(This chapter is the second update. Readers who click directly on the latest update may miss the previous chapter.)
He finished writing it subconsciously, but when he came to his senses and looked back at it, he was stung by what he had written. What was this? Why had he written this?
Pei Tingsong seemed to have crossed out the last sentence, crossing it out many times, then tore off that page, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into the corner of the table.
Even through the headphones, he could hear the sound of something breaking outside the window. He stood up and peeked out to see a figure moving on the neighboring balcony. Worried that Fang Juexia might have bumped into something again, Pei Tingsong put down his things and went over there, knocking on the door twice this time.
“What are you doing making so much noise?” he said in a deliberately reproachful tone, “It’s so loud.”
When he walked over and saw Fang Juexia picking up the broken pieces from the floor, Pei Tingsong was startled again and quickly pulled him away, “Hey, don’t use your hands!”
“It’s okay, the edge of this flower pot isn’t very sharp.” Fang Juexia threw the last piece of broken pottery into the trash can. Pei Tingsong only then realized that what he had broken was a cactus.
“What are you doing?” He knelt down and pointed at the cactus lying on the ground, “Are you taking revenge?”
“You have such a vivid imagination.” Fang Juexia swept the soil on the ground into a pile and transferred it to a spare flower pot, but this cactus left him at a loss. So he began to instruct Pei Tingsong, “Pick this up.”
“Why me?”
“Birds of a feather flock together.” Fang Juexia dug a hole in the soil, “Put it here.”
Pei Tingsong pinched the longest thorn at the top with two fingers, and the cactus trembled as it fell into the trap Fang Juexia had dug.
“You’ve been messing with these flowers and plants the whole time.” ” Pei Tingsong glanced over and accidentally saw the Sudoku book he had left on the lazy sofa, but strangely, there were no numbers filled in, just a line of text.
“Yeah. What about you?” Fang Juexia blocked his view, pressing the soil down with both hands. “What were you doing just now?”
“Me?” Pei Tingsong didn’t expect the topic to come back to him, and he hesitated for a moment. Fang Juexia didn’t plan to wait for his answer either, so he stood up and closed the Sudoku book. But then he suddenly heard Pei Tingsong say behind him, “I want to write lyrics for your demo.”
Fang Juexia turned his head in confusion and saw Pei Tingsong sitting cross-legged on the ground. “But I’ve never been in love, so I don’t know how to write the lyrics to a love song.” Fang Juexia sat back on the lazy sofa and remained silent for a moment. “That song doesn’t have to be a love song.”
Pei Tingsong raised his head and looked at him. Fang Juexia hugged the Sudoku book and spoke quietly, “After all, according to your logic, I shouldn’t be able to write love songs either.”
Does that mean… he hasn’t been in love either? Pei Tingsong couldn’t believe it. With Fang Juexia’s looks, there weren’t many girls in school who didn’t like him, and his personality was gentle, except when he was overly cold toward him.
Pei Tingsong couldn’t help but question, “Is that true… I don’t believe there were no girls chasing you at your school.”
“There were some. But I simply didn’t have the time.” Fang Juexia’s expression was sincere as he leaned back. “I started learning to dance at a young age, and it was exhausting every day. I had to study hard, and after school, I had to rush straight to the dance studio. Later, as you know, my dream of becoming a dancer fell through. Who would have thought that on my way to school, I was discovered by an Astar talent scout and became a trainee. At that time, I was studying and practicing at the same time, and every day was very tiring. I didn’t even get enough sleep, so where would I find the energy to date?”
“So you want to date but don’t have the time?” Pei Tingsong sorted through his thoughts but still felt something was off. “If you really meet someone you like, you’ll find the time.”
“I don’t want to.”
Fang Juexia’s answer came suddenly, short and decisive. Pei Tingsong accidentally pricked himself on a soft thorn from a cactus, the thorn sinking into his flesh.
He hesitated for a moment before asking, “Why?”
A pinkish-orange cloud floated in the air, and Fang Juexia stared at it without moving. “Because…”
He hesitated, unsure how to explain it to Pei Tingsong, or whether he should explain it at all. Fang Juexia hated the feeling of self-analysis; opening up once meant risking an emotional breakdown.
Pei Tingsong sensed something and tried to change the subject. “Actually, I don’t want to either.” He added, “At least I didn’t before. I read a psychology paper that had this sentence—a child’s emotional development is a reflection of their parents’ relationship. I, on the other hand, rarely saw my parents growing up. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized they didn’t marry out of love.”
