Love's Ambition

From their first meeting, Zhou Mo realized Jiang Yuan was interested in her.

"You're different from them," he said. "Not as restless. You seem—calm."

They were standing in a crowded hall, watching two young women in tight miniskirts busy taking photos with others. The string lights on the Christmas tree shifted colors, casting flickering red and green hues over their faces.

"That's because I'm much older than them. Past that age," Zhou Mo replied.

"You mean you were like them before?"

"Everyone’s a bit restless when they're young, right?"

"Some things are innate, trust me."

"Alright." She laughed. Someone was leaving, pushing open the door. A gust of cold wind rushed in, brushing against her feverish forehead.

Trusting this stranger was dangerous, Zhou Mo knew—especially for someone like her now. The willpower of a recently divorced woman was like a loose tooth, barely hanging on.

Zhou Mo hadn’t planned to attend that charity gala. When the two invitations arrived, she glanced at them before tossing them into the wastebasket along with her credit card bills. On the eve of Christmas Eve, she caught a chill and developed a low-grade fever. She slept fitfully until noon the next day when Song Lian called.

Every holiday, Song Lian would inevitably invite her out, feeling it was her duty not to leave Zhou Mo alone at home. Zhou Mo didn’t want to disappoint her kindness. Even if it weren’t Song Lian but some other friend, Zhou Mo wouldn’t refuse. She was afraid they’d all give up on her—that she’d withdraw into herself and become an eccentric old woman.

With her fever, she barely registered where Song Lian was inviting her until, just before hanging up, she heard Song Lian exclaim loudly through the receiver, "Welcome back to the social whirl!" A shiver ran down her spine, snapping her halfway awake.

"A charity gala?" she said. "Are they raising funds for me? A divorced, jobless, childless pitiful woman?"

"Come on, your monthly allowance alone could pay fifty white-collar salaries."

"But I have no savings, and there’s still the mortgage to pay."

"Don’t tell me you’re actually worrying about these things. The only question you ever ask yourself is, 'What should I buy today?'"

For over a decade, she truly hadn’t worried about money. She’d never even known how much the family had. It wasn’t until the divorce that she learned Zhuang He had sunk all their money into real estate—only for the project to collapse, the land reclaimed, the money gone. Even their home had been mortgaged.

It was then that she realized how fiercely Zhuang He had craved wealth. Maybe he’d wanted a private jet or a yacht. But why hadn’t he told her? Probably afraid she’d laugh at him. She would’ve said it’d be better to collect Impressionist paintings and donate them to a museum.Fortunately, the failed investment didn't crush Zhuang He. Headhunters knew the value of this Stanford graduate and experienced multinational company vice president. Shortly after the divorce, he switched to an even larger company with a thirty percent salary increase—just enough to cover his ex-wife's alimony.

Zhou Mo received a monthly payment now, which felt novel. She hadn't worked in over a decade, but now she finally had a job—being an ex-wife. It was leisurely and paid handsomely. Within just a few months, she had saved enough for a down payment on a new apartment and moved in.

She kept a few pieces of old furniture, tucked away in corners where they wouldn’t be noticed. When Song Lian visited, she assumed everything was new.

"Good, a fresh start," Song Lian said, looking around. "Let me think—what’s still missing?"

Then she gave Zhou Mo a cat. Its original owner had immigrated to Canada and entrusted it to her before leaving. The cat was a bit old and fierce, refusing to let Zhou Mo pet it, though at night it would jump onto the bed and sleep by her feet.

For the first time attending a social event not as Mrs. Zhuang, Zhou Mo sat on the bed, pondering what to wear that evening. Should she change her style to signal rebirth? In the end, she chose a wool dress she often wore. At six o'clock, she draped on her coat, brushed a faint blush onto her pale cheeks, grabbed her purse, and stepped out.

Song Lian and Qin Yu picked her up by car, arguing the whole way about where to vacation for the Spring Festival. Lately, Zhou Mo had been going out often with this couple. She had grown accustomed to having dinner with them, watching movies, listening to their sudden, pointless quarrels and dramatic reconciliations, spending evenings with them doubting their housekeeper’s loyalty or dissecting their neighbors’ marital issues with relish. Sometimes they even asked for her opinion, drawing her into their discussions as if she were part of their family.

Why couldn’t three people live together? she wondered tipsily, laughing with them over trivial things. The illusion would fade by the end of the night, vanishing completely as she staggered home alone, standing in the marble-clad lobby waiting for the elevator. When the doors closed, she eyed her many reflections in the mirror, slowly letting the last traces of a smile slip from her lips.

The hotel hosting the charity gala was old, its entrance carpet unchanged for years. A scrawny Santa Claus wandered the lobby, bending down so little girls could pluck gifts from his sack. Passing the bakery, Zhou Mo peered inside—business was still as brisk as ever. One Christmas, she and Zhuang He had bought an enormous yule log cake here. They ate it for days until the mere thought of cream made her nauseous. Now she tried to summon that taste, but her mouth was dry, bitter only with the aftertaste of the Tylenol she’d taken before leaving.They arrived a bit early, and some guests hadn't shown up yet. Zhou Mo found her seat, relieved it was tucked away in an inconspicuous corner. While no one was paying attention, she slipped the name card with Zhuang He's name into her handbag. Two long-lost friends came over to greet her, asking where she'd been traveling lately. "Nowhere," she shook her head. Perhaps in their eyes, she should have gone somewhere to lick her wounds. Later, one of them mentioned her dog had died. Zhou Mo thought this was a safe topic and inquired in detail about the cause of death, whether the dog had suffered in its final moments, and the burial process. Her concern for this dog she'd never met moved her friend deeply.

Then Du Chuan appeared, rescuing her from the canine conversation.

"How long has it been!" He clapped her on the shoulder, his booming voice unchanged from before.

A young man stood behind him, whom Du Chuan introduced as his assistant Jiang Yuan. Jiang Yuan was quite handsome, but his black velvet suit was overly formal, complete with a bow tie, and his slicked-back hair bore too much gel—as if he were preparing to film "Shanghai Bund." Especially following Du Chuan, who wore a hooded ski jacket and running shoes, the contrast was almost comical.

