Chapter 31 - Her hands covering her face, finally sobbing uncontrollably

After the sports meet, November arrived. It was Lin Xian’s birthday month—and also a very special time for Jingnan University. November 13th marked the university’s anniversary, and this year happened to be the 100th year. So from the very first day of the month, celebration events bloomed one after another. Distinguished alumni were invited back in waves, and lectures of all kinds were held continuously.

Just the night before, Lin Xian had excitedly told Xiao Wanqing that she might not be coming home for dinner in a few days because she was planning to attend a forum by Yu Yao, a writer she liked very much. But the following evening, Xiao Wanqing saw her return home with her lips pouting, looking thoroughly dejected. Even while waiting for dinner, she was uncharacteristically quiet.

While ladling soup for her, Xiao Wanqing softened her voice and teased, “What happened today? Who made our Xianxian upset? That little pout of yours could hang an oil bottle.”

Lin Xian took the soup with both hands and, hearing this, couldn’t help but crack a smile, a bit embarrassed. “Is it that obvious?” she asked, stirring her soup. “It’s really nothing much. Aunt Xiao, do you remember what I told you yesterday? That I was planning to attend Yu Yao’s talk?”

Xiao Wanqing nodded, signaling that she remembered.

“I went all the way to the Faculty of Arts today and queued up all through lunch. Just when it was almost my turn... they ran out of tickets.” As she spoke, the frustration from baking under the midday sun for nothing came flooding back. Her brows knitted again as she grumbled to Xiao Wanqing, “So annoying! It’s such a rare opportunity and yet there were so few tickets. The Chinese department got a quota for every class, but the rest of us from other faculties added together didn’t even get as many! Totally unfair!”

Seeing the puffed-up girl in front of her, Xiao Wanqing couldn’t help but chuckle. She nodded along in agreement, “Mm, that’s totally unfair. Next time when Li Changgen comes, let the Chinese department queue under the blazing sun for once.”

Li Changgen was a 2005 graduate from Jingnan’s Finance Department. After graduation, he’d joined the entertainment industry and quickly shot to fame, becoming one of the most popular rising stars in the country.

Lin Xian burst out laughing. “Pfft,” her mood lifted by Xiao Wanqing’s playful retaliation. “Our Finance Department? Aunt Xiao, have you abandoned your little junior from the Chinese Department already?”

Xiao Wanqing tilted her head slightly, smiling sweetly and blinking innocently. “Having you is enough for me.”

It was a casual joke, spoken without much thought.

But as soon as the words left her lips, Lin Xian froze, as if she'd just heard something much deeper. Her wide eyes stared directly at Xiao Wanqing. When Xiao Wanqing looked up and met her gaze, she saw a sea of emotions—subtle, layered, and inexplicably complex—unlike anything she’d seen in Lin Xian before. Her heart skipped a beat. Had she said something wrong? She bit her lip, momentarily at a loss.

Before she could make sense of it or say anything more, Lin Xian had already dropped her gaze, reverting to her usual sunny self. “Aunt Xiao, our faculty is holding a psychological play competition next month. It’s by class, and they’re collecting scripts. I figured this would be a good chance to interact more with my classmates and fit in better.”

She finally looked up again, her tone expectant. “Once I finish writing the script, can I ask you to take a look at it for me?”

Of course, Xiao Wanqing supported her without hesitation. “It’s no trouble at all. Of course I’ll help.” She brushed off her earlier doubts, attributing them to her imagination, and smiled with genuine anticipation. “Your mom told me you’re really into literature and that you’ve already published several stories in magazines during high school. I’ve always wanted to read your work.”

She wasn’t just being polite. Ever since Zhou Qin had told her about Lin Xian’s writing, Xiao Wanqing had been curious. But she’d never asked to read anything. She understood that for some people, writing was a private world not meant to be shared with those close to them. She never wanted to push someone beyond their comfort zone.

Lin Xian, however, seemed to be lost in thought again, her eyes unconsciously fixed on Xiao Wanqing’s long, dark lashes and the gentle curve of her rosy lips. Her mind wandered. In those fleeting seconds, it felt as if something inside her had quietly shifted and clicked into place.

It wasn’t until Xiao Wanqing called her name—“Lin Xian?”—that she snapped out of it. She quickly looked away, offering a vague excuse. “Sorry, Aunt Xiao, I was just feeling distracted about missing the talk.”

