Su Qinghan returned home to find the villa pitch black.
The servants had probably gone to bed.
Only a nightlight was left on in the living room, casting a dim, yellowish glow over the flowers at the entrance that hadn’t been arranged yet.
She stood by the door for a moment, changed her shoes, and went upstairs in the dark without turning on any lights.
When she pushed open the bedroom door, moonlight poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spreading a thin layer of silvery frost across the floor.
She didn’t wash up or change clothes.
She just collapsed onto the bed, pulled the covers over herself, and hugged them messily.
There were stars outside the window.
In the summer night sky, the stars were high and far away, scattered sparsely across the canopy, flickering on and off like someone had casually sprinkled a handful of broken diamonds.
She stared at the starlight without blinking.
Today, she had celebrated Jiang Muyun’s birthday. It should have been a happy occasion.
She had been waiting for this day for so long—ever since Jiang Muyun went abroad.
She waited for her to come back, to stand in front of her, to smile and say, “Qinghan, long time no see.”
Today, all of that came true.
Jiang Muyun was still as beautiful, as gentle as ever.
When she smiled, it seemed like the whole world was in her eyes.
But for some reason, at this moment, Su Qinghan felt no joy at all.
There was an empty hollow in her chest, as if something had been scooped out, and the wind blew right through it, chilling her to the bone.
She realized her mind was full of Yan Yu.
Yan Yu being bullied by Jiang Muyun and her friends—sitting alone in a corner, her dress dirtied, her expression faint, as if she were smiling, yet on the verge of tears.
Yan Yu with Dai Feng—Dai Feng pushing her wheelchair, the two of them entering through the side door, light falling on them.
For some reason, the scene stung her eyes.
Yan Yu…
She opened that photo from the Friendship Circle again.
Then she closed her eyes, but the images only became clearer.
In an instant, countless memories of the three years she had spent with Yan Yu flooded her mind, like a dam breaking, unstoppable.
She remembered the first time they met.
It was right after Jiang Muyun had left.
Su Qinghan felt hollowed out and had locked herself in her room day after day.
It was Yan Yu who knocked on her door, carrying a bowl of hot soup, standing at the threshold and saying cautiously, “Qinghan, have something to drink, or your stomach will hurt.”
She remembered those long nights.
When she couldn’t sleep, Yan Yu stayed with her.
Sometimes they chatted, sometimes they just sat in silence.
Outside the window, insects chirped.
The lamp on the coffee table stretched their shadows long and long, overlapping like a painting.
She remembered the times she was in a bad mood and lashed out at Yan Yu for no reason.
Yan Yu never talked back.
She just lowered her head, waited until Su Qinghan finished yelling, then softly said, “I’m sorry, it’s my fault.”
Thinking back now, Su Qinghan was the one being unreasonable, yet it was Yan Yu who apologized.
She remembered the times she asked Yan Yu to wear those clothes—clothes similar to Jiang Muyun’s style: white dresses, light blue shirts, and those beige flats she once said looked nice.
Every time, Yan Yu obediently put them on, stood in front of the mirror, tilted her head slightly, and asked, “Qinghan, do I look good?”
At the time, Su Qinghan thought it was only natural.
Now, she realized that behind every “Do I look good?” there was an unspoken question: “When you look at me, are you really seeing me, or are you seeing her?”
Su Qinghan buried her face in the blanket, her breathing heavy and stifled.
Yan Yu’s smile—her eyes curved like crescent moons.
Her figure in the wheelchair—small and fragile, making Su Qinghan want to hug her from behind.
The stray strands of hair that fell when she was reading.
The noodles she cooked—nothing special in taste, but each time they warmed Su Qinghan’s heart.
Three years.
Over a thousand days and nights.
Yan Yu had stayed by her side for three whole years.
And all Su Qinghan had given her was the title of “substitute” and a heart that had never truly belonged to her.
Su Qinghan turned over and lay on her back.
‘But you were only after my money, weren’t you?’
‘In three years, you never gave me any real feelings, right?’
Was that really true?
The starlight outside the window was still cold and desolate, shining into this overly empty bedroom.
Su Qinghan suddenly felt that she had done something wrong.
But she didn’t want to think too deeply about what exactly she had done wrong—because she was afraid.
Afraid that if she truly understood, she would realize she was never worthy of Yan Yu’s three years of tenderness.
That night, Su Qinghan had a dream.
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