The Rain Won't Fall - Chapter 3

Zhou Yu stood frozen, her fingernails digging into her palms until it stung. She used that small pain to confirm she wasn’t dreaming. Her heart was racing so fast her breathing turned erratic.

She hadn’t seen this person in six years. When she left back then, the break had been absolute. She had cleared her photo gallery, unfollowed her on social media, and even tossed her graduation photos. She thought they would never cross paths again. Yet here was Yun Yan, standing right in front of her. Raindrops clung to her dress, her long hair was plastered to the side of her face, and her eyes were just as bright, her features just as beautiful as ever. Nothing had changed. She looked exactly as she did six years ago.

The blurred images in her memory began to sharpen, piece by piece.

The producer ran out from the back. “The model is here? Get her to makeup quickly! We’re losing the light.”

Yun Yan walked past her, bringing with her a faint scent of perfume; a crisp, woody note with a hint of floral. Six years ago, Yun Yan didn’t use perfume; she only ever smelled like laundry detergent. But the essence was the same. Zhou Yu recognized it instantly. She was intimately familiar with that scent because she had once rested her head on that very shoulder.

The door to the dressing room clicked shut.

Zhou Yu stood at the entrance for a moment before walking back in. She pulled up a folding chair next to Old A and sat down. Old A glanced at her. “I thought you were just passing by?”

Zhou Yu let out a soft “mm.” “It’s raining outside. I’m stuck here for now.”

Old A gave a distracted grunt and went back to work, leaving her to her own devices.

The dressing room door opened.

Yun Yan stepped out, already changed into the first sample outfit, a piece from this season’s “Youth” line. A white blouse paired with a pleated skirt, featuring a tiny ribbon at the collar. It was a design Zhou Yu had spent two months obsessively refining until the waistline was crisp and the hem flared at just the right angle.

Zhou Yu watched through the monitor. The screen glowed, and Yun Yan’s face filled the frame.

“Chin up,” Old A commanded.

She lifted her head, and the corners of her mouth curled upward—not a wide grin, just enough to reveal a glimpse of her teeth. Her eyes brightened instantly, like the first ray of morning light piercing through a window: clean, translucent, and possessing a touch of that soft, post-sleep vulnerability.

Zhou Yu froze.

That wasn’t the Yun Yan she knew.

It was too perfect, like a mannequin.

The Yun Yan she knew didn’t smile like that. Yun Yan’s natural smile was faint, a gentle softening of her features like a small patch of frost melting on a winter pane. But the woman on the screen was radiant; every flicker of her expression was bursting with “genki” energy, like a glass of ice-cold water in the height of summer: transparent, sweet, and misting with a refreshing chill.

The shutter clicks from Old A’s camera became a continuous staccato.

Yun Yan shifted poses, tucking her hands behind her back and slightly shrugging her shoulders as she tilted her head to the side. A corner of her pleated skirt caught the air, and she gave the lens a playful wink.

Zhou Yu stared at the monitor, her fingers gripping the armrests of her chair until her nails sank deep into the foam.

This wasn’t Yun Yan.

And yet, it undeniably was. The same long hair, the same jawline, the same eyes—clear and bright like obsidian when the studio lights hit them. Zhou Yu had looked into those eyes countless times before: in the library, on the sports field, in a thousand stolen moments when Yun Yan wasn’t paying attention.

The shoot went flawlessly. Yun Yan was a professional beyond reproach; she caught every one of Old A’s cues perfectly. The curve of her smile, the angle of her limbs, the direction of her gaze—everything was a “one-take” success. The white blouse series moved into knitwear, then into dresses. She stood before the camera, embodying a persona that didn’t seem to belong to her at all.

The “Energetic Girl,” the “Plain Water” aesthetic, every frame on that screen looked like it could be printed directly into a high-end lookbook.

Zhou Yu sat behind the monitor the entire time, rooted to her spot.

When they reached the fourth outfit, Old A called for a ten-minute break.

Yun Yan stepped away from the backdrop. A makeup artist handed her a bottle of water, murmuring a “good job.” Yun Yan smiled and replied, “Good job to everyone,” her tone polite, appropriate, and distant. She took the bottle but didn’t open it, choosing instead to stand by the window and watch the rain outside.

Zhou Yu watched her. One thing, at least, remained the same: she only drank Evian.

The moment the camera was off, Yun Yan became a different person. The curve of her lips vanished, the light in her eyes retracted like a stage lamp being cut, and she grew cold. She stood by the window, clutching the water bottle, her face devoid of expression. She wasn’t tired, and she wasn’t zoning out; she was simply vacant.

The aloofness in her features radiated from her very bones, a world away from the vibrant girl who had just been posing.