Xiao Wanqing didn’t think much of it. Her eyes, full of affection, now held a touch of worry. She really does like Yu Yao a lot... She laced her fingers together, gently rubbing her thumbs, thoughtful.

This year, Lin Xian’s lunar birthday fell on November 5th—a Sunday. That was five days earlier than her Gregorian birthday, which was on November 10th. Every year, Lin Xian celebrated twice: once with family, based on the lunar calendar, and once with friends, based on the solar one. Her family had always followed tradition, but using the Gregorian calendar made it easier for friends and classmates to remember.

Usually, apart from a big celebration when she turned eight and the family moved into a new house, her birthdays were intimate affairs—just close family and grandparents, gathered together for a nice meal. That’s all Lin Xian wanted this year too. A simple dinner, the whole family, plus Aunt Xiao.

But Zhou Qin had other plans. She told Lin Xian this year was different—it was her coming-of-age birthday, and also the year she got into Jingnan. She and Lin Zhan had talked it over and decided to throw a bigger party, inviting relatives and friends to celebrate properly.

Lin Xian wasn’t fond of these kinds of social occasions. Especially when the whole family was full of teachers—each one bringing along students or colleagues. It always ended up being a never-ending stream of strangers—brothers, sisters, uncles, and aunties—pulling her aside for small talk. She had to smile, nod, be polite. By the end of it, she felt like her face had been peeled off layer by layer.

She usually didn’t say anything about it. Those events were necessary, and those manners were expected. But this time was different. It was her birthday. She didn’t want to tire herself out over it.

After much back and forth with Zhou Qin, she finally persuaded her mom to keep it modest. Just three or four tables at a hotel, with close friends and relatives only.

On Friday, instead of going straight to school to pick Lin Xian up, Zhou Qin made a special trip to Xiao Wanqing’s place to personally invite her to attend Lin Xian’s birthday celebration on Sunday. Deep down, Zhou Qin already had a sense of how things would go—Xiao Wanqing would most likely decline. After all, the circle was small, and most of the attendees would be familiar faces from the Xiao family's past. Still, Zhou Qin couldn’t help holding onto a sliver of hope. So many years had passed. People couldn’t stay trapped in the past forever. She genuinely wished for Xiao Wanqing to slowly step out of it, to gather the courage to face everything connected to those memories.

As expected, Xiao Wanqing greeted her with her usual gentle smile, yet declined just as Zhou Qin had anticipated. “Sister, I won’t go. I’ll celebrate with Xianxian when the New Year comes.” She lowered her gaze and noticed Lin Xian biting her lip, her eyes tinged with disappointment. Reaching out, she gently ruffled the girl’s soft hair and coaxed her with a softened voice, “I’ve prepared a gift for you. I’ll give it to you then, okay?”

Lin Xian’s eyes, which had dimmed at her refusal, suddenly lit up again. Her voice carried barely hidden excitement and anticipation. “Okay.” After that, she seemed a little embarrassed about being so obvious and quietly added, “It’s fine even if there’s no gift.”

Xiao Wanqing, long familiar with the girl’s occasional tendency to say the opposite of what she meant, raised an eyebrow and teased, pretending to be serious, “Really? So I can skip the gift?”

Zhou Qin gave Lin Xian a light pat on the back of the head and laughed, “Don’t mind her, Wanqing. A gift? She’s not a little kid anymore, but still acts like one. Don’t indulge her.”

Xiao Wanqing didn’t answer Zhou Qin. Her eyes, like shimmering stars, remained fixed on Lin Xian, full of unspoken emotion. Lin Xian looked into those watery eyes, and suddenly, hers curved into a smile. She lifted her brows and, in a mock domineering tone, said, “Lying. You can’t skip it. But even if it’s just a ‘happy birthday,’ I’d still be really happy.”

Xiao Wanqing reached out and gently tapped the tip of her nose. “Lying to you too,” she promised. “There’ll be something. I’ll keep it safe and give it to you when you come back.”

Zhou Qin sighed. “Wanqing, you’re really spoiling her again. And spending money on top of that.”

Xiao Wanqing shook her head. “Not at all. I’m spoiling myself. Seeing Xianxian makes me happy.”

As she listened to Xiao Wanqing’s warm and tender words, a softness flickered in Lin Xian’s eyes—one that no one else seemed to notice.

After Lin Xian and Zhou Qin left, Xiao Wanqing stood at the door watching them disappear into the elevator before finally closing it. She stared at the room, which had suddenly fallen silent, now feeling so empty, and was briefly dazed. Then, as usual, she headed to her study to work.