Du Chuan was now a renowned painter. When Zhou Mo first met him, he had just graduated from art school. That was twelve years ago. She and Zhuang He had just returned from abroad and rented a top-floor apartment—their first home in Beijing. At the end of the hallway was a ladder leading to the rooftop. The wind was strong up there, and on clear nights, you could see countless stars. Zhou Mo often found herself reminiscing about that place.

Du Chuan's studio wasn't far from their home. Sometimes after work in the evenings, he would drop by for a drink with Zhuang He. The two shared no common hobbies or topics, yet they formed an unusual friendship. Back then, Du Chuan might have had a slight crush on Zhou Mo; he once said he wanted a girlfriend like her. "Like what?" Zhuang He asked. "Warm and considerate," Du Chuan replied. "That's because you don't know her well enough yet," Zhuang He laughed heartily. Zhou Mo threw a cushion at him. Du Chuan watched them with a smile, then drained his glass. Many years later, that scene of the three of them together became her favorite memory—even surpassing the night Zhuang He proposed to her by the fountain in the square.

Later, Du Chuan moved his studio to the suburbs, Zhuang He was always traveling for work, and their interactions dwindled. As Du Chuan's fame grew, Zhou Mo received invitations to every opening of his exhibitions, but she never attended. She was afraid of seeing him transformed into someone else.

Yet he seemed unchanged, genuinely delighted to see her, and suggested they grab a drink after the dinner. Zhou Mo didn't want to go—Zhuang He would inevitably come up. Perhaps Du Chuan already knew about their divorce; otherwise, why hadn't he asked about Zhuang He? He might want to comfort her or express regret. She didn't want to cry in front of him—it would tarnish those beautiful memories.

But Du Chuan's enthusiasm was hard to refuse. He even introduced her solemnly to Jiang Yuan:

"This is one of the earliest collectors of my work. She owns 'Summer.'"

That painting had long been sold by Zhuang He."You have excellent taste." Jiang Yuan didn't avert his gaze. Even when she turned her face away, he continued looking at her.

Such a prolonged stare should have been an obvious signal of interest. Yet she hoped she was mistaken, because apart from owning a painting worth over three million, he knew nothing about her. She wasn't foolish enough to believe he was attracted to her appearance—a woman at least ten years his senior, and one who must look particularly haggard from illness. Therefore, she concluded that given how dubious this affection seemed, it was best to ignore it.

The evening featured a lengthy charity auction, including one of Du Chuan's oil paintings. Jiang Yuan took the stage, holding it up for display. Perhaps his formal attire was for this very occasion. Unfortunately, his body was obscured by the painting, his face cast in shadow, leaving only the greasy sheen of hair gel visible on his head. Poor kid, Zhou Mo thought.

Having drunk a little, she felt dizzy, her attention wandering, making it difficult to join the conversation between the Song Lian couple beside her. They were discussing hot spring resorts in Hokkaido with another gallery-owning couple. It seemed vacation talk would dominate the night. She retrieved a cigarette from her purse, slipped on her coat, and left the table.

Pushing open a glass door, she stepped outside. In summer, this area had outdoor seating. One year, Zhuang He and his colleagues often came here for beer. Which year was that? She pressed her temples, cupped the flame, and lit a cigarette. She'd only recently resumed smoking, having quit eight years ago when they planned for a child. Three months into her pregnancy, she accompanied Zhuang He on a business trip to Paris. In a hotel by the Seine, she endured a night of stomach pain and lost the baby. After that, they never traveled far together again. Now, whenever she lit a cigarette, she thought of that child—how, had they not gone to Paris, that child might now be sitting in the study doing homework.

The glass door opened, releasing a burst of lively noise. Turning, she saw Jiang Yuan approaching. She realized she'd been anticipating this moment. Perhaps this was why, despite her fever and splitting headache, she'd stayed. Her nose suddenly stung with the absurdity of it. Even more absurd was the fleeting memory of Zhuang He walking toward her at a sophomore-year dance. She immediately felt ashamed for comparing the two. There was no comparison, none at all.

"This door is quite hidden," Jiang Yuan remarked, coatless, hands tucked in his pockets. "Lucky you lit that cigarette—I spotted the glow from afar."

"Where's Du Chuan?" she asked.

"Not sure. He might show up later. He's quite the smoker too."

"If you see him, tell him I'm running a fever and leaving early."

"Leaving now?"

"In a bit," she said. "I came with a friend's car."

He pulled out rolling paper and tobacco, deftly crafting a cigarette and offering it to her. "Want to try this?"

She waved it off. Smiling, he lit it for himself. "The forecast says snow tonight."

"It said that a few days ago too, but nothing came of it.""We'll have to wait until midnight, but it'll definitely snow, trust me," he said. "When you wake up tomorrow and open the curtains, everything outside will be blanketed in white. Want to make a bet?"

She shook her head. "Only kids get that excited about snow."

He shrugged and flicked away his cigarette butt. "Let's go back inside."

They returned to the hall where the auction had already ended. Many people had left their seats and were chatting in the aisles between tables. They stood in a corner near the entrance, observing the crowd from a distance. She thought he might be drawn to the pretty girls weaving through the room, but he seemed to dislike such ostentation, instead finding her quiet demeanor more appealing.

"Do you paint too?" she asked.

He told her he had studied oil painting at the Fine Arts Academy in Chongqing during college. After graduating, he taught sketching at an art exam prep class for a few years before coming to Beijing two years ago to join Du Chuan. The assistant work was tedious—from stretching canvases to paying traffic tickets. Sometimes when Du Chuan socialized late, he had to drive out to pick him up. She asked if he still had time to paint. "Yes," he said, "in the evenings and on weekends."

"Is that enough time?" She glanced at him. "But not everyone needs to be an artist. Having a stable job is good too."

He smiled without replying. After a moment, he pulled two chocolate balls from his pocket.

"Do you eat chocolate? I took these from Santa's pocket."

She declined. He unwrapped the gold foil and popped the whole chocolate into his mouth. She heard the crunch of nuts being crushed between his teeth.

