Chapter 2: Parting Ways

The renowned western restaurant was three streets away from the school, its private dining room decorated with opulence and elegance. In the center of the glass table, several fresh roses stood in a vase, newly picked and exuding an almost overwhelming beauty. But Xuan Congnan glanced at them only once before averting his gaze, his brows knitting slightly.

“Do you not like them?” Shen Qian, ever attentive, noticed his look and told the waiter who followed them in, “Switch them for lilies.”

“Certainly, sir,” the waiter replied with deference.

“King crab, Wagyu steak, foie gras, assorted sashimi. That will do for now, two of each,” Shen Qian said, flipping casually through the menu with the ease of signing a million-dollar contract. He closed the menu when finished and handed it to another waiter to prepare their order.

“Very good, sir,” the waiter said, then asked Xuan Congnan, “Is there anything you would like, sir?”

Xuan Congnan quietly returned his menu. “No, thank you.”

The waiter replied, “Understood. Please wait a moment, gentlemen.”

On the table were prepared fruit and desserts. Xuan Congnan picked one up with a toothpick and ate it.

“Nan Nan,” Shen Qian called softly.

Xuan Congnan looked up. “Yes?”

He was quiet when he ate, neither talking nor smiling. Shen Qian watched him for a while before speaking gently, “You’re very good-looking like this.”

Xuan Congnan took a second piece of dessert, swallowing it slowly. “Thank you.”

“Come here, Nan Nan.” Shen Qian beckoned him.

After swallowing the piece of apple he’d cut, Xuan Congnan got up and walked over. He took Shen Qian’s outstretched hand, allowing himself to be gently pulled closer and to sit sideways on his lap.

“Your mouth is dirty,” Shen Qian said, picking up a napkin to tenderly wipe the corner of Xuan Congnan’s lips, as if caring for a three-year-old. “There were crumbs.”

He chuckled softly. “Why are you like a greedy kitten?”

Xuan Congnan flushed and lowered his eyes, his hand resting, unmoving, on Shen Qian’s shoulder. His boyfriend was wonderful—accomplished, tall, and handsome.

They had met in the first term of Xuan Congnan’s sophomore year. After their second encounter, Shen Qian had pursued him openly: flowers one day, gifts the next, always inviting him out for tea, meals, or outings at just the right times, never crossing any physical boundaries.

Over time, Xuan Congnan developed a fondness for this gentlemanly distance and decorum. On May 20th, during the second term of sophomore year, he accepted Shen Qian’s courtship.

Today marked their one-year anniversary.

“I told you yesterday I’d come find you today, but you weren’t around.” Shen Qian’s arm circled easily around Xuan Congnan’s narrow waist.

The lilies the waiter brought in exuded a gentle fragrance, dispelling the lingering discomfort from being lured home and scrutinized by that greasy, middle-aged Zhang man. Xuan Congnan felt he could tell his boyfriend about his troubles.

Shen Qian was gentle and understanding; he would comfort him.

“You know I moved out of the dorm in freshman year and rented an apartment off-campus. It’s small, so I can’t keep my art supplies there; most are still at my uncle’s house. Every time I leave, I lock the door and only go get things when I need them. Today, my aunt called suddenly asking me to go home. I didn’t want to, but she said my uncle was drunk and would break into my room to get my Guanyin pendant…” Xuan Congnan recounted the events of the day in a calm voice, while Shen Qian listened quietly.

The next moment, a warm kiss landed on his lips. Xuan Congnan’s lashes fluttered, and he stopped speaking, his dark eyes half-closed as Shen Qian drew near. The kiss was brief, barely a touch, but it left Xuan Congnan too shy to speak.

“Nan Nan, don’t say anything,” Shen Qian murmured. “Just be quiet for a while.”

A strange feeling welled up in Xuan Congnan’s heart.

Shen Qian said, “Today is our day.”

Xuan Congnan replied, “Mm.”

The king crab was the first dish to arrive, impressively large. Xuan Congnan returned to his seat and, feeling his stomach, touched it quietly.

Shen Qian donned disposable gloves, refusing to let Xuan Congnan dirty his hands, insisting he just eat and enjoy.

Piece by piece, the crab meat was piled onto his plate. Xuan Congnan, not one to stand on ceremony, thanked him and began to eat.

Every couple’s way of getting along is different, and over time, these dynamics shift. Yet Shen Qian often made Xuan Congnan feel as though their relationship was unreal. Not once in the past year had Shen Qian gotten angry; no matter how busy, he always made time on weekends for Xuan Congnan—a perfect boyfriend, calm and considerate.

Xuan Congnan dreamed of having a home of his own, of building a family with Shen Qian.

Today, May 20th, was also his twenty-second birthday. Twenty-two—the legal age for men to marry.

Everything seemed perfect, except for one thing that puzzled Xuan Congnan.

Shen Qian always said strange things to him.

For example, when Xuan Congnan was delighted at an amusement park, Shen Qian would say, “Nan Nan, don’t get too rowdy.” Or, even when they’d just met and Xuan Congnan was happy, Shen Qian would say, “Don’t smile.”

“…”

“Nan Nan.”

Xuan Congnan returned from his thoughts. “Yes?”

Shen Qian said, “Didn’t you say your apartment is small? Move in with me.”

Xuan Congnan shook his head. “We can’t live together before marriage.”

