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This face—Xu Yinghuai had seen it countless times since childhood. The moment the mask was pulled down slightly, she recognized him instantly.
It was Zhou Zirong.
Catching the flicker of recognition in Xu Yinghuai’s eyes, Zhou Zirong quickly pulled his mask back up.
To disguise himself and avoid fans, he had swapped out his morning trench coat for a jacket.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, Zhou Zirong pulled out a pack of tissues and handed it to Xu Yinghuai.
Whenever Xu Yinghuai experienced intense emotions, she would become dazed, her perception dulled. This time was no different.
Looking at the person in front of her—someone with plenty of flaws yet standing right there—she couldn’t even muster the energy to scold him. Her eyes were slightly red, tears still streaming down her cheeks, and she stared blankly at him, unable to process the gesture of him offering tissues.
Behind the wide frames of his glasses, Zhou Zirong’s brows furrowed slightly.
He had intended to ask something, but seeing her in this state, he swallowed his words. Instead, he lifted the pack of tissues a little higher and gently said, “Take it, wipe your tears.”
Following the instruction, Xu Yinghuai dropped her gaze, staring at the blue packaging for a moment before sluggishly taking it. She mechanically unwrapped the pack, pulled out a tissue, blew her nose hard, then took another to wipe her tears.
Zhou Zirong had been about to walk away to pick out what he needed to buy, but watching her methodically wipe her tears, he froze in place. A strange sense of familiarity washed over him.
It wasn’t exactly a fond memory—just a stubborn argument from when someone was six years old:
“Wipe your snot first, then your tears. That way, you won’t look as ugly when you cry.”
Since both their parents had been busy when they were young, Xu Yinghuai and Zhou Zirong often played together.
One time, they had been sitting on the couch watching cartoons when, out of nowhere, Xu Yinghuai started bawling. Zhou Zirong hadn’t even noticed what part was sad.
Even at six years old, Xu Yinghuai had already cared about her appearance. But being so young, she hadn’t yet figured out how to do it right—her efforts at elegance were still childishly clumsy.
So she had wiped her nose first with her fingertips held delicately, then dabbed at her tears.
Zhou Zirong had found it disgusting. “Can’t you use a different tissue for your tears?”
Xu Yinghuai had blinked. “Huh?”
“This is dirty, isn’t it?”
“……”
She had scowled, then snapped back with some crude phrase she must’ve picked up somewhere:
“What, you wanna control everything now? The sky, the earth, and even when people go to the bathroom?”
…
Now, Zhou Zirong’s gaze swept over the girl’s forehead, her brows, her profile…
She looked nothing like that fool from back then. But still, there was something—something about her presence, a faint similarity he couldn’t quite grasp.
The thought baffled him.
After growing up, Xu Yinghuai had selectively erased many embarrassing childhood memories, blossoming into an ever more stunning and poised version of herself.
As they hit adolescence and became more aware of gender differences, the gap between them had widened further.
It had been a long time since Zhou Zirong last saw Xu Yinghuai cry.
When he did see her shedding tears, it was usually through videos she posted on social media—gracefully wiping them away, crying in an artful, camera-ready way.
Clearly staged, meant to attract attention.
“Recently, the V-brand fashion show took place in Country M…”
The sound of a convenience store clerk watching a video drifted over.
Zhou Zirong barely registered it—until the next words made his blood freeze.
“Unfortunately, a highly popular beauty influencer from our country, with millions of followers, was in a major traffic accident while on her way to attend the event. The accident occurred in a remote area, and by the time she was found, it was too late for rescue. She has now been confirmed dead.”
At that moment, Zhou Zirong’s heart plummeted.
His chest tightened, a deep tremor rippling through him.
His breath caught. His heartbeat skipped—twice.
The news segment ended quickly. The clerk sighed, muttering, “What a shame,” before swiping to the next video.
Cheerful background music filled the store.
Zhou Zirong, however, felt completely hollow.
With shaking hands, he fished out his phone, his heart finally catching up—pounding wildly to make up for those lost beats.
He opened WeChat and sent several messages to the pinned contact labeled “Saltwater-Special Fool.”
[Xu Yinghuai!]
[Are you there?]
[Reply to me!]
Then, he hurriedly opened Weibo.
There was no need to search. The top trending topic was plastered with bold red letters: “Xu Yinghuai’s Fatal Car Accident.”
Zhou Zirong’s fingers trembled as he stared at it for a long time before daring to click.
The attached video started playing automatically.
The footage showed the scene of the crash, heavily censored due to the severity of the accident.
All he could see was a blur of deep red.
Refusing to accept it, he rewound the video, watching the same gruesome seconds over and over, teetering between denial and belief.
Then, on yet another replay, his gaze landed on a lifeless wrist dangling from a stretcher.
A delicate wrist, wrapped in a familiar crystal bracelet.
Even beneath the bloodstains, it still glimmered under the morning light.
Every last shred of hope shattered in an instant.
Zhou Zirong lifted a hand, covering his face, rubbing harshly. He inhaled deeply—then exhaled shakily.
He shook his head, murmuring, “No way… This is impossible.”
“Impossible, impossible, impossible.”
“I saw her board the plane yesterday… This can’t be real.”
At that moment, his phone buzzed.
He looked at the caller ID—Zhang Qiuwen.
Xu Yinghuai’s mother.
Zhou Zirong clenched the phone, his knuckles turning white. He forced himself to breathe, to sound calm, but his voice came out hoarse. He pulled his mask down and answered, “Hello, Auntie.”
On the other end, Zhang Qiuwen was sobbing so hard she could barely speak.
“Z-Zirong…”
“The hospital called… They said… our Yinghuai is gone… But I can’t reach her phone… You—you can contact her, right?”
“There are so many scammers these days…”
“Tell me… tell me this isn’t real… right?”
Zhou Zirong opened his mouth but found himself unable to answer.
The phone rustled, and then another voice spoke—Xu Zhikang, Xu Yinghuai’s father.
“Zirong… Are you busy right now?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Good… We didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Yinghuai… She’s gone.”
Zhou Zirong left the store in a daze, his steps mechanical.
He didn’t even realize he had walked into a fountain until cold water soaked his shoes.
A sudden tug on his wrist yanked him backward just as a car roared past, honking angrily.
“Hey, are you trying to get yourself killed?!”
Turning around, he saw Xu Yinghuai—very much alive—standing there, out of breath, hands on her hips, about to launch into a tirade.
But before she could say anything, Zhou Zirong simply looked at her and softly said, “Thank you.”
His voice was distant, polite—yet utterly fragile.
Xu Yinghuai’s anger faltered.
Then, she noticed his eyes.
Pain, so deep and so quiet, pressed down in them like the weight of the ocean.
And suddenly, Zhou Zirong—who never let himself lose control—started crying.