"I've loved painting since I was a kid. There were two other children back then—we painted family planning propaganda posters for the village together. After finishing, we got to keep the brushes. We’d always end up covered in paint and jump into the river to wash off. The brushes would lose their bristles after soaking in water—it broke our hearts." He chuckled. "Sounds pretty boring, doesn’t it?"

"Not at all. What are those two doing now?"

"One works in a factory in Dongguan, the other hauls sand in the county town. I’m the only one in the whole village who’s ever touched an oil paintbrush. The sand hauler was so envious he made me bring one back just to show him."

Just then, Du Chuan approached. He said a friend from Taiwan had arrived, so he couldn’t join them for drinks that night. He apologized to Zhou Mo, promising to reschedule and asking her to wait for his call.

Zhou Mo realized, to her surprise, that she felt disappointed. Watching Jiang Yuan follow Du Chuan away, she was reluctant to accept that the evening had come to an end just like that.

On the way home, Song Lian and Qin Yu argued again, this time over their differing opinions about the gallery-owning couple. Zhou Mo sat in the back seat, her head resting against the window. She held her phone, repeatedly lighting up the screen to check for new messages. She hadn’t given Jiang Yuan her number. Of course, he could ask Du Chuan for it, though that might be odd. Still, if he wanted to know, he’d find a way.

Her phone suddenly rang, startling her. It was Gu Chen.

"Still out?" Gu Chen asked.

"Yes. Can I call you back later?" she whispered.

"Where did you go? A bar?"

"I’m almost home. I’ll talk to you later." She ended the call.If Song Lian and Qin Yu knew who she was talking to, they would surely scold her harshly and never bother with her again. But they were too caught up in their own heated argument to pay attention to anything else. Zhou Mo leaned forward toward the front seat: "Just drop me off here. I need to pick up something from the 7-11."

"I'm getting out too. I can't stand being with him anymore," Song Lian said.

"I've had enough too," Qin Yu retorted.

"Since when? Since the day Li Ya returned from abroad?"

"Stop being unreasonable, will you?"

Seizing the chaos, Zhou Mo hopped out of the car: "Goodnight, you two."

She had barely stepped inside and hadn’t even taken off her coat when Gu Chen’s call came through.

"Don’t you think life is utterly meaningless?" Gu Chen said on the other end.

It was the first time Gu Chen had called since her divorce from Zhuang He a month ago.

"Tell me where Zhuang He is right now," she demanded without preamble.

She had dialed the landline by the bed—a number almost no one knew. Later, she admitted to Zhou Mo that she and Zhuang He had once made love over the phone. Zhou Mo only wanted to know where she had been at the time. "I don’t know, probably in the next room," Gu Chen replied listlessly. Zhou Mo could picture Gu Chen narrowing her eyes. She had seen her photo—on Zhuang He’s computer.

It was Gu Chen who had destroyed their marriage, yet half a year later, Zhuang He married another girl. What did that mean? Zhou Mo thought perhaps it didn’t matter who he ended up with—what mattered was leaving her behind.

No one knew what Zhuang He was thinking. He announced the breakup via a single text message and then vanished from Gu Chen’s life.

Gu Chen went to his company, only to find he had resigned. She sought out his friends, but they all avoided her. One of them told her Zhuang He was already married, but she refused to believe it and even broke the man’s nose. Finally, she thought of Zhou Mo and called. But Zhou Mo said she didn’t know where Zhuang He was either. The call didn’t end there, though. Gu Chen suddenly realized she could talk to the person on the other end about Zhuang He—at least she was more willing to listen than anyone else.

At first, Zhou Mo answered Gu Chen’s calls out of sheer curiosity. She wanted to know where this formidable rival had failed. Gu Chen believed their love had been too intense, leaving no room to breathe. So Zhuang He needed to step away temporarily, to get some air. Temporarily, she emphasized.

Later, the calls became a habit. By then, Gu Chen was usually drunk. She would talk incessantly before dissolving into sobs. If Zhou Mo didn’t interrupt, the call would only end one way—Gu Chen passing out from intoxication.

Zhou Mo quickly realized that Gu Chen had a hysterical quality about her, as if she needed to drag others down into the abyss with her. That was probably why Zhuang He left her. Of course, it might also have been why he fell for her in the first place.

"Zhuang He said I’m your opposite," Gu Chen once told her. "You’re like ice, and I’m a piece of burning coal." She would recount things Zhuang He had said and describe what they had done together.

"We made love on the rooftop terrace of his office building… twice in a row. He went downstairs for a meeting and came back up again."

"Terrace?" Zhou Mo repeated.

"Yeah, he loved terraces."Zhou Mo recalled the rooftop of the apartment she had lived in when she first arrived in Beijing. They had thrown a party there one autumn. After it ended, she went alone to clean up the cups and plates, and by chance, she looked up to see the sky filled with bright stars. She had never seen so many stars in Beijing's sky before. For a moment, the thought of making love with Zhuang He there flashed through her mind. The wind on the rooftop was too strong—they would have to set up a tent, like going camping. The camping idea lingered in her heart for a while, but Zhuang He was always away on business trips or came home late at night. A few times she asked him about his weekend plans, and he would shake his head, looking utterly uninterested. "Why not set up a tent on the rooftop and watch the stars?" Several times, the words were on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them back. She was afraid he would scoff and ask, "How old are you this year?"

Gu Chen was still talking incessantly on the other end. Zhou Mo held the phone as tears fell. It wasn’t because they had stolen her idea, but because she missed so deeply the version of herself who had spent many nights plotting to set up that tent. That version of herself had believed in things she no longer believed in now.

"Alright, you've had enough to drink," Zhou Mo said. "Go to sleep." She pulled the thermometer from under her arm—39.2°C. Her fever had risen again.

"I've only just started. You should pour yourself a glass too," Gu Chen replied.

"I have a fever. I don’t feel like drinking today."

"Just a little. It might make you feel better."

"I need to stay sober. I might have to go to the hospital alone later."

"I can go with you..." A retching sound came through the phone, followed by the flush of a toilet.

