The Rain Won't Fall - Chapter 2

The “Apple Alarm of Death” blared by her pillow, each beat feeling like someone was striking her head with a shovel.

Zhou Yu opened her eyes. The ceiling was white. A single sliver of light pierced through the gap in the curtains. She reached out to kill the alarm and lay there for another five minutes before struggling to crawl out of bed.

Why did I have that dream?

Dreaming about sleeping with an old flame from six years ago, and then dreaming about all that other nonsense…

Zhou Yu covered her face with her hands. She had actually hallucinated a “sequel” to what happened with Yun Yan that night.

She was losing her mind. Was her period coming, or had she just been single for too long?

Zhou Yu threw back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, staring into space. It had been a long time since she’d dreamt of Yun Yan. When was the last time? Probably right after they broke up.

Back then, she used to dream of her constantly—dreaming of the days when things were still good at university. Every time she woke up to an empty bed and remembered the cold indifference Yun Yan had eventually shown her, she would cry. Later, she made a conscious effort not to think about her, and as the days turned into years, the memories faded. She thought she had moved on.

And yet, here was this absurd dream.

Zhou Yu let out a self-deprecating laugh. Yun Yan probably wouldn’t even want to see her; who would want to see an emotional, unstable lunatic? She had been young back then, but looking back now, she realized she’d been a bit of a jerk.

Taking a deep breath, Zhou Yu sighed. A godforsaken karmic entanglement. This kind of love was pure torture.

She stood up, headed to the bathroom to freshen up, changed her clothes, and headed out.

Mornings in Guangzhou were muggy and damp.

Zhou Yu buckled her helmet, the visor clicking down to cover most of her face. She straddled her bike, turned the key, and the black motorcycle let out a low growl, the exhaust vibrating the puddles on the ground into ripples.

Her layered long hair peeked out from the bottom of the helmet, blowing back in the wind. In the sunlight, her cool-brown hair took on a slight ashy tint.

She swerved out of the intersection. As she leaned into a turn on the first main road, her knee nearly grazed the asphalt. Her gear shifts were crisp and decisive. Once the bike straightened, she accelerated, the low growl of the exhaust rising into a roar.

At a red light by the Line 3 subway entrance, commuters packed into a bus like sardines peered at her through the windows. She was oblivious, resting her left hand on the fuel tank and tapping her knuckles against it. When the light turned green, she twisted the throttle; the bike surged forward, her hair and the hem of her shirt flying back simultaneously.

She worked as a designer for a clothing company in Haizhu District. It was a big enough “factory” that people recognized the brand. Her salary was enough to rent a loft apartment in Tianhe and occasionally snag a discounted piece of Gucci at Taikoo Hui. She had a reserved parking spot at the office; when the security guard saw the black motorcycle turning in, he moved the traffic cones aside from a distance.

Zhou Yu propped the bike up with one foot, killed the engine, and removed her helmet. Her hair was a bit flat from the pressure, so she gave it a shake. The top half was tucked neatly behind her ears, while the choppy layers of the bottom half spilled over her chest and waist.

As she bent over to lock the bike, her sleeveless black crop top clung to her waistline. A cloud tattoo near her lower abdomen flickered in and out of sight with her movements. The drawstrings of her cargo pants swayed in the breeze. She hiked her crossbody bag behind her, revealing the English script tattooed on her wrist.

The girl at the front desk saw her through the glass doors and called out with starry eyes, “Good morning, Sister Xiao Zhou!”

Zhou Yu gave a nod and swiped her card through the turnstile, her stride carrying an air of effortless cool.

A design assistant at a nearby station looked up, her eyes following Zhou Yu from the door to her seat, unable to look away. Zhou Yu tossed her bag on the desk and powered on her computer. While waiting for the screen to light up, she took a sip of water. Her fingers were long and slender with well-defined knuckles, her short nails coated in a sheer, pale pink polish.

The monitor flickered to life. Zhou Yu sat down and glanced at the date: June 18th.

Graduation season.

Her hand faltered for a second. Then, acting as if nothing was wrong, she opened CLO, twirled her stylus twice, and began working on the drafts for the current season.

Midway through, she reached for her water. It was ice-cold. For no reason at all, she was reminded of that glass of lukewarm water Yun Yan had left on the nightstand in her dream. Warm, just like Yun Yan.

