Chapter 74: Farewell

Qi Wenping’s gaze drifted far—as if empty, as if seeing through years to a small village again. “Your mother and I—we’re country people born and raised. When your grandfather died we were still children…”
In Nanliu county there was a place called Shanhai Village—eighteen years of home for Qi Wenping and Qi Li.
Though it was called Shanhai, mountains not sea—a tall peak between village and town. Three hours on the mountain path to get in. Early years were harsh—hungry, cold, common. Leaving the mountain was a dream. Some farmed a lifetime, cut off from the world.
Qi Li refused that fate.
Luckily their parents didn’t stop her—they scraped together for school, neighbors sometimes helped. Four in the house—poor but content.
Qi Li twelve, Qi Wenping nine—the father died suddenly. Mother alone held the family. That year their paths split.
Savings for one child only. Qi Wenping knew she wasn’t the scholar—gave the slot to Qi Li. Qi Li made city middle school. Qi Wenping stayed in the village helping mother.
Qi Li didn’t disappoint—key high school. Same year Qi Wenping and mother followed kin to the city, piecework in a relative’s factory. Qi Li took all housework at home. Three of them in less than ten square meters of old ruin—three years.
After university Qi Li came home less. Qi Wenping and mother saved for a street stall—hands greasy with oil and smoke every day. Hard—but life finally lifted.
Second-year holiday a girl came back with Qi Li. Close as could be. First time Qi Wenping saw her sister smile that much—she asked—roommate, friend.
Later Qi Wenping walked in on their intimacy by accident—five years of secret out. First time she heard the word—two women could love too.
Sisters close since childhood. Confused, she didn’t understand—but promised silence, and if Qi Li was happy, she wouldn’t oppose.
Qi Li had a small company job—good pay, stable love. Then bad news—mother had breast cancer, mid-stage.
Mother accepted fate with one wish—that both daughters marry well, good men. Especially Qi Li, her pride—she pinned the hope of grandchildren on her.
Gentle twenty-some years—Qi Li rebelled fierce for the first time, fought mother—and spent every saved penny on treatment.
Marriage dragged into the next year with no progress. Mother worsened.
Qi Wenping and Qi Li near despair—but Qi Li never yielded.
Calm night—the woman confessed. Family pressure too heavy. She chose blind dates. Ended it.
No matter how Qi Li begged—the love died fast.
After, Qi Li seemed another person. Once mild—now quick anger, wild moods, crying at night sometimes. Qi Wenping watched, heart aching, helpless.
Same year Qi Li suddenly accepted a colleague—acquaintance to marriage in under two months.
Mother overjoyed in the ward, watching Qi Li stand with the man, talking advice. Qi Wenping stood aside—worried, didn’t know how to persuade.
She knew too well—it was revenge. She’d just heard the other woman married.
Next June—Qi Yu was born.
Joy met mourning.
Medicine wasn’t what it is now. Mother worn down for years—three months after the birth, gone.
“After your grandmother died your mother talked even less. Half a year she often told me she wanted to die.” Qi Wenping’s voice was light, flat—as if telling someone else’s story.
Looking at Qi Yu—no fresh wound, only years settled into her eyes.
Qi Yu stared at the fine lines, the clouded gaze—when had they aged so fast?
Qi Wenping cupped her face, low: “I didn’t know the word depression then. Maybe she was in that kind of pain.”
“But you gave her hope. You led her out. Still… outsiders see clear, insiders blind. For a while she convinced herself she didn’t love you.”
“If she didn’t love you—how seven years with that man?”
“She tried to live right. Then he gambled, drank, stole her savings—all lost.”
“So she broke. Blamed him—and you—for everything. Divorce came. Then everything after.”
Qi Wenping sighed inside, gripped both hands tight, wistful: “Believe me—she loves you. If she were selfish she’d have said it all for forgiveness. She didn’t… She was afraid you’d think you were a mistake that shouldn’t exist.”
“She wouldn’t load her faults on you—and forgot what you actually felt.”
“Xiao Yu—loving someone is often like this.” Suddenly she smiled, kind warmth at the lips, slow: “Care too much, think too far, use your own idea of good—and forget what love is.”
“Isn’t the first step learning to say it?”
“Words make love real. You can feel love when it’s spoken. Sometimes… all we need is one sentence—right?”
Warm eyes on Qi Yu, smile, hand patting her back like putting a child to sleep.
Qi Yu’s gaze shook. After a long while she clasped Qi Wenping’s hand back, mouth lifting.
“Right.”
.
“So—you forgive your mom?”
Open balcony of a downtown apartment. Tang Xuejun leaned on the rail, beer in hand, side-eye at Qi Yu.
Ten at night. She’d been about to wash up when Qi Yu texted to come over.
Two people, one cold beer each, half an hour of old stories on the balcony.
“Forgive is a strong word.” Qi Yu drank. Alcohol burned—she squinted. “So many years. If I really blamed her I’d have moved out long ago.”
“Aunt’s right—we can fight forever. Mother and daughter—that blood doesn’t break.”
“…In the end it’s obsession. Want an explanation. A reason… proof you were loved.”
She stopped. Eyes on the city’s night lights—traffic, neon.
Silence. Something dimmed her gaze. She tipped her head, drank again.