She turned on her computer, checking emails one by one, reviewing manuscripts with care. Her long, slender fingers danced across the keyboard, producing a series of crisp, rhythmic clicks.

But after finishing a paragraph, her hands suddenly paused, resting quietly on the keyboard, unmoving for a long time...

Something felt... off.

Xiao Wanqing turned her head slightly and glanced at the empty seat nearby—the one that no longer held the familiar figure of that girl.

Since the first time Lin Xian had asked if she could sit beside her, it had gradually become a habit. Almost every evening spent in the study, Lin Xian would be there too, occupying that spot next to her. Every time she paused from work to take a break and looked over, she would always catch Lin Xian looking at her, flashing a shy smile that revealed her small white teeth—a silent, heartwarming connection.

Clearly, Lin Xian hadn’t been around that long, yet somehow, she had already become a part of Xiao Wanqing’s daily life. A comforting constant.

Now, the silence she had long been used to—the cold gleam of the room—felt oddly disquieting, tinged with an unexpected sense of loneliness.

Xiao Wanqing let out a soft laugh. Habit… really is a dangerous thing.

Her eyes drifted over the perfectly tidy desk Lin Xian had left behind, finally landing on the script for the psychology play she’d brought home after school.

Rubbing her temples, Xiao Wanqing closed the laptop, got up, and poured herself a cup of hot water. Standing by the water dispenser, she slowly drank it as she stared out into the dim, empty living room. After finishing, she washed her hands and returned to her study. She sat down again and picked up the thin script.

Lin Xian had mentioned the theme of this play to her—it sounded elegant and artistic, but in essence, it boiled down to a classic: gratitude. Lin Xian had analyzed it well. She said a performance that truly moved people had to stay close to real life. Audiences connect with what they know. Gratitude for family, friendship, love—the people who mattered most. Parents, teachers, friends.

Xiao Wanqing had agreed. As clichéd as these themes were, they were always relevant, always powerful.

Then Lin Xian went further. She explained that the judges would include both the faculty and seniors from the drama department, but the teachers’ scores would carry more weight. And since most of the teachers were older, stories about friendship or love might not resonate as much as family ones. Especially considering many of them were playing dual roles in life—both children to aging parents and parents to their own kids. They’d relate more deeply.

So, she decided to write about the theme of gratitude towards parents.

“If I’m going to participate,” she’d said, “of course I want to win.”

Xiao Wanqing had been surprised at first by her level-headedness. Then, she’d been impressed. She told her, “Lin Xian, just thinking at that level already gives you a head start.” After years in publishing, Xiao Wanqing deeply understood the importance of audience positioning. But not every young writer did. For Lin Xian to understand that not only helped her choose a strong theme—it would naturally guide her through the writing process, too.

The principle was universal: know your audience, understand them, give them what they want. It was the most efficient path to success. But most young people were proud, too proud to play to the crowd. Lin Xian was proud too—but wisely so.

Still, Xiao Wanqing had warned her, “This kind of theme is very hard to make fresh. It’s hard to really shine. Most of the time, it’s just... safe.”

Upon hearing this, Lin Xian's brows were filled with the unrestrained pride and self-assurance of youth. She blinked and said with confident amusement, “Well then, it will all depend on whose skill at putting new wine in old bottles is better.”

“Skill, huh...” Xiao Wanqing, recalling the girl’s bold and delightful voice, murmured softly, a tender expression spreading across her face.

She opened the cover of the script, titled Father, and began to read carefully.

The opening narration is from Lung Yingtai’s Watching You Go. It speaks of the relationship between parents and children:

“What it means for parents and children to be together in this life is simply a continuous process of you watching his receding figure, growing further and further away. You stand at one end of a small path, watching him gradually disappear around the bend—and he, with his back turned to you, silently tells you: There’s no need to chase after me.”

Just as Xiao Wanqing had expected, it all began with the most common generational gap and friction between parent and child.
The story’s heroine is a sophomore in college. Her family mirrors the classic dynamic often seen in Chinese households—strict father, gentle mother. The mother is kind and indulging; the father is stern and reserved. As she grew older, the gap between father and daughter widened to the point where they could barely hold a conversation. And when they did speak, it often exploded into arguments.