"I used to go with Zhuang He to the emergency room in the middle of the night too," Gu Chen said. "Once, while he was on an IV in the hospital ward, we even had sex... The IV stand toppled over, the needle came loose, and the nurse scolded him, saying how could a grown man be so unruly even while getting an IV..." She giggled, coughing uncontrollably, before the laughter gradually crumbled into sobs. "Why did he do this to me? Tell me, why..."

Zhou Mo swallowed a fever reducer and lay down on the bed. She placed the phone on the pillow beside her. The crying on the other end continued—sharp, wretched, unsettling. Yet many cold nights that winter, Zhou Mo had fallen asleep to the sound of those sobs. There was someone on the other end, more heartbroken than she was. She needed this companionship, perhaps to the point of dependence. So sometimes, she would encourage Gu Chen to drink more, or coax her into reminiscing about happier times, just to push her into another emotional breakdown, another fit of weeping. In those moments, Zhou Mo felt like she had complete control over Gu Chen. She was feeding off Gu Chen’s pain—but so what? This was what Gu Chen owed her. She believed the misfortune she had endured justified lowering her own moral standards.

She had always feared that Gu Chen would move on from the shadow of losing Zhuang He before she did. Gu Chen’s suffering, though intense, might be fleeting. She was young, full of passion—she might throw herself into a new romance by tomorrow. The thought made Zhou Mo sick to her stomach. It would feel like another betrayal. She didn’t know how to stop it from happening. All she could do was answer Gu Chen’s calls, ensuring she remained trapped in the agony of the past. And, of course, not tell her Zhuang He’s address.

She knew exactly where Zhuang He lived. After moving out, she would periodically return to their old place to collect mail, forwarding anything that might be useful to him—postcards from former classmates in the U.S., invitations to wine tastings. The address had come from Zhuang He himself. He had never tried to hide anything from her, not even his marriage. In his eyes, she was the most reasonable of ex-wives. But she hadn’t given the address to Gu Chen—not out of consideration for him. She had a strong intuition that it would set Gu Chen free. Gu Chen’s pain stemmed from the fact that her heart hadn’t yet turned cold. Zhuang He’s sudden disappearance had left her clinging to hope. If she saw him again, heard him say with his own lips that he was married, that there was no chance for them—maybe then she would finally let go. Zhou Mo wasn’t the least bit worried about them rekindling anything. Zhuang He never changed his mind once it was made up. She knew that well, which was why she hadn’t tried to salvage their marriage.On that feverish night, Zhou Mo dreamed again of what she feared most. Gu Chen called to say he was getting married tomorrow. "No, that's impossible," she cried out loudly on her end.

"It feels like I've recovered from a serious illness—I'm completely better now," Gu Chen chuckled.

Zhou Mo felt a ringing in her ears and a stabbing pain in her heart. The pain pierced through the dream straight to her chest, jolting her eyes open. She lay motionless in the darkness for a long time, feeling the sweat on her body slowly turn cold.

She picked up her phone to check the time. 3 a.m. A new text message popped up from an unfamiliar number: "It's snowing outside. I won."

They agreed to meet at the entrance of the art museum. Zhou Mo arrived early and waited inside the glass doors.

Sparse snowflakes drifted in the sky, and a train passed by on the distant tracks. The grotesque sculptures in the plaza before the museum were blanketed in snow, transformed into innocent lumps of clay.

Jiang Yuan crossed the street and walked toward her. He wore a duffle coat and carried a worn Cambridge satchel, looking like a melancholy college student. He was so different from the night before that she almost didn't recognize him. Then she began to wonder how she'd become connected to this boy before her.

The museum was empty in the morning, save for an elderly couple shuffling slowly about. Today was the last day of the Monet exhibition—tomorrow the paintings would be shipped back to America. Visiting this exhibition had been Jiang Yuan's suggestion, though Zhou Mo had wanted to come as well.

"Don't you have work today?" Zhou Mo asked.

"I took the day off," Jiang Yuan blinked. "I told them my cousin came to Beijing."

"Cousin?" She pondered this identity.

"Yeah. Du Chuan said I sure have a lot of relatives—last month it was my sister, this month my cousin."

He glanced at her and quickly added, "Last month wasn't a date with anyone, it really was my sister visiting."

The word "date" sounded particularly jarring.

"Even if it were a real date, that'd be normal," she said.

"How many people are worth dating anyway?" he said, looking at her.

By the time they left the museum, the snow had stopped. They trudged through the snow to a nearby restaurant for lunch.

"I don't like Monet. Not at all," he said suddenly, looking up from the menu.

"Hmm?"

"I've been holding back, didn't want to ruin your enjoyment of the exhibition."

"Why don't you like him?"

"Too sweet, like canned syrup. Completely insincere," he said.

"Maybe that's how he saw the world," she said. "Everyone sees the world differently."

"That may be true, but a good painter shouldn't only see those things."

"If you don't like him, why didn't you pick a different exhibition?"

"Different? Those domestic painters are terrible, yet each thinks they're a master."

She nearly asked what he thought of Du Chuan's work but swallowed the words. Instead, she pointed at the menu: "See what you'd like to eat."During the meal, she quietly paused to watch him. He chewed loudly, his mouth moving with exaggerated motions, as if ensuring every small piece of food was thoroughly crushed by his teeth. She couldn’t recall anyone she knew who ate like that. Yet, he still had the appearance of a boy—not unpleasant, but rather evoking a faint ache in her heart. Still, watching him eat seemed to improve her appetite; she finished an entire bowl of rice.

After leaving the restaurant, they walked onto the street. The sun had come out, and the air was crisp. Zhou Mo felt the coolness in her lungs, like the wide-mouthed jar on the windowsill. The wind shook snow from the branches, and it landed on Jiang Yuan’s hair. He was taller than Zhuang He, and though lean, his shoulders were broad. By the roadside stood a snowman, shaped like a little monk. As they passed, he patted its head.

"My place is nearby," she stopped, signaling it was time to part.

"It’s still early," he halted as well. "Alright, today was nice."

"Nice? Even after that awful exhibition?"

"That doesn’t matter. What matters is the good weather and good company." He redefined her role.

"How are you getting back?"

"By subway. Where’s the nearest station? I’m not familiar with this area."