Shen Qian smiled helplessly. “You always use that as an excuse. Just moving in doesn’t mean anything has to happen. Nan Nan, I respect your wishes. It’s just that your place is too small—it affects your life.”

“It doesn’t,” Xuan Congnan insisted, embarrassed but firm. In this day and age, for a male college student to be this conservative… “Only after we’re married, when we’re a family, can we live together.”

Shen Qian asked, “Who taught you that?”

“My mother. And my father,” Xuan Congnan replied earnestly.

Shen Qian shook his head, once again respecting Xuan Congnan’s wishes, allowing him to live in his rented room and bestowing on him the nickname, “Little Stick-in-the-mud.”

The dishes arrived one after another. Xuan Congnan treated every bite as a rare treasure, not leaving a single crumb.

“Qian-ge,” he called out.

Shen Qian was wiping his mouth with a napkin; hearing the name, he looked up.

Xuan Congnan asked seriously, “Will we get married?”

Shen Qian was momentarily stunned, then surprised. “Why do you ask that?”

His answer could be interpreted in two ways, each entirely opposite.

The first: marriage is an inevitability, needing no special confirmation; partners should naturally give each other the security they want. Of course they would marry—asking is unnecessary.

The second: marriage is not a given, and has never been considered. So when asked, the partner responds with disbelief, perhaps even amusement at the question.

From Shen Qian’s tone, Xuan Congnan heard the second meaning. The hope of building a family with Shen Qian was extinguished, like a spark drowned by a flood.

“Just curious,” he replied carelessly.

Suddenly, the bright room seemed to dim. Xuan Congnan turned his head. Outside the glass wall, branches swayed; a dark cloud drifted across the sky, blotting out the sun.

The clouds moved quickly, like spilled graphite dust scattered by the wind.

In art class, every student practiced a skill: to memorize what they saw in a moment, to recall object and color, then use observation, memory, and imagination to create the picture they wanted.

This was called “scene memory drawing,” also known as “drawing from memory.”

The clouds, like graphite dust, were quickly blown away by a sudden wind, as swiftly as they had come. It probably wouldn’t rain.

Moments later, the sun broke out again, dazzling Xuan Congnan as he stared directly into the light, making his eyes ache.

He opened his faded backpack and took out a flexible drawing board and sketchbook. New charcoal pencils distribute carbon unevenly and must be broken in. He picked up one, now only half the length of his thumb from use, and swiftly sketched on the paper, never once lifting his head.

It wasn’t the first time Shen Qian had seen him suddenly become so oblivious to his surroundings, and he was used to it. “Is your art more important than me?”

“Mm,” Xuan Congnan replied.

Shen Qian was taken aback; this answer was different from usual.

He walked over and pressed down on Xuan Congnan’s sketchbook. Xuan Congnan, sitting on the sofa before a wall of glass, looked up in displeasure at the hand suddenly appearing on his paper.

Afternoon sunlight shone through his long hair, making it nearly translucent. Xuan Congnan’s features were so delicate, so flawless, he seemed almost unreal—a beauty that did not belong in this world.

Shen Qian stood over him, looking down, reading the emotion in Xuan Congnan’s eyes.

Displeasure. Blame. Distance.

Shen Qian crouched down, holding Xuan Congnan’s hand. “Are you angry?”

“I’m drawing,” Xuan Congnan said.

“And then?” Shen Qian pressed.

“Don’t disturb me.”

Shen Qian didn’t understand art; he glanced carelessly at the sketchbook.

Blue sky, green trees, a crossroads, people meandering, orderly traffic, clouds and sun.

In just a dozen minutes, Xuan Congnan had arranged everything he wanted on the paper, with clear layers and depth.

Three-dimensional, vivid.

“It’s wrong,” Shen Qian said.

Xuan Congnan frowned. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Just now, the clouds covered the sun completely. You didn’t draw that.”

He tapped the part representing the sky. The sunlight was depicted as golden rays piercing through the clouds, as if, in the next instant, a thousand beams would burst forth.

“There’s no right or wrong in art,” Xuan Congnan replied. “You drew what you saw; I drew what I wanted.”

His tone was firm. This time, it was Shen Qian who grew unhappy.

“Nan Nan, there’s too much emotion in your eyes,” Shen Qian said, as if correcting a lover’s mistake, his voice heavier, guiding patiently. “Calm down. Don’t let your eyes show warmth.”

Xuan Congnan asked bluntly, “Are you even looking at me?”

It was as if Shen Qian wanted to see through him; unconsciously, he spoke a line.

Perhaps he didn’t realize it himself, but Xuan Congnan heard it clearly.

He said, “That’s more like him.”

“…”

“Oh.” Xuan Congnan put away his drawing board and sketchbook, slung his backpack on, and answered calmly, “Shen Qian, let’s break up.”

He opened the private room’s door and walked out. Downstairs, a breeze rustled his long hair.

A white car glided slowly by. Xuan Congnan glanced at it. After hundreds of practice sessions, muscle memory from “drawing by memory” made him recall the shape of the emblem: a shield with a powerful black stallion, the body spacious. He recognized the car—a Cayenne. Xuan Ye had rented this model twice.

The window rolled down a fifth, revealing a man’s eyes beneath a cap and black mask. The opening was small; Xuan Congnan could not see inside clearly, nor did he try to.

He walked quietly along the sidewalk, his long hair drifting as he moved ahead.

As the Cayenne passed by, the man inside gazed at him quietly.