings is quite dangerous. You might accidentally reveal what was on your mind while painting.”

“Words are the same. As long as you create, you will inevitably incorporate your own thoughts.”

“What if that person has no thoughts of their own?”

Lin Jue tilted her head slightly, as if she didn’t understand what Su Huaiwang was saying.

“It’s nothing,” Su Huaiwang took a deep breath and forced a smile: “How about we try watercolors later? I’ll go prepare the materials.”

After saying that, she quickly walked out of the room, leaving Lin Jue alone, staring at the painting.

The door was gently closed. Su Huaiwang finally escaped the decaying smell of her past life.

She walked slowly to the edge of the corridor, resting her hands on the railing, her expression calm, her blank eyes looking downstairs.

She suddenly felt a profound disconnect from her own life. She suddenly didn’t quite recognize this “home” of hers. Even the floor beneath her feet felt unreal and unsubstantial.

This sense of fragmentation often appeared in her life.

This wasn’t a good situation; she knew that herself.

What if a person had no thoughts of their own?

What if a person was afraid to have their own thoughts?

Ultimately, what exactly is a human being, and what must they do to truly be worthy of a life?

Su Huaiwang lowered her head, then briefly raised it after a moment of silence.

Lin Jue was still waiting for her.

She took a step, leaving all those unanswered questions behind her.