"I’ll walk you there. I’m heading that way too."

They walked a little longer until they reached the apartment building where she lived.

"The subway’s just ahead," she said.

"Yeah, I see it." He looked up at the apartment buildings beyond the gate and pulled a cigarette pack from his pocket. "Forgot to smoke all day. Want one?"

"No," she replied.

With a cigarette between his lips, he waved at her. "Alright then, see you."

His expression was dejected, like a child chased out of a closing amusement park. She stood still, watching him walk away slowly. When he turned back, she smiled, as if they were playing a game. He smiled too.

"Come up for a bit," she said.

He liked her apartment very much—the old rug, the velvet sofa, the fireplace in the living room that he thought was cool. While she made coffee, he wandered around, examining the photographs on the walls. "Can I put on a record?" he asked.

"Of course," she called from the kitchen.

When she stepped out with the tray, he was crouched on the floor, stroking the cat. The cat finally closed its unsettling eyes. She set the tray on the table and hummed softly along to the music. It had been a long time since she’d felt this lighthearted, though she wasn’t sure if it was because she liked him or simply the thrill of bringing a stranger home. Whatever, she told herself—just an experience, something worth trying.

So when Jiang Yuan embraced her from behind, her heart remained calm. She had been kneeling to change the record. His large, brown hands wrapped tightly around her from behind.

He didn’t move, as if waiting for something to melt.

Sunlight filtered through the half-drawn curtains, falling onto the low cabinet in the corner—a piece she’d brought from her old home. Her gaze always drifted there unconsciously. Did the cabinet have memories? Would it remember how she had stared at it that time she spoke with Zhuang He?"I regret it," Zhuang He said. "I shouldn't have let you stay home without a job back then. That's why you've become like this. Playing the shakuhachi, learning tea ceremony, reading books and visiting exhibitions—you think this is life? You have no idea what the real world is like. Your life is a lie."

She twisted her fingers together, staring at the low cabinet. One of its handles was rusted—she'd never noticed before—glaringly obvious in the sunlight, the rust like clusters of insect eggs. Everything was his fault, Zhuang He claimed, while she was innocent, like a plant discarded by its owner for being poorly pruned. What could a plant possibly do? That afternoon after Zhuang He moved out, she removed the handles from the low cabinet.

Jiang Yuan made love roughly. He pinned her wrists down as if nailing her to a cross, seeming to relish this pose of suffering. During the most violent thrusts, she heard her bones cracking. At the moment of release, his ferocity faded, as if his true form emerged—a flustered tenderness. Noticing her gaze, he covered her face with a pillow.

Jiang Yuan sat smoking on the nineteenth-floor windowsill, looking outside. Backlit, his naked body appeared boyish, carrying a wild, untamed aura. She couldn't recall ever seeing a man's body that looked so young. Though Zhuang He had been under twenty when they first got together, he rarely exposed himself completely, perhaps lacking confidence. With Gu Chen, however, that hadn't been an issue.

She sat beside Jiang Yuan. He lit a cigarette for her. Night had fully fallen. Outside, towering buildings flashed with neon lights, and a river of colorful traffic flowed along the elevated highways.

"My sister—the one who visited last month," Jiang Yuan said, "the moment she got off the train, she asked me where Beijing's center was, demanded I show her. I took her to Tiananmen, the Forbidden City, and the Drum Tower, but she still seemed disappointed when she left. Now I think I should’ve brought her to a windowsill like this, pointed down, and said, 'Look, this is the center of Beijing.'" He exhaled smoke. "Wish I’d met you sooner."

She reached for the ashtray. "Why did you approach me?"

"I told you already, the first time we met."

"Hmm?"

He pointed at her cigarette. "I followed the light."

He laughed, taking her hand. "The bed’s comfortable. I want to sleep for a bit, okay? Didn’t sleep much last night."

They lay down. He curled up against her, pulling her arm around him, knees bent as he nestled into her embrace.

She closed her eyes, drifting toward sleep when the phone rang. She pulled her arm free, leapt out of bed, and snatched the receiver. There was something performative in her panic—she hadn’t forgotten her intimate rival, had even considered unplugging the phone. But she hadn’t.

"You have to drink with me tonight," Gu Chen pleaded.

"Okay, just a moment." She glanced back—Jiang Yuan hadn’t moved, still fast asleep."Now, right now!" Gu Chen shouted. But she didn’t press further, quickly slipping into a confession laced with memories. Zhou Mo had heard the story about having sex in the car many times before—maybe not the exact same one, but even if it was, she didn’t mind. As she listened, she revisited the earlier passion and unconsciously began making comparisons. Recklessness and roughness clearly had more vitality. But that wasn’t the most important thing, she thought. What mattered was that her body was warm now, her skin burning—she could feel its presence.

Gu Chen started crying. She could no longer hear Zhou Mo. Zhou Mo didn’t hang up; she placed the receiver on the windowsill, then returned to bed, lifting Jiang Yuan’s arm and nestling into his embrace. Jiang Yuan stirred a few times and opened his eyes.

"Sleep well?" she asked.

"Yeah. I even had a dream."

"What about?"

"Can’t remember clearly. I think we were playing dice in a KTV private room."

"Playing dice? Who won?"

"Forgot. I just remember thinking about how to pull you closer." He lowered his head and kissed her. "Mmm, this distance is nice now."

She made a simple dinner with leftovers from the fridge, planning to send him off afterward. She didn’t intend to let him stay the night. The thought of him shuffling around in slippers and a bathrobe or standing at the sink shaving struck her as absurd. But Jiang Yuan showed no sign of leaving. After dinner, he suggested watching a movie, then volunteered to bathe the cat. He kept finding new excuses to delay his departure—until they noticed it had started snowing again outside.

"Got any alcohol? Weather like this calls for a drink," Jiang Yuan said, leaning on the windowsill and turning his head toward her.

"How are you going to drive me home later, then?"

"I can take a cab. Or wait till I sober up."

"Until the middle of the night?" She laughed.

"Just a little," he pleaded.

Zhou Mo opened a bottle of red wine and put on a livelier record. Jiang Yuan wasn’t much of a drinker and soon grew tipsy.

