The Rain Won't Fall - Chapter 1

The cicadas had begun their chorus, signaling the peak of summer. It was June, the season of graduations.

The college farewell party was held at a quiet bar on Lushan South Road in Star City. By the time Zhou Yu arrived, Yun Yan was already tucked away in the innermost corner of the booth.

The two of them were in the middle of a cold war.

It felt ridiculous even to call it that. A “cold war” was something reserved for couples; what were she and Yun Yan, exactly?

Yun Yan was playing cards with a senior from another class. Her smiles were faint, polite, and distant. Zhou Yu stole a single glance before looking away, turning instead to a younger student to play a game of dice.

She lost often, and she drank even more.

“Senior, you’re really bad at this,” the boy teased. Zhou Yu rolled her eyes and snapped, “Again.” After finally winning a few rounds, she laughed loudly. She didn’t let her gaze wander toward the back of the booth, but she knew Yun Yan was watching her.

They were exactly that kind of people. When they were at odds, they loved to use the people around them to spite each other. They would drive each other half to death with frustration, yet neither was willing to be the first to bow their head.

Zhou Yu lost again. She tilted her head back and drained her glass in one go. When she slammed the glass back onto the table, the heavy thud startled the younger student into silence.

Later, after losing track of how much she’d had to drink, Zhou Yu sat alone in a corner. When the tears began to fall, she herself was stunned.

She didn’t know why she was crying. The tears simply traced paths down her cheeks, beyond her control.

Was she grieving the impending farewell, or was it the bottled-up grievance from days of stubborn silence? She couldn’t tell the difference.

Someone nudged Yun Yan. “Go check on her.”

Yun Yan didn’t move.

Someone else insisted, “Go on, she’s actually crying.”

Finally, Yun Yan set down her glass, walked over, and sat beside Zhou Yu. Zhou Yu immediately shifted further away, widening the gap between them.

Yun Yan didn’t try to get any closer.

The party broke up at two in the morning. With a tacit understanding, everyone stood up to grab their bags or call for rides.

Someone pressed a room card into Yun Yan’s hand. “Zhou Yu is in no state to go back to the dorms. Look after her.”

Once the hotel door clicked shut, only the two of them remained in the room.

Zhou Yu sat on the edge of the bed, her head bowed. Yun Yan poured a glass of warm water and placed it on the nightstand.

A long silence stretched between them.

“Can you… not go?” Zhou Yu finally spoke.

She was talking about life after graduation. Yun Yan had signed with a company in Beijing—up North, one thousand four hundred and eighty kilometers away from Star City.

Yun Yan said nothing.

Zhou Yu lifted her head to look at her, her eyes rimmed with red. She asked again, “Can you stay?”

Still, Yun Yan remained silent.

“Do you even love me?” Zhou Yu asked.

She didn’t know why she was asking; her intuition told her that if she didn’t ask now, she would never have the chance again.

More silence.

Zhou Yu’s tears began to fall again. When the moment of parting actually arrived, she was nowhere near as cool-headed as she had imagined herself to be.

Yun Yan sat down beside her. She reached out, her thumb gently brushing across Zhou Yu’s cheek to wipe away the tears.

“Don’t cry… stop crying,” Yun Yan murmured, her voice low as if she were soothing a child.

Zhou Yu suddenly grabbed her wrist, her grip tight.

“Fine. Since you never loved me,” Zhou Yu’s tears were unstoppable now, “then I never loved you either. Yun Yan, I never loved you for a single second.”

She repeated it twice, as if trying to convince herself.

Yun Yan didn’t pull away. She simply used her other hand to continue wiping the tears, saying “don’t cry” over and over.

Zhou Yu finally broke.

She hated her. She hated Yun Yan for not loving her while being so kind to her. She hated how Yun Yan was this gentle with everyone, but she hated herself most of all—for seeing right through it and still being unable to leave.

Fueled by the alcohol, she pulled Yun Yan toward her and leaned up to kiss her, hard.

It was an act of retaliation.

She expected Yun Yan to push her away, to slap her, or to call her crazy. But Yun Yan did none of those things.

Of course. She had always been that even-tempered; she never raised her voice. No matter how willful or unreasonable Zhou Yu had been in the past, Yun Yan would only smile and pat her head.

Driven by the drink and a heart full of bitterness, Zhou Yu’s movements were frantic as she tugged at Yun Yan’s collar. Her tears fell onto Yun Yan’s face, one by one, scalding and hot, reflecting the state of her heart.

She leaned down and bit hard into Yun Yan’s collarbone, venting all her lingering resentment.

Yun Yan didn’t dodge or push her away. She only tilted her head back slightly, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat. Her fingers gripped the bedsheets beneath her as she let out a low, muffled groan, indulging Zhou Yu in all her recklessness.

She thought: I cannot give her any promises, but this is my answer.

Whatever you want, I will give it to you.

When Zhou Yu finally stopped, she was gasping for air, her forehead resting against Yun Yan’s shoulder, her breathing jagged and erratic.

Yun Yan lay flat, her hair fanned out across the pillow. In the hollow of her collarbone was a small, red mark where Zhou Yu had bitten her. The skin wasn’t broken, but the color was deep.

Zhou Yu reached out to touch the mark.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

Zhou Yu withdrew her hand and rolled over, turning her back to Yun Yan.

Yun Yan turned on her side, slowly reaching out to drape her arm over Zhou Yu’s back, pulling her into an embrace.

Her voice was as cool as ever: “You said I don’t love you.”