Zhou Yu suddenly remembered how Yun Yan had been in university. She was polite and distant to everyone, keeping them at arm’s length. If someone spoke to her, she’d respond; if they laughed, she’d let the corners of her mouth twitch. But the smile never reached her eyes. Only when she was with Zhou Yu would she be slightly different. She didn’t become warm, exactly, but she was less cold, like a winter lake where the surface ice had thawed. The depths were still dark, but at least there were ripples.

Back then, Zhou Yu’s love for Yun Yan was common knowledge. Yun Yan was kind to everyone, but she was especially good to Zhou Yu, so good that everyone assumed Zhou Yu was special. Including Zhou Yu herself. It wasn’t until she was in over her head that she realized that kindness was never reserved for her alone.

Then came that night at the graduation party. She had asked, “Did you ever love me?” and Yun Yan hadn’t answered. Only then did she understand: perhaps the lake had never thawed at all.

The break ended, and Old A called them back to work.

As Yun Yan walked back from the window, her gaze swept past the monitor. Her eyes snagged on Zhou Yu’s face for a split second before she quickly looked away and stepped back in front of the lens.

In front of the camera, the “Energetic Girl” returned.

Watching her, Zhou Yu finally realized why her heart felt so heavy today.

By the seventh outfit, the rain had stopped. Old A called it a wrap. The lighting crew began dismantling equipment, the assistant crouched down to peel up the floor tape, and Yun Yan headed to the dressing room to change.

Zhou Yu stood up and walked out of the studio. The post-rain air smelled of wet earth mixed with the rising heat from the asphalt. The alley was pockmarked with puddles that reflected the newly lit streetlamps in a blurred, hazy yellow.

At the end of the alley lay the main road. The roar of traffic surged toward her, the city’s noise filling her ears once more. She walked to the convenience store by the road to buy cigarettes, tore off the plastic wrap, and tucked one between her lips. She didn’t light it.

Ding-dong.

The store bell chimed.

Yun Yan pushed through the door. She had changed back into her white maxi dress and held her black umbrella. She stepped to the entrance, the tip of the umbrella tapping against the floor as the door swung shut behind her. The noise of the city was cut off, and the convenience store became abruptly quiet.

Zhou Yu froze for a beat, then took the cigarette out of her mouth and walked toward the door.

A moment later, Yun Yan followed her out and stood beside her, maintaining a distance that was neither too close nor too far. She was looking at her, a heavy gaze, as if everything accumulated over the last six years was pressed into the depths of her eyes, refusing to shift even a fraction.

Zhou Yu instinctively pursed her lips, wondering if she should say something. We’re adults, she thought. The way things ended was a bit immature; there’s no need to be this tense.

She forced a grin, just like she used to in university, corners of her mouth pulled wide, eyes crinkling shut, as if nothing were wrong.

“What a coincidence,” Zhou Yu said. “Long time no see.”

Her tone was breezy, a reflexive, devil-may-care smile. She acted as if they were merely old classmates who hadn’t met in years. Heaven knew how fast her heart was pounding.

Zhou Yu felt she was handling it well.

Yun Yan didn’t smile. She looked at Zhou Yu, then glanced at the cigarette in her hand.

She spoke, her voice chillingly clear: “It’s not a coincidence. I’ve been looking for you for six years.”

Zhou Yu’s smile curdled on her face. Her breath hitched for a beat before her heart began to hammer again, heavier than before. In that single second, a lifetime of images flashed through her mind, the graduation party, the tears, the dream, and every single moment over the last six years where she had told herself, “I’ve forgotten her.”

She wanted to snap, “Looking for me for what?” or let out another laugh to brush the topic aside. She was an expert at that. But in the end, she couldn’t say a word. Her throat felt blocked, not by a sob. She wasn’t at the point of weeping with joy, but by every “I miss you” swallowed in the dead of night and every “Whatever” whispered upon waking up each morning for six years.

Zhou Yu stayed silent. She looked down, tucked the cigarette back into her mouth, and fumbled in her pocket for a lighter.

“Can you not smoke?” Yun Yan asked.

Zhou Yu’s hand faltered. Suddenly, she saw a blur of different Yun Yans: the girl on camera who smiled like clear water, the expressionless woman standing before her now, and the Yun Yan from university who would always smile at her so gently, yet never answer her questions.

Yun Yan’s voice was the same as it had always been; when facing Zhou Yu, it carried a hint of helpless indulgence.

Behind them, the convenience store’s refrigerator hummed. Yun Yan watched the cigarette between Zhou Yu’s lips, her brow furrowing slightly before smoothing out again.

“Even if it’s because of me, don’t hurt yourself like this,” Yun Yan said with a sigh. “It’s not worth it.”

Zhou Yu pulled the cigarette from her mouth, unlit. She looked down at it, then lifted her head and smiled again. This smile was different, the corners of her mouth were turned up, but her eyes remained cold.

“You’re so arrogant,” Zhou Yu let out a cold laugh. “Who says this is for you?”

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