After returning home that day, she took a bath, lay on the bed, but had no sleep.
Her mind replayed the scenes from the banquet over and over.
Yan Yu’s dress stained with red wine, her silhouette sitting alone in the corner, the focused look in Su Qinghan’s eyes when she looked at Jiang Muyun, and… that gaze from behind when she pushed Yan Yu away at the end.
That gaze belonged to Su Qinghan.
She felt it.
‘But why?’
‘Shouldn’t Su Qinghan’s heart and eyes be full of her “White Moonlight” Jiang Muyun?’
‘Shouldn’t she be overjoyed that her beloved has finally returned?’
‘Then why, when she herself took Yan Yu away, did Su Qinghan show that kind of look?’
Confusion, irritation, and a dull, restless emotion she didn’t want to probe stirred together, making her chest tight.
So today, she came here.
Alcohol might not solve the problem, but at least it could temporarily numb that uncomfortable feeling.
She took another sip of her drink.
She could no longer taste what this glass was supposed to be.
Alcohol burned down her esophagus, leaving heat, but it couldn’t warm her heart.
Setting down the glass, she instinctively pulled out her phone.
The screen lit up. The lock screen wallpaper was a night scene from a racing session, city lights flowing like a river.
She swiped, her finger hovering over the screen for a moment, then tapped on WeChat.
The contact list was long, but her finger slid to a certain position almost without hesitation.
Yan Yu.
The profile picture was very simple—a blurred green, like sunlight seen through gaps in leaves.
Moments was visible for three days, and the background was blank.
The chat records were still from yesterday.
She had sent: “Did you arrive?”
Yan Yu replied: “Yes, thank you.”
Further up were earlier pleasantries.
Polite, distant, impossible to fault, but… nothing more.
Dai Feng stared at that chat box, her thumb hovering over the input field for a long time.
She wanted to send something.
Ask “How are you today?” Ask “Does your back still hurt?” Ask “Has Jiang Muyun given you any more trouble?”
But the words she typed, she deleted one by one.
‘On what grounds should I ask?’
‘Friends? Are they even friends?’
‘Met a few times, exchanged some words, went through an unpleasant banquet together.’
‘That’s all.’
‘But if not friends, then what is it?’
‘Sympathy? Pity? Or… something else?’
She couldn’t say.
The impulse to reach out and the awkwardness of not having a good reason tugged in her chest, making her even more irritable.
“Feng, what are you staring at so intently?”
Someone leaned over from beside her—it was a friend Lin Na had brought, called A Yue, an art school student with short pink-blue hair and a row of shiny earrings on her ear cartilage.
Dai Feng’s thumb moved, turning off the screen, and she pressed the phone face-down on the bar.
“Nothing.”
She picked up her glass and downed the rest. The cold liquid mixed with the burning sensation of alcohol rolled down her throat, making her frown slightly.
A Yue didn’t mind. She sat down next to her and ordered a mojito, then spoke vaguely through the straw: “You seem upset. Want to come to our school? We have a public class this afternoon, it’s pretty interesting—modern art history.”
Dai Feng turned to look at her. “You’re in the art department?”
“Yeah.” A Yue nodded. “Fine arts major. Why?”
“Tomorrow afternoon’s public class, I’ll go with you.”
“Ah?” A Yue was clearly stunned, even forgetting to bite her straw. “Why?”
A few friends nearby also cast surprised looks.
Dai Feng was famously addicted to fun—she even dared to skip her own finance major classes—and today she voluntarily offered to audit an art department public class?
“Nothing,” Dai Feng looked away and signaled A Ken for a refill. “Just suddenly a bit interested in art, want to check it out.”
“Ha?” A Yue’s eyes widened. “Interested in art? That’s rare. When was the last time you went to an art museum? High school art class sketching from life?”
Someone nearby laughed.
But A Yue suddenly thought of something, her expression turning subtle. She leaned in and lowered her voice: “Hey, you’re not… influenced by Su Qinghan, are you?”
Su Qinghan liked literature and arts, and always had insights about art.
Everyone in the circle knew that Dai Feng and Su Qinghan were close, and many of their preferences and habits, even their taste in people, were somewhat similar.
Dai Feng’s fingers on the glass suddenly tightened.
But her face showed no expression.
She slowly rotated the glass in her hands, watching the clear ice cubes float and sink in the amber liquid.
“Not her.”
She said, her voice not loud.
A Yue was choked by her tone, and sheepishly rubbed her nose.
“Alright, alright, not her then.” She waved her hand. “So are you really going tomorrow? The class starts at two, in the lecture hall on the third floor of the art building.”
“Going,” Dai Feng answered decisively.
She picked up the phone that was face-down on the bar. The screen lit up again, still that blurred green profile picture.
This time, she didn’t open the chat box. She just glanced at it, then turned off the screen and stuffed the phone back into her coat pocket.
“What time should we meet?” she asked A Yue.
“One fifty, at the entrance of the art building?”
“Okay.”
A Ken pushed a newly mixed drink to her. This time it was a “Moscow Mule,” the crispness of ginger beer mixed with the bite of vodka, fine water droplets condensed on the glass.
Dai Feng picked it up and took a big gulp. The cold liquid with its sharp ginger spiciness rushed into her mouth, clearing her fuzzy mind for a moment.
‘Why did she want to attend an art department class?’
She couldn’t explain it herself.
Dai Feng finished the rest in one gulp and placed the glass back on the bar with a moderate clink.
“I’m off.”
She stood up, pulled out a few bills from her wallet and pressed them under the glass, nodded to A Ken, then turned and walked toward the door.
“Hey, it’s early, why are you leaving?” Lin Na called after her.
“Got things to do.” Dai Feng didn’t turn back, just waved.
The alcohol was still burning faintly in her veins, but the knot in her heart seemed to have loosened a bit.
She took out her phone, and this time without hesitation, tapped on that green chat box and quickly typed: “Dai Feng: I’ll come to your school this afternoon to audit the art department class. Sent.”
Then, before the other party could possibly reply, she added another: “Dai Feng: Do you have an electronic version of your textbook? Could you send me a copy? Sent.”
After doing that, she stuffed the phone back into her pocket, hands in her coat pockets, and walked toward the parking lot.
Her steps were no longer as heavy as when she arrived; instead, there was a lightness.
She didn’t know if Yan Yu would reply, nor what she would reply if she did.
But she knew that some things, if never done, would never have an answer.
Tomorrow at two, the art building lecture hall.
She suddenly found herself a little expectant.