"Come closer," he said, pulling her in and kissing her. They kissed through an entire song.

"Thanks," he murmured. "Yeah, I have to thank you. I’ve been in Beijing for years, but today’s the happiest I’ve been. It’s so warm here—like home. Can I treat this place as home? Sorry, I might be getting ahead of myself..." He lowered his head and drained his glass.

She felt a little flustered, simply holding his hand.

"This feeling is really special," he said. "You know? Really special..."

After drinking, Jiang Yuan fell into a deep sleep. Zhou Mo lay beside him, thinking about many things. She wondered how Du Chuan would react if he knew they were sharing a bed. Then she wondered if Jiang Yuan would be sad if they never saw each other again. She didn’t know how much time passed before she finally dozed off—only to be shaken awake by him not long after.

"Get up," he said. "I’ll take you to see my paintings."

"Now?"

"Yeah, the snow’s stopped."

"But it’s not even light out yet."

"My roommate has the studio during the day."

He dragged her up and helped her put on socks.

"This is insane," she muttered, shaking her head.

They drove to his place. At four in the morning, the streets were empty, vast stretches of untouched snow stretching endlessly ahead.A gallery owner sublet a sculpture storage warehouse to him. He and another friend partitioned two small rooms for sleeping, leaving the rest as their studio. The studio was his to use at night; he would paint until nearly dawn, sleep for two or three hours, then get up and go to work.

It was as cold as an ice cellar inside, the strong wind rattling the iron door with creaking sounds. Seven or eight enormous frames leaned against the walls. In the darkness, the thick oil paint on the canvases looked like congealed blood.

He turned on the light.

Exploded graves. Split hills. Rivers on fire. Villages hanging upside down from cliffs.

She saw darkness, rage, and apocalypse. This was the world through his eyes. It wasn’t what she had imagined—she thought he would paint something light and beautiful. But she should have known better. She had known since they made love.

She walked to the wall and studied the details of the paintings closely.

"Powerful," she murmured.

"I told you," he said, "I'm not a kid."

"I never thought you were."

"Trust me. Just give me some time."

"I do." She went over and hugged him. This ambitious boy made her feel sad. She liked the paintings, even though they were beyond her usual aesthetic.

"Let's go. You're shivering," Jiang Yuan said.

"It's freezing. How do you even paint here?"

"Haha, I wear a military coat—I have two. And I light a stove, the kind that burns wheat stalks, but it’s been clogged the last couple of days. Haven’t had time to clear it yet. The smoke’s too thick, stings my eyes."

"Why not find another place?" She immediately realized it was a stupid question.

He smiled. "Let’s go."

Outside, the sky was already paling. The warehouse was in the outskirts, surrounded by desolation. A few kilometers away, there was a newly opened subway station. He said he rode his bike there every day, then took the subway. His bike kept getting stolen—this was already his fifth one.

He shook his head. "Why am I telling you all this?"

"Have you shown these paintings to Du Chuan?" she asked.

"He wouldn’t like them."

"Why not?"

"Because they don’t bear his 'mark,'" he said. "Don’t you think he loves influencing others?"

"I think you shouldn’t pass up any opportunity."

"I entered a newcomer award competition. If I win, I’ll treat you to a meal."

"Then I’ll start thinking about what to eat now."

"Don’t get your hopes up. We’ll see."

They had breakfast at a cha chaan teng. Before leaving, he asked when they could meet again. She seemed a little evasive, saying they’d figure it out over the phone. He tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away. "Not in public," she said. Still, he quickly leaned in and pecked her lips. "I want to see you soon." He put on his coat and pushed the door open, stepping outside.

Through the glass window, she watched him cross the street. He needed a new coat—the one he was wearing was pilled and not warm enough. But she immediately dismissed the thought of buying him one. Counting it up, they had spent nearly twenty-four hours together. It had been a long time since she’d stayed with someone for that long.For the next week, Zhou Mo didn't meet Jiang Yuan. She kept her days packed full—attending yoga classes, studying French, going to films at the Spanish movie festival. When Jiang Yuan texted her, she would tell him what she was up to. They chatted via messages, discussing recent good movies, feline obesity, and Du Chuan's new girlfriend. Jiang Yuan told her that Du Chuan's marriage existed in name only, and that he was currently dating a model in her early twenties. They talked about all sorts of trivial things, like the closest of friends, yet whenever Jiang Yuan asked when they could meet, she would always say she was too busy.

"Guess what I did today? I ruined my cousin's wedding..." Gu Chen shouted over the phone, forcing her to hold the receiver farther from her ear. "It's not my fault at all—who told them to prepare so much alcohol! And that emcee was truly idiotic, going on and on about true love and soulmates... Haha, I couldn't take it anymore, so I rushed up and grabbed the microphone. Then I said, let me tell you what true love really is—my true love divorced his wife for me, but in the end, he married someone else. Isn't that hilarious..."

Zhou Mo wanted to hang up but worried that if she did, Gu Chen might stop calling her and turn to someone else for comfort. Those people might counsel her, pulling her out of this abyss. She couldn't allow that to happen. She had to keep watch over Gu Chen herself, ensuring she remained trapped in this misery.

On the 31st, Jiang Yuan invited her to celebrate New Year's Eve together. After hesitating, she declined. In the afternoon, Song Lian called as usual to ask her out, but she suggested they come to her place for dinner instead.

It had been a long time since she last hosted guests at home. There was a period when Zhuang He often brought colleagues over. Back then, she had been enthusiastic about studying recipes and experimenting with new dishes. But those colleagues were dreadfully dull, endlessly discussing real estate, stocks, and immigration over meals. Listening gloomily, she felt it was a waste of the food before them. Eventually, she lost interest in cooking, and whenever Zhuang He wanted to gather with colleagues, she always suggested they dine out.

This time, she prepared a pomelo salad, roasted chicken, and Spanish seafood paella. Qin Yu brought a bottle of dessert wine. The food was well-received, with every dish finished. Her own appetite was surprisingly good too.

