The Rain Won't Fall - Chapter 6

The following day, shooting commenced at nine o’clock.

Old A was his usual self, hunkered down behind the monitor, occasionally tossing out a “Good,” “One more,” or “Tilt your head a bit to the left.”

Yun Yan stood before the lens. The cream-white of the knit sweater took on a warm hue under the sunlight, and the drape of her dress flowed beautifully as she moved.

Zhou Yu stood behind Old A, safety pins and a marker in hand. She had noticed a shoulder line that kept riding up whenever Yun Yan raised her arm; she was just waiting for Old A to call a break.

“The shoulder line,” Yun Yan suddenly spoke up.

Old A looked up from behind the monitor. “What?”

“The shoulder line is shifting,” Yun Yan said, glancing sideways at her own shoulder. “Whenever I raise my right arm to this height.”

Zhou Yu stepped forward. She pinched the fabric at the shoulder, pulled it up slightly, and secured it with a pin. Yun Yan’s hair brushed against the back of her hand as she worked, and that familiar fragrance drifted into her nostrils, causing Zhou Yu a momentary lapse in concentration.

“Try lifting it now,” she said.

Yun Yan raised her right arm; the shoulder line held firm.

“It’s good,” Zhou Yu said, retreating.

By eleven, the light began to turn harsh. Old A called for a half-hour break to wait for the afternoon light. The staff scattered in small groups. Some to grab lunch boxes, others to scroll through their phones under the shade of the trees. Zhou Yu sat on an equipment crate and twisted open a bottle of water. Yun Yan stood not far away beneath a camphor tree, also holding a bottle. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves, casting a mosaic of dappled light and shadow across her.

A thought occurred to Zhou Yu. She set her water down, stood up, and walked over.

“Regarding the neckline, when I was steaming it this morning, I noticed the fabric was catching the needle a bit. When you change into the third set this afternoon, be careful. Don’t pull too hard.”

Yun Yan looked at her. “Okay.”

Zhou Yu gave a short nod and walked back to her equipment crate.

The shoot wrapped at four in the afternoon. Zhou Yu folded the sample garments one by one and tucked them into dust bags. Yun Yan emerged from the dressing room having changed back into her own clothes: a black T-shirt, a baseball cap, and jeans. One side of her long hair was tucked behind her ear. She paused as she passed by Zhou Yu.

“Zhou Yu,” she said.

Zhou Yu didn’t stop her hands, which were busy smoothing out a sleeve. “Yeah?”

“The photo I sent you… did you see it?”

Zhou Yu’s fingers paused. She remembered the empty chat window and the “The other party is typing…” notification that had flickered and died. She looked up, her expression neutral. “What photo?”

Yun Yan pulled out her phone, tapped the screen a few times, and handed it over.

It was a photo from six years ago.

The background was the old sports field at their university, the evening glow turning the track a deep crimson. Zhou Yu was leaning against the railing, her high ponytail slightly messy, looking at the camera with a brilliant, unreserved smile. Beside her, Yun Yan was looking not at the lens, but at Zhou Yu. The way Yun Yan looked at her in the photo was so focused, so heavy with unspoken words, that it made Zhou Yu’s heart skip a beat.

“I found it when I was cleaning out my old cloud storage yesterday,” Yun Yan said softly. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were fixed on Zhou Yu’s face.

Zhou Yu looked at the photo for a long time before handing the phone back. Her voice was steady. “It’s been a long time. I don’t really remember when this was taken.”

“It was the day after your graduation ceremony,” Yun Yan reminded her. “The day before you left.”

The air between them seemed to stagnate. The bustling sounds of the crew packing up equipment in the background suddenly felt very far away.

Zhou Yu looked down at the dust bag in her hands. “Is that so? I’ve forgotten.”

“I haven’t,” Yun Yan said.

She put her phone away, adjusted the brim of her baseball cap, and looked toward the exit of the studio. “I’ll head out first. See you tomorrow.”

Zhou Yu didn’t answer. She watched Yun Yan’s back as she walked away, her stride steady and calm.

She remembered that day now. She hadn’t forgotten at all. She remembered how she had cried herself to sleep that night, how she had stayed up until dawn packing her life into two suitcases, and how she had deleted Yun Yan’s contact information at the train station with trembling fingers.

She thought she had buried it all, but Yun Yan had just handed her a shovel and pointed at the grave.

Zhou Yu zipped up the last dust bag with a sharp zip. She stood up, feeling the humid heat of the afternoon pressing in on her. She needed a cigarette. She really, desperately needed a cigarette.

“The pin on the shoulder line… the cuff of the third outfit has the same problem. I’ll let you know before we start shooting tomorrow.”

Zhou Yu continued packing, her head down. “Fine.”

Yun Yan stood there for a moment before walking out. Zhou Yu knelt on the floor, zipping up the garment bags one by one. By the time she finished tidying everything up, it was already evening.

Zhou Yu stood up and brushed the dust off her knees. She carried a stack of samples into the dressing room, only to freeze for a split second. Yun Yan hadn’t left yet; she was sitting in her chair.

Zhou Yu set the garments down. Just as she was about to leave, Yun Yan stood up, and the two of them came face-to-face.

Zhou Yu paused, stepping aside to let her pass first. Yun Yan didn’t move; she stayed where she was. Zhou Yu held several samples that needed alterations against her chest, and Yun Yan looked at her.

“The cuff,” Yun Yan said.

Zhou Yu glanced down at her own sleeve. The button had slipped out.

“It’s loose,” Yun Yan noted.

