Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Zhou Huaian had a pair of cold, desolate eyes. When those eyes looked at you, you would instantly feel yourself sinking into the dust.

But it wasn’t intentional; he was simply born that way, possessed of a natural indifference toward everything in the world.

The first time I looked into those eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder: in this bustling, noisy world of people coming and going, how much emotion could a man who stood so far above it all truly possess?

In 2012, rumors of the Mayan doomsday prophecy spread from the beginning of the year to the end. Jay Chou’s songs echoed through every street and alleyway, and the film *You Are the Apple of My Eye* was creating a wave of nostalgia across campuses.

I was eighteen then. My eighteen-year-old self was passionate, impulsive, and fearless-an age of ignorance where I believed true love could conquer all. That was the year I met Zhou Huaian.

Back then, I was balancing my studies with part-time jobs while desperately running between various film crews to audition for roles.

When a so-called investor pressed his rough palm against my thigh, I instinctively stood up and slammed my bag against his head.

As I flung the door open and bolted out, a shout erupted behind me: “Bitch! Someone stop her!”

I was screaming and struggling, utterly disheveled, when a slightly raspy voice rang out:

“Hey. The girl isn’t willing. Didn’t you hear her?”

The man’s voice was incredibly light, yet it had an immediate effect.

He gave me nothing more than a casual glance, as if he were merely intervening because he was in a good mood while passing by a dog being beaten.

He was leaning against the windowsill in the hallway, elbows propped behind him in a lazy posture. A light breeze blew in from outside, brushing past his jet-black fringe.

Two buttons of his white shirt were undone, his sleeves were rolled up to reveal a wristwatch, and the cigarette between his fingers flickered in the dim light.

The men who had chased me out of the room fled with their tails between their legs the moment they saw him.

I clutched my bag to my chest and gave him a ninety-degree bow, thanking him sincerely.

Suddenly, I heard him let out a soft chuckle.

Glancing outside, he stubbed out his cigarette and said lazily, “Acting student? Which school?”

“Beijing Film Academy.”

He nodded, seemingly asking only out of passing curiosity. “They’re gone. You should head back.”

The Zhou Huaian I met for the first time was so understated in every way that I never seriously considered what his true identity might be.

It was only later that I learned some people reach a level where they no longer need external adornments to express themselves; they are often more humble and low-key than anyone else.

When we were together, we never spoke of family backgrounds.

To Zhou Huaian, there was no need to give an account to someone who was merely a temporary diversion.

To me, it was simply about enjoying the pleasure of the moment.

Once, at a gathering hosted by his friends, the only one among them who was even remotely kind to me got drunk. He accidentally let a name slip-I couldn’t hear it clearly, but it sounded like something utterly out of reach. Later, I realized that wasn’t kindness at all; it was just another form of warning: I didn’t belong with him at all.

Unfortunately, I was too young and headstrong back then to heed anyone’s advice, and so I wasted many years with him.