"See, what did I tell you?" Song Lian said. "No hurdle is insurmountable. You look much better now. Leave all the unhappiness in the old year—the new year is a fresh start. Come on, cheers!"

Her phone rang—it was Jiang Yuan. She excused herself and went to the kitchen to answer.

"Happy New Year!" Jiang Yuan shouted. "How are you?"

"Good. Have you been drinking?"

"I'm downstairs at your place right now."

"Don't come up," she blurted out. "My friends are here."

He laughed. "Just kidding. I only wanted to say hello. Alright, go enjoy your evening." He hung up.

She returned to the living room with the cheesecake she had baked that afternoon.

"Wow, dessert is here!" Song Lian clapped.

Sitting down, she watched as Song Lian cut the cake into small pieces. She suddenly noticed Song Lian looking at her.

"Oh, sorry, let me get the forks." She stood up.

Qin Yu poured dessert wine for everyone.

"This winery only produces a thousand bottles a year. I think it's just as good as a Sauternes."

"Only you would believe the nonsense wine sellers spout," Song Lian said.

"He's my friend."

"Then he's also a wine seller."

Her phone rang again. She sprang from her seat and rushed back to the kitchen.

"Sorry, it's still me," Jiang Yuan said.

Clutching the receiver, she felt her temples throbbing.

"I thought you were different from them," he said. "But I was wrong. You're a hypocrite who won't follow your heart. You're afraid your friends would laugh at you if you were with me, aren't you?" His words were slurred, his voice fluctuating as if he were drunk and walking in strong winds."That's not it," she said.

"Does admitting you like me make you feel ashamed?"

"No, it's not that. I just—" she said, "have you ever thought about why you want to be with me?"

"I know what you're trying to say. You think I'm with you for something else. Yes, I want a warm home like yours, I want your help and support. But all of that is based on the fact that I like you. There's nothing shameful about asking for things from someone you love. I'd also give everything I have to you. Every painting I create is dedicated to you. My success belongs to you too. Because we're one..."

"But that's not the kind of love I want."

"Alright," his voice turned bitter, "I understand. I'm sorry, I won't bother you anymore." He hung up.

When she returned to the living room, Song Lian and Qin Yu were both scrolling through their phones.

"How's the cake?" she asked.

"It's great, a little more time in the freezer would make it even better," Song Lian replied.

"Really? Let me try."

She took small bites of the cake with her fork. Unconsciously, tears began to fall.

"What's wrong?" Song Lian shook her arm gently.

"It's nothing." She sniffled twice, forcing an awkward smile at Song Lian.

"Who was on the phone?" Song Lian asked.

"You know, I don't love Zhuang He anymore," Zhou Mo said. "For a while, just thinking about him made me sick, wishing he'd disappear from this world. But I really miss the time right after graduation when we rented an apartment in the suburbs. The roof leaked, the bathroom floor didn't have a drain. On my birthday, we got drunk in the bathtub, and the water overflowed, flooding the entire hallway. The wooden floors were completely ruined, and the insurance company made us pay eight thousand dollars. Eight thousand dollars—can you imagine? At the time, it felt like we'd never be able to pay it back. We hadn't even found jobs yet, and suddenly we were drowning in debt, the future looked bleak, nothing was certain. The only thing we were sure of was that we'd face this cold world together." She wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I always thought that was love—pure, untainted love..."

"Darling, you're as naive as a high school girl," Song Lian said. "There's no such thing as pure, untainted love."

"I know, I know," she murmured.

"If you ask me, I think love is—two people doing a lot of things together," Qin Yu said quietly, glancing at Song Lian.

"Yeah, it's about companionship," Song Lian agreed, looking back at him.

"Well, it's not like I have anything left to lose, right?" Zhou Mo gave a bitter smile.

Three days after New Year's, Du Chuan called to say he was throwing a party at his newly built studio on Sunday and insisted she come.

This invitation felt like fate, she thought. She knew she and Jiang Yuan couldn't just cut ties completely. But she didn't tell Jiang Yuan, planning to surprise him.She took a detour to buy a bouquet of flowers, and by the time she arrived at Du Chuan's place, it was already dark. She crossed the spacious courtyard, following the sound of voices to the dining room, where a long table covered with a white tablecloth was already lined with guests on both sides. She hadn’t expected it to be so formal—Jiang Yuan probably wouldn’t be there. Disappointed, she took off her coat and sat down.

Du Chuan introduced the guests to her one by one—some were businessmen, others professors. Pointing to the girl beside him, he said, "Xiao Shuang, my girlfriend."

Zhou Mo smiled faintly. She thought that before the divorce, Zhuang He had probably introduced Gu Chen to his friends just as openly.

A young man came over to pour her wine. She picked up her glass, about to clink it with the person next to her, when she saw Jiang Yuan emerge from a doorway, carrying two plates that appeared to hold foie gras.

His expression was serious, as if he hadn’t noticed her, and he strode quickly to the table to set the plates down in front of the guests. Before she could even process it, he had already reappeared with another set of plates.

"The studio isn’t fully set up yet, so bear with us. The main thing is, this French chef happens to be in Beijing—it’s not easy to get him here on purpose," Du Chuan said.

Jiang Yuan walked toward them expressionlessly. Zhou Mo lowered her head. She truly hadn’t expected him to appear like this. But what had she thought an assistant did? She had actually asked him once, and he had brushed it off, saying, "A bit of everything."

He set the plate down in front of her. Though his movements were light, she could sense his irritation. She wanted to nudge him with her arm, to offer some comfort, but he didn’t linger—he turned and left immediately.

She had no appetite. The food on her plate remained untouched. Before the main course was served, he came back to take it away without asking if she was finished. The man beside her turned to speak, and she could only respond with a hollow smile, her peripheral gaze still tracking Jiang Yuan’s movements.

After dessert was served, Jiang Yuan went into the kitchen and didn’t come back out. She poked tiny holes in her molten lava cake, drained her glass of wine, then stood up and walked out.

She barged abruptly into the kitchen. The French chef was chatting in broken English with the young man who had poured the wine earlier. Jiang Yuan wasn’t there. She retreated, pushing open the door to step outside. The light from the large glass windows spilled into the courtyard, illuminating it brightly.