Upon hearing this, Fang Juexia turned his head and looked at Pei Tingsong in a curled-up posture, “Then why did they get married?”
“It’s quite ironic, actually. My mother’s ancestors were the first generation of overseas Chinese immigrants. They were very wealthy in China before immigrating, and after moving to the United States, they engaged in business for many years. Their family was large and prosperous, what they call ‘old money.’ My grandfather was the youngest and only son of his generation, but he had no business acumen and no interest in it. When he was young, his businesses kept failing, and he went bankrupt several times.”
Several companies. Fang Juexia thought, “Sure enough, rich people can afford to lose money.”
“I guess so. Your grandfather…” He paused mid-sentence, originally intending to say that his grandfather looked refined and cultured, but he had accidentally seen that photo.
“What about my grandfather?”
Fang Juexia leaned back on the sofa and shook his head. “I guess he’s like you.”
“He’s much more talented than me. He has a literary gift. Even though his business failed, the books he wrote were excellent. He published novels and poetry collections under a pseudonym. Later, he lost interest in business and focused solely on living his romanticist life.” “ Pei Tingsong took a deep breath. ”He had only one child, my mother, so he spoiled her like a princess. She had nothing but a pretty face. The elders of the family felt that their business empire couldn’t just collapse like that, so they chose a newcomer to marry her for business purposes.”
“My grandfather told me he was strongly opposed to it. Two people who don’t love each other will suffer. As it turned out, he was right. Before I was born, they still lived together reluctantly. After I was born, my mother traveled the world, enjoying life and living the lavish lifestyle she desired. My father was busy making money, earning enough to last several lifetimes.”
Fang Juexia found it hard to imagine what it was like to grow up in such a family.
“So you never saw your parents growing up. Didn’t you miss them?”
Pei Tingsong smiled. “I’ve forgotten what it feels like to miss my parents.” He continued, “I couldn’t manage on my own at home, so my grandfather came to live with me.”
“I later fell in love with hip-hop, which I felt was the best medium for expressing emotions. So I had no interest in wasting myself on relationships that went nowhere. I wanted an outlet, a way to express myself.”
Fang Juexia finally understood why Pei Tingsong was so conflicted. Like his grandfather, he had been placed in an unsuitable mold, but his choice was to fiercely resist—to resist the parents who had never accompanied him as he grew up, to resist this golden cage, and to pursue what he truly loved, no matter the cost. He suddenly wanted to hug him, but he knew it was his own sympathy overflowing, and he might be rejected by Pei Tingsong, so he just sat up and dared not approach him.
He knew why Pei Tingsong no longer believed in love. How could one believe in something they had never seen?
Pei Tingsong shook his hand, his tone light, “Actually, many famous philosophers remained unmarried their entire lives—Plato, Descartes, Spinoza, Kant, Schopenhauer, Sartre… the list goes on.” As he spoke, he seemed to think of a particularly good argument, “Do you know the poet Lermontov? He once said, ‘Passionate love and happiness make me lose my focus.’”
This was a novel yet realistic statement.
Fang Juexia pondered his words over and over in his mind, feeling that his own memories were not so important after all. Although Pei Tingsong did not ask, he chose to open up about himself. He did not want to just be a listener.
“Have I… never mentioned my father?”
Pei Tingsong hadn’t expected him to say that. He had already noticed that the word “father” was like an obstacle for Fang Juexia; every time it came up, he would instinctively avoid it.
“Yes.”
Fang Juexia hugged his knees. “He was a very talented dancer. My mother loved him deeply, and they were deeply in love. As I mentioned earlier, they were together no matter what.”
Such a statement sounded like a love story from a fairy tale or a poem. But Pei Tingsong had already seen the ending.
“Then I was born, and our family was very happy. Looking back now, I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to describe my childhood as happy. I was also a child raised in love.” Fang Juexia’s eyes drifted toward the last bit of daylight in the distance, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “As for what happened later, I’ve mentioned it before: I was diagnosed with night blindness and failed the audition. This wasn’t a huge blow to the family. But my father was given a special opportunity, one that could change his life.”
Fang Juexia looked at him. “A very famous dance drama invited him to take on the lead role. He practiced for four whole months for this dance drama. I looked forward to the premiere every day, counting down the days at school, just waiting for that day. I remember it very clearly. At that time, I was lying on the table marking the last day on the calendar when the phone rang. My mother listened for a few seconds, then slid down the wall and sat on the floor.”
