Qian Xingzhi truly seemed to want to spend time with him very badly. But if he really cared that much, why had he never once sought Shen Li out for so long?
Shen Li had waited for him for seven years, yet never once waited long enough for Qian Xingzhi to turn back and look at him again.
After the divorce, it was not that Shen Li had never thought about trying to win Qian Xingzhi back.
But during the first year after their divorce, every time Shen Li took the initiative to ask how Qian Xingzhi had been lately, or whether his physical and mental health were all right, Qian Xingzhi would either answer, “I’m doing great,” or not reply until three days later. Until one time, after hesitating for a very long while, Shen Li finally left a WeChat message saying he had three days off the following week and asking whether it would be convenient to visit him on set. Qian Xingzhi had coldly replied with just one sentence: “No need.”
In the second year after the divorce, Qian Xingzhi forgot to exclude him from a mass New Year greeting and accidentally sent him a four- or five-line holiday message. Shen Li called him directly. What he received was a decisive hang-up and an almost merciless reply: “Someone’s with me. Not convenient.”
In the third year after the divorce, Shen Li went to Qian Xingzhi’s studio. But the door to Qian Xingzhi’s office was shut, and the young receptionist rather clumsily lied that the boss had gone out. Yet from all the various signs, Shen Li reached, both easily and painfully, the conclusion that Qian Xingzhi was right behind that door.
…
After that, Shen Li stopped taking the initiative to look for Qian Xingzhi.
The perpetually busy Qian Xingzhi only sent him a “Happy birthday” on his birthday.
Their relationship became strange—like the most familiar strangers, except the kind who seemed to have some blood feud between them.
Then, three years ago, Zhou Yulin returned from Country E and began pursuing Shen Li in a very high-profile manner. After that, even Qian Xingzhi’s “Happy birthday” messages disappeared and never came again.
And so, over the years Shen Li had read public-account articles saying that Qian Xingzhi was about to marry some conglomerate heiress—there had been three such rumors in total.
He had seen Qian Xingzhi win many awards and thank his family and friends onstage.
And on the rare days Shen Li had off, when he happened to pass a cinema, he had watched quite a few of Qian Xingzhi’s films.
Gradually, the media and the screen became Shen Li’s only ways of receiving information about Qian Xingzhi.
So all these years, Shen Li had always believed that after the divorce, Qian Xingzhi had completely placed him in the category of “ex,” labeled him a passerby he would never contact again, and forcefully drawn the very “boundary” he had once hated most, resisting every attempt Shen Li made to approach.
But over the past few days…the understanding Shen Li had only managed to accept after seven difficult years was being shattered completely through one encounter after another.
Qian Xingzhi really seemed to still like him.
Quite possibly…
he even wanted to fuck him immediately.
Then why? Why had those inexplicable seven years been dragged out of nowhere between them?
No matter how Shen Li reasoned through it, he truly could not understand.
Only after performing an almost precision-grade calculation on the numbers in the ledger did Shen Li finally wait long enough for Qian Xingzhi to return carrying two huge bags of food, looking as though he had gone outside to hunt and come back with his kill.
Qian Xingzhi kicked the door open with one leg, then hooked it shut with his foot. Wearing a cold expression, he strode directly toward Shen Li on the sofa—
His incomparably handsome face had a gloomy crease between the brows, as though Shen Li owed him a fortune. He dropped the bags full of food onto the empty section of sofa beside Shen Li, coughed lightly twice, and said:
“I went to the strawberry garden and asked… You did more than half my work for me?”
“Mm?” Shen Li kept looking at his ledger and did not raise his eyes. “Mm. It was convenient.”
“Your arms reach pretty far.”
“Mm.” A faintly mocking expression crossed Shen Li’s face. “Yours aren’t short either.”
The instant those words fell—
both of them went silent for a moment.
Yet the air was so noisy they could practically hear the pounding of their own hearts. Fortunately, the cicadas outside the window were even louder.
After a long time,
Qian Xingzhi looked down at Shen Li from above, carefully controlling the perfect gaze and tone. Like the male lead in an arthouse film, he asked with sourness disguised beneath indifference, “…You’re being this nice to me because you feel sorry for me, right?”
Shen Li answered neither yes nor no. His calm gaze flicked back and settled into Qian Xingzhi’s bottomless eyes.
“What do you think?”
“I think yes.”
“Then yes.”
“—Are you brushing me off?”
“That already counts as brushing you off?” Shen Li’s gaze remained calm. “Still better than someone who refuses to explain clearly why he wanted a divorce.”
Qian Xingzhi stared back at Shen Li, stunned. His eyes were deep, his expression caught between speaking and silence.
Shen Li had never wanted to force him.
They had always been different people.
“Forget it. If you don’t want to tell me, then don’t. Pretend I never asked.”
“—Mm.” Qian Xingzhi gave a faint laugh. “With you, all I ever get is ‘forget it.’”
Shen Li froze, then looked over in confusion.
A tiny crack seemed to appear in Qian Xingzhi’s ice-cold face. There was a blurred sadness there, a kind of sorrow Shen Li could not fully read, just like back in their second year of high school when Shen Li rejected his confession for the tenth time.
“I don’t tell you because I’ve always known,
“you’ll never love me with the same force that I love you.
“You’ll only feel guilty.
“We were already getting divorced.
“So why would I tell you?”