Zhou Yu’s eyelashes trembled.

“After this… are you still not sure?”

Yun Yan’s voice was so soft that Zhou Yu couldn’t tell if it was real or just a hallucination born of her own desperate longing.

Zhou Yu didn’t answer. Her consciousness was beginning to blur as the alcohol and exhaustion surged over her at once.

In her daze, she felt Yun Yan’s lips press against the hair near her ear.

Her eyelids were too heavy to open. She was too tired. She fell asleep.

“Sillying thing,” Yun Yan whispered.

The future felt too far away; she only wanted to cherish the “now.”

The next morning, Zhou Yu woke up once but drifted back to sleep. When she finally stayed awake, it was because of the gentle weight of Yun Yan’s arm around her.

In that hazy state between sleep and wakefulness, she felt Yun Yan’s breath against her collarbone; warm and slow.

“Zhouzhou,” Yun Yan called softly. Her voice sounded different than usual; it was low and raspy.

Zhou Yu didn’t respond. Yun Yan only ever called her “Zhouzhou” when she thought Zhou Yu wasn’t fully conscious. Normally, no matter how much Zhou Yu begged, Yun Yan refused, insisting on calling her by her full name.

And right now, it wasn’t that Zhou Yu didn’t want to answer. She simply couldn’t.

Pressed together like two pieces of polished jade, their heartbeats collided through skin and bone.

Zhou Yu opened her eyes.

Pale light filtered through the gap in the curtains. It was just after six in the morning, and the city hadn’t fully woken up.

Zhou Yu wanted to say something, but her throat was so dry and hoarse she couldn’t make a sound.

Yun Yan propped herself up over her, her left elbow on the pillow while her right hand gently brushed stray hairs from Zhou Yu’s face. She leaned down, resting her forehead against Zhou Yu’s. They were so close that they could see the tiny specks of light caught on each other’s eyelashes.

Zhou Yu reached up to clasp Yun Yan’s back, her fingers tangling in the short hairs at the nape of her neck. Yun Yan’s back was thin, the shape of her shoulder blades distinct beneath Zhou Yu’s palms.

Yun Yan smiled faintly and leaned down, her kiss landing on the skin of Zhou Yu’s collarbone.

Zhou Yu’s breathing completely shattered. She bit her lower lip hard and turned her face away, her skin burning a bright red.

Yun Yan’s kisses moved upward—to her chin, the corner of her mouth, and finally grazing that lower lip where a faint teeth mark had been left.

“Don’t bite your lip,” Yun Yan said.

Zhou Yu let go.

Yun Yan’s finger gently pressed against the mark she had made, then she lowered herself, burying her face in the crook of Zhou Yu’s neck. She held her tightly, as if trying to press the girl into her own bones.

Zhou Yu felt like she was going to crumble; she was numb and light, suspended in mid-air.

“…I’m sorry,” Zhou Yu whispered breathlessly. “Last night… did I hurt you?”

Yun Yan paused for half a second before hugging her even tighter. Her breath was scorching against Zhou Yu’s ear.

“It’s okay,” Yun Yan said.

Two words pressed against her ear. The breath was hot, but the tone remained calm.

Zhou Yu closed her eyes.

Outside, the sky was gradually brightening. The sound of birds chirping drifted in from the distance. The duvet had slipped halfway down at some point, bunching at their waists, but Yun Yan’s arms never loosened.

A long silence followed.

Yun Yan looked down at the girl in her arms.

Zhou Yu’s lashes were lowered, still carrying a hint of dampness from unshed tears. She was a different person when she was asleep; no bravado, no spiteful smiles. She was as quiet as a bird that had finally decided to stop its flight.

Yun Yan stared at her, her mind full of things she wanted to say.

She wanted to say: You know my personality. I’m quiet, I’m boring, and I never know how to say the things you want to hear when you want to hear them.

But please, don’t hold my clumsiness against me.

But the words were too long, and she couldn’t bring herself to say them.

She only pulled Zhou Yu a little closer.

She remembered how Zhou Yu had cried last night, asking if she loved her. She hadn’t answered, not because she didn’t want to, but because she had never been good at carving her heart out for someone to see, even if that person was Zhou Yu.

Even if you can’t see it, I want you to look. Look at my heart.

The thought tumbled through her mind, yet it never reached her lips.

Finally, she just lowered her head and pressed a soft kiss to the top of Zhou Yu’s head.

“Zhouzhou.”

Zhou Yu didn’t open her eyes. She just let out a heavy, nasal “mm.”

Another few seconds of silence followed.

“I love you.”

Those three words fell into the early morning light, fracturing the very space around them. The light began to dissipate, layer by layer, as a rift tore through the scene. Starting from that crack, the entire memory began to dissolve.

Zhou Yu’s eyes snapped open.

The light piercing through the gap in the curtains was blinding. The air conditioner was still humming, and the other half of the bed was empty. There was a lingering indent on the pillow where someone had recently slept, but the person was gone.

She sat up. Her phone was charging on the nightstand; she unplugged it, and the screen flared to life. 12:00 PM.

Zhou Yu climbed out of bed, but the moment her feet hit the floor, her legs buckled with a sudden ache. She nearly lost her balance, and walking felt tender. She looked down at her inner thigh; there was a faint, lingering flush on the skin.

The glass of water was still there on the nightstand. Zhou Yu took a sip, and her brow furrowed. The temperature hadn’t changed, it was still lukewarm.

That’s strange, she thought. It’s been sitting out all day and night. How is it still warm?

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