Tang didn’t push—stood with her, looked at the sky, caught the melancholy.
After a while she shifted topic. “Hey—when do you leave? I’ll see you off.”
Qi Yu: “Right after the holiday. Avoid the rush. Don’t bother—it’s not like I’m never coming back…”
Tang: “How long? A week? A month?”
Qi Yu: “Don’t know.”
Tang studied her profile, sighed inside, shifted stance, shook the empty can, tossed it in the bin behind her. “Don’t know… You really going sightseeing?”
Qi Yu arched a brow. “What else?”
Tang half-smiled. “Thought you were healing a broken heart.”
Qi Yu stilled. Didn’t answer. Turned back to the beer.
“But—seriously. Between you two—is there really zero chance?” Tang poked her shoulder, low. “You really don’t have her in your heart anymore?”
Qi Yu glanced over—probably asking what she already knew. If it was heartbreak tourism, why ask.
Still she asked herself sometimes.
Answer obvious. Rough count—ten years. A friend of ten years is hard to forget. Jiang Ya more so. Sometimes she thought her heart empty—then midnight wind, old marks aching—and she knew it had been full all along. Memory too heavy to peel off.
At first she hated herself for being weak. Later she let go.
Maybe love is all those nights you think you understand—then morning regret pulls you back anyway.
What breaks clean isn’t love. Love is a sickness—recurring, no cure—only time dulling pain till numb—until you touch the scab again and remember.
“Whether there is or isn’t—it doesn’t matter.” Qi Yu looked at the distant dark, voice muffled. “Right and wrong between us—you can’t split it. From each side we did nothing wrong.”
“Maybe the only mistake was knowing when to stop—not wanting more.”
“I’m stubborn. Once I decide I go all the way. She hesitates—weighs people around her—gives up to avoid risk…”
“But the main thing.” She looked at Tang, hooked a faint smile. “I want rest.”
“Someone lived in my heart so long I forgot… what I’m supposed to be like.”
“And if there’s no fate—why force it?” She turned back, gaze fixed, a trace of sorrow hard to catch. “Better than torturing each other—let go of her. Let go of myself.”
“Then… how do you know if fate’s really broken?” Tang was quiet, then asked sudden.
Qi Yu startled, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“…Nothing. Random.” Tang’s brow lifted, looked away, kept watching the bright night with her.
.
Last day of the holiday—Jiang family called her home.
Same as always—Zhou Lin probing Zheng Yuan. She didn’t want a fight, meant to brush it off—Zhou Lin pressed—she said straight: nothing with Zheng Yuan. Dinner turned awkward as strangers.
Driving back to the apartment her phone rang again and again.
Red light—she finally looked.
One glance—expression shifted—eyes locked on one message, flipped it again and again like she couldn’t believe it.
“Beep—beep—”
Horns behind her. She snapped back—eyes wild—gripped the wheel, stomped the gas. The car shot forward.
Usually law-abiding—today she passed cars, nearly ran reds.
All the way home she called—busy signals. At the elevator—full car—she watched the numbers jump, turned, ran the stairs up.
Gasping at Qi Yu’s door—swallowed hard—sweat be damned—knocked harder each round till neighbors stared.
No matter how hard or long she called—silence inside. Door didn’t budge.
Her shouting faded.
She stared at the door—blank, hollow, soul gone.
Not long ago… they’d talked right here…
Sour rose with tears—she wiped fast, forced calm, stood stupid a moment, ran downstairs.
Alone on a road with no light she walked every corner of the complex, into the familiar shop, even scanned strangers on the street—odd looks didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. One thought. One person.
No one—she called Tang Xuejun, Li Tong, even Qi Xuan. None knew where she was.
She didn’t believe it—back to the shop. From staff: Qi Yu had handed management to the manager, hadn’t come in lately. Something inside her cracked—one more pull and it would snap.
The message said tomorrow.
Why nowhere? Changed plans?
Impossible… how could she leave? Without one goodbye?
No. She didn’t believe it.
Really over? Qi Yu didn’t want her?
How could she not want her—she still had her in her heart—she didn’t believe Qi Yu would vanish without a word.
Jiang Ya dragged her long shadow back to the complex. Streetlights off. Hidden in dark, tear after tear—face empty, numb as a shell.
She couldn’t understand. She began to hate herself again.
Qi Yu’s old line—you don’t deserve love—rang like a curse. Each echo a knife through her body—and the one standing opposite wasn’t Qi Yu. It was herself.
She ruined everything—isn’t that it?
She abandoned Qi Yu—isn’t that it?
So… she didn’t deserve it. She had it coming—isn’t that it?
But… Qi Yu, how could you be so cruel? I was wrong—why not even one chance to make it up? Could everything between us fade that fast?
She didn’t believe it. Really didn’t.
What could she do anyway…
Jiang Ya sat on the bench under the tree. Long ago they’d sat here together. Should she have stayed away from Qi Yu from the start? Was her showing up this big a mistake?
If they’d never met—would Qi Yu hate her less?
Ugly on the stone ground she hugged herself—regret and tears—nothing left to do. Suppressed sobs cut the lonely night.
Footsteps in front. A shadow fell over her.
Jiang Ya froze—looked up, dazed.