Zhou Yu shifted the garments to one side, freeing a hand to fasten the cuff, but after two attempts, she couldn’t get it.

Yun Yan reached out. The moment her fingers brushed the button, Zhou Yu’s hand instinctively jerked back. Yun Yan fastened the button anyway, then pulled her hand away.

Zhou Yu muttered a “thank you” and hurried off with the clothes.

Yun Yan stood in the silence. She remembered how it used to be: Zhou Yu would never fix a loose cuff herself. Instead, she’d thrust her hand toward Yun Yan and say, “I can’t reach it.” Yun Yan would point out that she hadn’t even tried, and Zhou Yu would just laugh and say, “Then help me.” She would lower her head, fasten it, give the sleeve a little tug, and say, “Done.” Zhou Yu would look up at her, smile, and pull her hand back.

Now, Zhou Yu said “thank you,” treating her with the polite distance of a stranger.

Yun Yan walked out. The hallway was empty. The moonlight streamed through the window, stretching her shadow until it reached the very end of the corridor.

*****

That night, when Yun Yan got home, she picked up a pack of 555s she had bought on the way. She walked into the bathroom, opened the blue box, and lightly bit the flavor bead. She took a drag just as she had seen Zhou Yu do. A cold, sharp blueberry flavor, a chill wrapped in acrid bitterness—surged down her throat and settled in her chest, a heavy knot that refused to dissipate.

Zhou Yu, she thought, is this the taste you like now? So cold, so bitter.

Yun Yan turned on the faucet. The water rushed out. She leaned down and splashed it onto her face, then stood leaning against the sink for a while. In the mirror, her eyes were rimmed with red.

She thought about how things were now. Zhou Yu no longer asked, “Why aren’t you asking where I’m going?” She didn’t hold out her hand and say her buttons were loose. She didn’t grab Yun Yan’s sleeve and complain about the smell of smoke. Zhou Yu had learned to smoke, she had learned to say “thank you,” and she had learned to step aside to let Yun Yan pass.

Yun Yan lowered her head. She remembered the day Zhou Yu left. It was raining heavily in Star City. At the time, she hadn’t understood why Zhou Yu had left so heartlessly. Now, she understood.

It was a collection of disappointments that had finally overflowed.

Every time Yun Yan had met her with silence; every time Zhou Yu had asked if she loved her and couldn’t get an answer; every time Zhou Yu had waited until dawn for a response. Zhou Yu had gathered those “unreachables” one by one. She gathered them for four years until she finally walked away without looking back.

Now, it was Yun Yan’s turn.

She was starting her own collection. Zhou Yu smiling at others, Zhou Yu protecting others, and Zhou Yu saying “thank you.” Each one was a loose button. When she could no longer hold them, she would break, just like Zhou Yu once did.

Yun Yan looked at her reflection.

I am standing where you stood back then. I have reached the age you were then.

I finally understand the agonizing expression you had when you looked at me. I understand what your eyes were saying when you hesitated to speak.

Zhou Yu, I’m starting to understand.

But it has been six years. Six years too late.

Can I still walk back to your side?

Will you still let me?

*****

Zhou Yu came out of the shower, her wet hair unblown. Her phone lay on the coffee table, the screen lit. She swiped it twice and put it back down.

Yun Yan’s words echoed in her mind: “These six years I spent looking for you—that was my decision, too. It has nothing to do with you.”

Yun Yan was truly that kind of person. She never said sweet things; she only responded with actions.

Zhou Yu draped a towel over her neck and leaned back against the sofa. The ceiling was white, save for a small water stain in the corner left over from last year’s damp season that she had never bothered to fix.

She remembered university. Yun Yan was always like that. Once she decided on something, she didn’t talk about it; she just did it. Holding a seat in the library for her, from freshman year until graduation, she never once told Zhou Yu in advance. Every time Zhou Yu arrived and saw Yun Yan’s bag on the chair next to her, she’d realize she was there. When asked how long she’d been waiting, she’d always say, “Just got here.” When she went on sketching trips to neighboring cities, she never asked what Zhou Yu wanted; she just bought things. But every single item was something Zhou Yu loved, something she wanted.

Once, when things were quiet and schoolwork was finished early, Zhou Yu went to find her. Yun Yan was in the middle of a studio class, sketching from life.

The assignment was flowers.

Zhou Yu glanced at the peony she was drawing, nudged her, and said, “That’s you.”

Yun Yan was puzzled. She smiled and asked, “Why me?”

Because peonies are noble and beautiful. That’s who you are to me.

Zhou Yu didn’t say it aloud. Instead, she took off her earphones and tucked one into Yun Yan’s ear. A song was playing. The lyrics by Lin Xi sang: “No matter how beautiful they are, they aren’t as precious as you.”

That was exactly what Zhou Yu thought. Though the world was a garden of a thousand blooms, her eyes only saw one. Only you bloomed brilliantly; beyond you, I saw no one else.

And then there was her birthday that year. Yun Yan had asked her a month in advance, “Zhou Yu, what gift do you want?”

With a mischievous glint in her eye and a bright smile, Zhou Yu said, “I want your purest love. I want all of you—the good, the bad, and I want it all. Will you give it to me?”

Yun Yan froze for a long moment, staring at her, before finally saying, “Okay.”

Back then, they were young. They only knew that the peony symbolized “a singular devotion.”

They didn’t know the peony had another name.

Jiang Li—The Flower of Parting.

The phone vibrated. A message appeared in the work group: Good work today, everyone. We continue tomorrow.

Zhou Yu closed her eyes.

Tomorrow. One more day.

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