He tried to describe it to Pei Tingsong, gesturing with both hands, “The ending of the ballet was a falling movement, where the dancer would lean backward and land on a net. During the final rehearsal before the opening performance, everything was perfect. He ran up to the high platform, jumped down, but the net wasn’t secured properly.“ Fang Juexia’s tone remained calm and matter-of-fact, as if recounting an event unrelated to himself, ”He fell from several meters high and broke his leg.”
Pei Tingsong looked at Fang Juexia, trying to find a trace of sadness on his face so he could offer comfort. But he was too calm, not even furrowing his brow.
“Not only did he miss the best opportunity and highlight of his career, but he also couldn’t continue dancing. The problems left behind by that leg were significant, effectively ending his career.”
“What happened afterward? Did he switch careers?”
Fang Juexia tugged at his sleeve, feeling a bit chilly. “Afterward… he started drinking and smoking heavily every day, right at home. My mom said it wasn’t good for the kids, but he didn’t care. They argued constantly, mostly because of me. Once, when he was drunk, he even told me that I’d end up like him, a useless person. He was tormented by fate, and I was born without the right to dance on stage.”
Fang Juexia’s voice finally trembled slightly as he sniffed, “I was afraid to see him, and I was afraid to see alcohol at home. Once, he got into a fight with my mother and couldn’t help but hit her. When he sobered up, he hugged him and cried. It’s contradictory, isn’t it? People can change like that.” After saying this, he looked at Pei Tingsong, smiled, and shook his head.
“My mother still loves him and hopes he can pull himself together. But it’s no use. He keeps trying and failing, and eventually even got into drugs. One day, I came home from school and found that all the valuable appliances in the house were gone. I thought it was a thief, so I checked what else was missing.” Fang Juexia tapped the tip of his slipper with his index finger, lowering his head, “I saw that all his clothes were gone from the wardrobe. He never came back.”
“Love is really fragile, and its shelf life is short. Sometimes you don’t even get to see it change; a single straw can break the camel’s back.” Fang Juexia spoke calmly, as if he were an outsider. “My mother is still waiting for him. She refuses to move and stays in that small house in Guangzhou. When she has nothing to do, she stares at the door all day. For those few years of happiness, she traded a lifetime of suffering.”
Pei Tingsong stood up, walked over, and knelt down in front of Fang Juexia, reaching out to ruffle his hair.
“The story I told is pretty ordinary, right? Not as dramatic as you might have expected.”
The initial beauty of love stories is all the same—sparks fly instantly, souls collide, and you wish you could spend a lifetime in a single second, ending your life in a kiss. But the tragic endings are all different. At least the dramatic ones have a sense of closure. What’s most feared is a mundane, hasty ending.
Pei Tingsong understood why Fang Juexia had always closed himself off, why he managed his emotions like a machine—because he felt he had no other choice.
All these years, he hadn’t just been groping in the dark; he had used his absent father as a mirror, a mirror that could only reflect failure, hidden in his heart, occasionally pulled out to look at, to restrain himself.
Pei Tingsong gently stroked his head, his voice low and gentle, “So that’s why you don’t believe in love—because you’ve been living in a failed example.”
Fang Juexia belatedly felt afraid. He had just laid bare the deepest part of himself to Pei Tingsong, exposing his vulnerable Achilles’ heel. It seemed like he was speaking to Pei Tingsong, yet also to himself.
Do not casually engage in a relationship.
His fingers tapped the ground as Fang Juexia lowered his head, drawing a horizontal line. He said to himself and to him, “You can list countless rational examples, but exhaustively enumerating them is impossible, correct?”
Pei Tingsong nodded, “Hmm.”
“But do you know? Given a number line, if you pick any point, the probability that the chosen point is a rational number is zero.”
Fang Juexia raised his head, his cold eyes reflecting the completely darkened sky.
“That’s what they call true love.”
Author’s note: [Why is the probability of selecting a rational number at any point on the number line zero?]
First of all, it is equal to zero.
This is a measure problem, and the measure of rational numbers is zero. It’s hard for me to explain a math problem in simple terms because it’s too imprecise. I suggest you search for it, and you’ll find a lot of theoretical analysis, including discussions on Zhihu. Measure theory is a problem in functional analysis, and math majors should have studied it.
Let me clarify one more thing: an event with zero probability is not the same as an impossible event. This is a problem in probability theory, and you can also search for specific proofs and theories.
Finally, they have completely opened up to each other, taking a significant step forward. Their hearing is beginning to heal each other.
Both of them are experiencing their first love, and they are a bit different from other children, so they may take a little longer to warm up, but once they truly fall in love, they will be even more reckless. [zc Although there are no drafts, the phone’s memo app is filled with conversations after falling in love…
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