The Rain Won't Fall - Chapter 4

Zhou Yu clutched the pack of cigarettes. This should be enough, she thought. There was no need for awkward small talk; they had nothing left to say to each other anyway.

She turned and walked away. After a dozen paces, she noticed there were no footsteps following her. She didn’t look back. Her Doc Martens splashed through the puddles, her stride fast and heavy. Reaching her bike, she slotted the key, donned her helmet, and kicked the engine to life. The low growl of the exhaust echoed through the narrow alley. She twisted the throttle, and the bike surged forward, her hair and the hem of her shirt whipping back in unison. In the rearview mirror, the figure standing there grew smaller and smaller until she vanished.

Zhou Yu pulled her gaze back and leaned into the first turn. Wind rushed into her helmet, filling her ears with a dull roar. Suddenly, that dream flashed through her mind—the hotel room, Yun Yan holding her and whispering “don’t cry.” She remembered the way Yun Yan had felt against her, like a vine climbing a tree trunk, tangling together in a desperate symbiosis.

She squeezed the brake, slowing down for a second, before revving the engine and speeding up again.

The rain-slicked ground sent up a thin veil of mist, reflecting the hazy yellow halos of the streetlamps. Zhou Yu parked the bike beneath her apartment complex in Tianhe, pulled off her helmet, and let her flattened hair fall as it may.

Upstairs, the door clicked open. She tossed her keys onto the entryway table.

Zhou Yu walked out onto the balcony. Across the way, a few floors of the office towers were still glowing with light, and the taillights on the overpass formed a steady, crimson river. She leaned against the railing and finally lit a cigarette.

When exactly had she started smoking?

It was her first month in Guangzhou after leaving Star City. She had been renting a place in an “urban village,” where her window faced the brick wall of the neighboring building. Unable to sleep one night, she headed down to the 24-hour convenience store and bought a pack. The first drag had choked her until tears streamed down her face, leaving her coughing on the curb for ages. Eventually, she learned.

It was almost laughable. What was she so heartbroken for? The other woman was clearly doing just fine, acting as if nothing had ever happened.

Technically, she and Yun Yan hadn’t even “broken up.”

There had been no confession, no confirmation of a relationship, no exchange of “I like you.”

They were just friends. And friends didn’t get jealous when the other person smiled at someone else. Friends didn’t feel like their hearts were being squeezed during a cold war. Friends didn’t cry at graduation parties and ask, “Do you even love me?”

She hadn’t even had the right to ask that question.

She had been nothing.

They had simply done everything couples do under the guise of friendship, which meant they could end everything without ever having to say goodbye.

There was a five-year gap between her and Yun Yan.

Back then, Yun Yan was nineteen, and she was twenty-four.

Now she was thirty, and Yun Yan was twenty-five.

At nineteen, Yun Yan had been very thin, her wrists as delicate as a newborn’s. She was a woman of few words, but when she spoke, she hit the mark. When she wasn’t smiling, her features carried a certain chill, and even when she did smile, it was faint—yet whenever she looked at Zhou Yu, her gaze would melt into a soft tenderness.

Zhou Yu couldn’t quite say how they had started.

Perhaps it was during a club activity where, as the senior, she was leading the newcomers. Yun Yan had trailed at the very back of the group, barely saying a word the entire time. At the time, Zhou Yu thought the kid was awfully brooding. Later, after they became acquainted, Yun Yan came to borrow her lecture notes. Zhou Yu handed over the notebook; Yun Yan flipped through a couple of pages, looked up at her, and said with a calm expression, “Senior, your handwriting is really beautiful.”

Zhou Yu had thought to herself: That’s the most cold-blooded compliment I’ve ever heard.

Everything after that was a blur.

Going to the library together, eating together, wandering the sports field together, hanging out together.

Yun Yan was quiet, but she was a listener. She listened to everything Zhou Yu said, occasionally offering a few words that perfectly aligned with Zhou Yu’s own train of thought.

Back then, Zhou Yu would wonder, How does this person know everything?

When Zhou Yu acted spoiled, Yun Yan would just watch her, a nearly imperceptible smile lingering in her eyes. When Zhou Yu lost her temper, Yun Yan didn’t get frustrated; she would simply wait for the tantrum to pass, then smile and pat Zhou Yu on the head.

Friends would ask, “What’s going on with you two?” Zhou Yu would say “nothing,” and they would tell her she was full of it.

Zhou Yu couldn’t explain it herself. They had never said a word—no confession, no commitment, no “I like you”, yet everyone assumed they were already a couple.

That particular bitterness was something only she knew. Even now, the memory brought a dull ache to her chest.

It was the same with the Cold Wars.

They had gone through many, for reasons Zhou Yu could no longer remember; maybe Yun Yan had spoken a few too many words to someone else, or maybe Zhou Yu had thrown another inexplicable fit. Yun Yan never argued; she simply met her with silence.

Yun Yan’s silence was like a wall. When Zhou Yu crashed into it, she was the only one who got hurt.

Their final cold war was the one at the graduation party.

Yun Yan was leaving, and Zhou Yu didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how to ask her to stay; she could only ask, “Can you not go?” and “Did you ever love me?”

Yun Yan hadn’t answered, so Zhou Yu left.

She didn’t tell anyone she was going. She changed her phone, tossed her SIM card, and wiped the slate clean of everything from her past. Or so she thought, telling herself it was time for a fresh start.

Zhou Yu stared into the distance. The night sky over Guangzhou was somber, the clouds pressing down on the city, refusing to scatter.

The cigarette at her fingertips had almost burned to the filter. Zhou Yu turned and tossed the butt into the living room trash can. In the distance, a stray cat let out a cry before leaping into the bushes and vanishing from sight.

After that shoot, Zhou Yu didn’t return to the studio.