The first scene opens with the daughter returning home for the holidays. The parents had lovingly prepared a lavish dinner; her mother had spent the whole afternoon cooking. But during the meal, the daughter was glued to her phone, distractedly chatting with friends, barely touching her food. The father, sensing the mother’s care was being taken for granted, scolded the daughter. Tension flared. The scene ended in a heated fight, with the daughter slamming her chopsticks down and shouting:
“Can’t I even use my phone freely in my own home?!”

After the argument, the daughter returned to school and vented to her friends, reluctant to go home again.
Later, the mother called, with the father hinting for her to put the call on speakerphone. He listened quietly, cautiously, to the daughter’s long-lost voice. He nudged his wife, urging her to ask their daughter: “When is she coming home? I miss her.”
After the call ended, the father sighed deeply and stared for a long while at the phone screen, where a call from a year ago remained. It was the only call his daughter had made to him since going off to college—on his birthday.

In the third scene, the mother secretly phoned the daughter, reminding her not to forget to text her father for his birthday. The daughter agreed. The father, meanwhile, had turned the phone volume all the way up and checked his screen every few minutes. But the day passed—and nothing came.
The daughter had spent the day volunteering at a nursing home and later went to a club event. She forgot.

The fourth scene takes place when the father went on a business trip to the daughter’s city and planned to stay one day. He wanted to take her out for a nice meal, so he had the mother call her.
The daughter, however, was watching K-dramas with her dorm mates. Before the mother could even say much, the daughter made an excuse that she had to go to the library to study and hung up. When they tried to call back, her phone was off.
The next day, the father called again from outside her campus. He hoped to have lunch with her. But the daughter said she was at a friend’s birthday party and couldn’t leave.
The father, upset, asked: “Are you really that busy?”
Another argument.
It ended with the daughter yelling, “Can’t you eat by yourself?” and hanging up.

That afternoon, the father sat alone in a restaurant outside her school, having ordered a full table’s worth of food. He waited two hours. He didn’t eat a single bite before quietly leaving.

That night, the father passed away from a disulfiram-like reaction due to mixing cold medicine and alcohol at a dinner event.
As he struggled with chest tightness and labored breathing, the first number he dialed was speed-dial 1—his daughter. But she didn’t pick up.
He then dialed 120. Holding on with sheer will, he staggered out of the hotel room and collapsed at the elevator doors.

On the bed in the hotel room, scattered across the sheets, were the fruits, snacks, milk, and mini buns he had bought for his daughter—along with a small bedside fan he had purchased after she and her mother had complained about the summer heat.

The daughter never saw him one last time.
Her sobs were heart-wrenching—but could no longer summon her father to look at her, even once more.
She had never imagined that their final argument would be their farewell.
That the last thing she ever said to him would be in anger.
She always thought—he’s not just anyone. No matter what happened, they would eventually reconcile. He would always be waiting behind her.

The memories surged back—when she was a little girl and once said so innocently: “Daddy, when I grow up, I’ll buy you…”

And at the end of the story, it reads:

We always believe the world is vast, the sky so blue, the road so long, and time still plentiful.

But we forget that their world is very small.

The dishes grow cold, the nights grow deep, their hair turns grey—

And all the while, they’ve just been waiting for your infrequent visit… your precious glance.

It turns out, some people we thought would never leave—one day, do.

And we, oblivious, never knew…

That that single turn of their back was already eternity.

A story so simple and ordinary—yet made so profoundly moving by Lin Xian’s delicate and evocative prose. It touches something deep in the heart.

Xiao Wanqing’s throat ached with emotion. Her nose burned. Her eyes turned red, filling with unshed tears that trembled in place.

Through the blur of tears, she seemed to see that moment years ago—when she turned and left, suitcase in tow, fists clenched with resolve. Her father’s face, livid with fury. Her mother’s face, full of sorrow and helplessness as she chased after her.

She had been so sure, so fearless, rushing toward love with such conviction. Because she knew—her parents loved her. They would always give in, eventually. It was only a matter of time.

She remembered her mother in her final moments, clutching to her chest—still warm, still stained with blood—the shrimp dumplings she had always loved…

Tears streamed down her face, soaking the thin paper.

Her trembling hand reached between the pages and pulled out a small blue note. She unfolded it.
It was Lin Xian’s graceful handwriting:

But he… never blamed her.

If there was any regret, it was only that he didn’t get to tell her: Please, don’t regret.

Xiao Wanqing bit down hard on her lip, staring at those few short sentences, her hands covering her face, finally sobbing uncontrollably.