Jiang Yuan was standing under a bare wisteria tree, smoking.

She stopped a few meters away from him.

"You came specifically to see how I’m doing as a waiter, didn’t you?" Jiang Yuan said. "Now that you’ve seen it, you can leave."

"I didn’t know he’d arrange things like this," she said.

"Now you do." Jiang Yuan flicked away his cigarette and walked toward the other side of the courtyard. She followed him.

"Stop following me," he snapped.

He strode to the far end of the yard, leaned against the wall, and lit another cigarette. She went after him.

"Go back inside," he said, exhaling smoke into her face. She reached up to touch his cheek, but he shoved her hand away. She tried again, and again he knocked it aside. Suddenly, he pressed her against the wall. "What the hell do you want?"

She stared into his eyes without speaking.

He held her gaze, then hooked a hand behind her head, pulling her close before kissing her fiercely.

"Miss me?" His lips brushed her earlobe.He took her frozen hand and led her up the stairs in the corner to the rooftop terrace. He took off his jacket and had her lie down on it. For some reason, in the cold that nearly numbed her senses, she seemed to completely let go. At the moment of climax, she saw a bright star emerge from the clouds. Then she realized they were on the rooftop—the rooftop she had always wanted.

Zhou Mo decided to give it a try—to try being with Jiang Yuan. She didn’t have much, but if she could help him, she’d be happy to do so. Maybe he would still leave her in the end, but she didn’t want to think about that now. She just wanted to enjoy the happiness in front of her. The next afternoon, she called Jiang Yuan:

“What are you doing?”

“Picking up a client at the airport,” he said. “The flight’s delayed, so I’m circling the terminal.”

She was silent for a moment. “Don’t buy any more of that wheat straw after you finish the batch.”

“Huh?”

“Didn’t you say you liked my place? Move in.”

“Oh—” he said. “You saw how good I was as a waiter, so now you’re offering me a part-time job?”

“Yes, but you’ll have to bathe the cat every week.”

“Got it. Any other requirements?”

“Be here by the weekend, or I’ll find someone else.”

“No problem,” he paused. “Can I ask who that someone else is?”

When Gu Chen called that night, Zhou Mo didn’t answer. The red light on the phone flashed stubbornly before finally going out. She sat in the dark, staring at it. Gu Chen must be having a hard time tonight, but sooner or later, they would each go their separate ways. Life was long, and one had to move on. Love seemed to have made her kinder, finally able to forgive the woman who was no longer her rival. She made a decision—to set Gu Chen free.

At dawn, she sent Gu Chen a text message with Zhuang He’s address.

On Saturday afternoon, Jiang Yuan moved in with five or six cardboard boxes. In the days before that, she had rearranged the house, hiring workers from the property management to move furniture and clear out a room for him to use as a small studio. Of course, he would still need a bigger one—a friend had recommended a place, and she planned to go see it with him next week. But a small studio was still necessary for sketching and research. That way, he could sometimes work from home and eat the dishes she had just cooked.

As soon as Jiang Yuan arrived, she pulled him to see the room. She had decorated it beautifully, with an antique bookshelf he liked, a Corbusier lounge chair by the window—newly bought, perfect for a nap in the sun—and a sturdy long table with a vase of gentians she had bought that morning. Jiang Yuan hugged her, speechless for a long time.

Before dark, they walked hand in hand to the nearby market. Jiang Yuan picked out a sea bass, bought ribs, lotus root, and small round mushrooms, planning to cook her a meal.

“What can I do?” she asked, standing at the kitchen door.

“Set the chopsticks?”

She found two candles, laid out the tablecloth, and added a few logs to the fireplace. There was still time, so she dabbed on a bit of lipstick in front of the mirror. Her gaze fell on a bottle of nail polish in the corner—bought long ago, always saved for a special occasion. She sat on the sofa and painted her nails. She remembered it as a muted orange, but it turned out much brighter than expected.The phone rang. She gingerly picked it up with her fingertips. It was Zhuang Xian, Zhuang He's older brother. Holding the receiver slightly away from her ear, his voice sounded faint, as if drifting in from the horizon. Yet she could clearly make out his words.

Zhuang He was dead—it happened that morning. Someone had seen Gu Chen arriving at his residential complex early, waiting by his car. Surveillance footage from the parking garage showed the two engaged in a heated argument. Gu Chen had slapped Zhuang He twice across the face. When Zhuang He tried to drive away, she forcibly yanked the car door open and jumped in. Twenty minutes later, the car crashed through the guardrail and plunged off the overpass.

The accident was likely caused by their altercation in the car, though it was also possible Gu Chen had intended to die—the police had found several bottles of sleeping pills in her apartment.

"I'll let you know once the funeral arrangements are set," Zhuang Xian said, not hanging up. After a pause, he added, "I told him long ago to stay away from Gu Chen. That woman was insane."

She hung up and looked down at her red nails, startled. They looked like blood. She touched them—still wet. Frantically, she tried to wipe them off, smearing red across her hands and clothes. Then she grew still. A deep, aching sensation welled up from within her. Memories flashed before her eyes, faster and faster. She broke into a cold sweat, her head throbbing as if it might split open.

When she regained awareness, she realized Jiang Yuan was holding her. She was still on the sofa, but it felt like a long time had passed—as if it were already late at night. She told him Zhuang He was dead, that it had happened that morning. Then she spoke of Gu Chen, of their phone calls. The more she talked, the more her lips trembled, each word fracturing as it left her mouth.

Her eyes remained fixed on the photo frame on the wall in front of her. It seemed slightly crooked. Dazedly, she thought she’d straighten it tomorrow. Then it struck her—tomorrow, she might lose this apartment. Lose all the things she’d once taken for granted, the things she’d thought too trivial to mention. Lose the freedom she’d believed was firmly in her grasp.

Abruptly, she stopped speaking. In the darkness, she heard the wind rustling through the treetops, the snow falling softly to the ground, the crackling of fire splitting wood. Jiang Yuan seemed to have fallen asleep. She felt his arms slipping slightly, then tightening around her again, as if afraid of tumbling from the treetop. She held her breath, not daring to move.