The samples were all confirmed and the patterns were set. She returned to the ninth floor to continue sketching for the next season.

Life reverted to the way it was before Yun Yan appeared: working, sketching, going home. Her life was a straight line between her desk and the conference room. Occasionally, she’d work until eight or nine at night, the warm night wind of Guangzhou hitting her face as she rode her bike home, carrying the humid scent of the Pearl River.

It was exactly the same as before.

The only difference was that Zhou Yu began seeing her everywhere in the company.

The moment the elevator doors slid open, Yun Yan would be standing there, an Americano in hand. Seeing Zhou Yu, she would give a slight, formal nod.

While waiting in the cafeteria line, the person in front would turn around; it would be her. Zhou Yu’s hand would tighten around her tray, but Yun Yan would have already walked past.

In the smoking area, just as Zhou Yu lit a cigarette, she’d catch a glimpse of a silhouette out of the corner of her eye: a white blouse and long hair flowing past the shoulders. Her hand would falter, but the figure would already be gone.

They were in different departments.

Yun Yan was a newly signed print model for the Marketing Department on the twelfth floor.

Zhou Yu’s design team was on the ninth floor, yet Yun Yan began appearing in the ninth-floor breakroom.

The first time, Zhou Yu thought she’d seen wrong. The second time, she pushed the door open to find Yun Yan leaning by the window, drinking water. Hearing the door, Yun Yan looked up, spared her a glance, then looked back down without a word. The third time, Zhou Yu reached the door, saw a figure through the frosted glass, stopped, and turned away to use the water dispenser at the far end of the hallway.

A week later, Zhou Yu grew accustomed to it.

Accustomed to the elevator encounters, accustomed to seeing the same back across a few tables in the cafeteria, and accustomed to that person quietly, wordlessly seeping into her daily routine.

They didn’t speak. Occasionally, their eyes would meet, but Zhou Yu was always the first to look away. She didn’t know if Yun Yan was looking at her; she didn’t dare confirm it.

Before, she wouldn’t have glanced into the breakroom while passing by. Before, she wouldn’t have reflexively looked up when the elevator opened. Before, the hallway corner where she smoked wouldn’t make her heart skip a beat every time she walked toward it.

On Wednesday afternoon, Zhou Yu went to the twelfth floor to deliver fabric confirmation slips.

The Marketing Department was undergoing renovations and had temporarily moved to the conference room at the end of the hall.

She pushed the door open, handed the slips to a colleague, and as she turned to leave, her gaze brushed past the breakroom. Yun Yan was standing by the window, surrounded by two or three people, laughing and talking with them. One woman had her hand on Yun Yan’s forearm, leaning in to say something. Yun Yan lowered her head to listen, the corners of her mouth curling into a faint arc. The woman said something else, and Yun Yan looked up at her, her eyes crinkling into a smile as she responded.

Zhou Yu withdrew her gaze and walked out.

As the elevator doors closed, she watched the floor numbers count down, her fingers gripping the lighter in her pocket without pulling it out.

She thought: Yun Yan used to smile at me like that. When she said something childishly stupid, when she acted spoiled, when she stole a sip of Yun Yan’s herbal tea only to scowl and complain about how bitter it was, Yun Yan would let her mouth curve like that, her eyes lighting up, before taking the tea back and handing her a candy with a smile, saying, “Eat this and it won’t be bitter anymore.”

Now, Yun Yan was smiling that way at someone else.

Returning to the ninth floor, Zhou Yu crouched at the hallway corner and lit a cigarette. The smoke rose, scattered by the draft. She held the cigarette between her lips, not really inhaling, just watching the ash burn longer and longer.

By the time she left work, the sky was pitch black.

Back home, Zhou Yu finished her shower and sat on the sofa to dry her hair. Her phone lay on the coffee table, the screen lit with work group messages jumping one by one. She finished her hair, draped the towel over the back of a chair, and leaned her head back against the sofa. She thought of that smile of Yun Yan’s. Once, she thought that smile belonged to her. Later, she found out it didn’t. Now, she had confirmed it—it didn’t.

On Friday afternoon, Zhou Yu was smoking at the hallway corner.

The setting sun slanted through the window. She heard footsteps, more than one person.

Yun Yan walked past with another model. The other woman was saying something, her voice loud and her laughter louder. Yun Yan walked beside her, the wind catching her long hair.

Zhou Yu didn’t look up, the smoke rising from between her fingers.

As they passed, they glanced at her but didn’t stop. Zhou Yu took the cigarette from her mouth and stared at the floor.

The footsteps faded. Zhou Yu stubbed out the cigarette, her legs a bit numb from standing so long.

At the other end of the hallway, Yun Yan returned to the temporary office.

The person beside her was still talking. Yun Yan gave a brief response and stopped by the window. She looked back; Zhou Yu was standing in the smoke, as if she had long since grown used to the smell.

Yun Yan remembered university. The first time she had passed near the smoking area, Zhou Yu had grabbed her sleeve and pulled her along at a brisk pace, saying, “It smells terrible; let’s go.” Back then, Zhou Yu would wrinkle her nose in disgust at the smell of smoke. Later, every time they passed the smoking area, Zhou Yu would tug her away, sometimes by the sleeve, sometimes by the wrist.

Now, Zhou Yu stood there smoking, her movements practiced, her hand steady, flicking the ash away with a natural grace.

Yun Yan stood at her end of the hallway. She didn’t walk over. She didn’t know what she could say, and she knew Zhou Yu wouldn’t look up at her.

Time had changed so many things.

Just like Zhou Yu, who had once personally sworn she would never smoke in her life, yet now lived with a cigarette never far from her hand.

They were no longer the people they once were. What lay between them now was six years of empty space and the distance of strangers.

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