Zhou Yu closed her eyes, telling herself to stop. She set the glass down and picked up her pen again.

Lunchtime.

A colleague asked what was wrong, noting she’d been distracted all morning. Zhou Yu claimed she hadn’t slept well. Her colleague agreed, pointing out that the dark circles under her eyes had deepened into a bruised purple.

Zhou Yu managed a small smile and took a bite of food.

Back in the office during the noon break, she couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about that line Yun Yan said in the dream: “You said I don’t love you. After this… are you still not sure?”

So much time had passed, and the dream was a blur. She didn’t even know if those were words Yun Yan had actually said or just a fantasy her brain had cooked up.

If it were true, Zhou Yu thought, what would those words even mean?

She didn’t know. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

Whatever. It was just a dream.

In the afternoon, she went to the photography studio.

Technically, Zhou Yu didn’t need to be there. The samples had been finalized last week; fabric, silhouette, craftsmanship—everything was signed off. The shoot was the photography team’s responsibility. As a designer, there was no reason for her to show up. But after reviewing the fabric swatches for the next season, she closed her laptop and found her schedule empty. There were still two hours until the end of the shift. The office AC hummed incessantly, the girl in the next cubicle was on the phone, and the lead of the opposite design team was proofing drafts. She checked her phone, swiped a few times, and put it back down.

She stood up, grabbed her keys, and headed downstairs.

The studio was a converted old factory tucked away in an alley in the Yuexiu District, its exterior covered in climbing vines.

Zhou Yu parked her bike at the mouth of the alley and hung her helmet on the handlebar. The sky was an oppressive, leaden grey, heavy enough to make one’s heart sink. She took an involuntary breath; for some reason, she felt a strange tightness in her chest today.

The studio was a chaotic hive of activity.

The gaffer was running around with a reflector, the photography assistant was crouched on the floor taping down marks, and “Old A” was hunched behind the monitor adjusting parameters. Seeing her walk in, he jerked his chin. “What are you doing here?”

Zhou Yu smiled. “Just passing by.” Old A didn’t press further and went back to the screen.

The model hadn’t arrived yet.

Zhou Yu stood around for a bit, felt like there was nothing for her to do, and stepped back outside. There was a discarded wooden crate by the door; she sat on it and fished out her cigarettes. There were only two left. She had actually quit, hadn’t touched them for nearly two years. But last month, while poring over design drafts until 3 AM, she’d somehow ended up buying a pack and hadn’t been able to shake the habit since.

The grey clouds hung low. She held the cigarette, not really smoking it, just watching the ash grow long until the wind scattered it. The air was thick with moisture; a small patch of sweat had already dampened the back of her shirt.

The producer was inside on the phone, her voice drifting out in snatches: “Traffic… the overpass… almost there… okay.”

Zhou Yu stubbed out the cigarette, stood up, and looked at the sky with her hands on her hips. Then, the rain broke.

Fat droplets hammered down, soaking the asphalt in seconds. The studio’s awning thundered under the assault. Rain cascaded off the edges, turning the alley into a small river. Zhou Yu stepped back into the shelter of the studio, the cool mist of the rain hitting her face.

She turned her head toward the mouth of the alley.

Through the hazy curtain of grey, someone was walking toward her under an umbrella. It was a black canopy, the rain drumming a dull rhythm against it. The rim of the umbrella hid the top half of the person’s face, leaving only a sharp jawline and pursed lips visible. The figure wore a shimmering white maxi dress with a cinched waist and pointed stiletto heels. Long, black hair fell naturally over her chest, a few stray strands dancing in the wind.

The rain was heavy, weighing down the umbrella, but the person’s pace was steady, neither hurried nor slow. Those heels stepped through the puddles, kicking up sprays of water that splashed against her ankles.

Zhou Yu watched her approach.

There was no specific reason, but she couldn’t look away. Perhaps it was because the dress complemented her figure so elegantly, or the rhythm of those heels was so stable, or perhaps it was just that the umbrella hid her face, making Zhou Yu ache to see it.

The person reached the studio entrance and furled her umbrella. Water dripped from the tip, landing at her feet. Drip. Drip.

Zhou Yu’s breath hitched.

The woman’s features remained cool and refined. Her lashes were long, her lips were pressed thin, and her jawline was a clean, perfect arc.

It was Yun Yan.

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