Chapter 13: The Tears of a Lone Star (3)

By the time Xiao Gu and Zhou Wen returned to the restaurant, it was already empty.

“Brother Si said to come back and get that female fan out of here—” Xiao Gu blew at his bangs, revealing two neatly tweezed, exaggeratedly arched eyebrows. “Strange—where did she go?”

“Maybe Ah Si took care of her himself,” Zhou Wen said, unfazed. She had always known Shen Si didn’t have a soft spot for women, especially not one who wasn’t even really a fan.

“But I thought Ah Si’s attitude toward her was a bit strange. He kept pouring her drinks. He’s never paid particular attention to any fan before.”

“Maybe she embarrassed him a little,” Xiao Gu’s heart raced as he explained randomly, “She got drunk earlier, and I saw Brother Si secretly slap her.”

“You didn’t stop him? If someone saw that, it would’ve blown up.” Zhou Wen was relieved to hear it though. If Xiao Gu could’ve stopped Shen Si, then Shen Si wouldn’t be Shen Si—ruthless and willful.

“I did stop him. But I guess he still sent her off with a slap, ‘cause when I went out to find you, he said he was going to be rough—” Xiao Gu mimicked a slapping motion on his own cheek, grimacing dramatically.

“Forget it. As long as no one saw, it’s not a big deal,” Zhou Wen glanced around. The servers were all in the kitchen.

---

While the two were picturing the miserable state Xu Zhiyi might be in, Shen Si’s sports car was gliding into the glittering neon night, heading toward that prestigious university.

Xu Zhiyi curled up in the passenger seat, her head tilted toward Shen Si. The passing streetlights cast shifting light and shadow across her face.

“Xu Zhiyi—do you really not know the Prophet?” Shen Si drove with one hand while flicking her forehead with his middle finger.

“Every scientist is a prophet,” she mumbled with misty eyes, gazing at Shen Si’s profile, and then softly said, “Hey, you’re pretty good-looking—”

Shen Si felt a strange sense of pride. Finally, the truth.

“Too pretty, not as attractive as my senior brother though—”

Shen Si almost choked. He glanced in distaste at her drab gray coat. “Your taste needs work.”

“Why should I care about taste?” she nodded sincerely. “Is taste something you can find in a test tube?”

She looked at him, eyes unfocused and indifferent. Shen Si glanced at her dazed expression and couldn’t help flicking her forehead again.

“Hey, do you go around singing for people?” she suddenly asked, sounding a bit more clearheaded. But Shen Si caught from the corner of his eye that she had closed her eyes again, lashes casting delicate shadows as they trembled.

“I’m not a street performer,” he replied, feeling oddly offended. Her tone made it seem like she looked down on everything he’d worked his whole life for. “Do you like listening to music?”

“Yeah, I need it to fall asleep every night—”

That made him feel a little better. At least her comment wasn’t career prejudice.

“Sing a little for me?” she murmured with eyes closed, lulled by the warmth in the car.

“Live performances require tickets—”

“Didn’t you just say you’re not a street performer?”

Even drunk, she was this sharp? Shen Si couldn’t resist flicking her forehead again—harder this time.

A dull thunk sounded.

So a genius’s head sounds no different than a regular one.

Xu Zhiyi inhaled sharply and reflexively sat up, then slumped down again. “Forget it, if you can’t sing well, I’ll sing for you—” she said with her eyes closed, more like sleep-talking than a real offer.

Showing off in front of Lu Ban, Shen Si thought. He was amused. No one had ever dared to boast about singing in front of him—especially not a non-professional.

Sure enough, she started to hum—

Soft and slow, almost lazy in its casualness, bordering on rambling.

It took Shen Si a while to recognize the song—it was OneRepublic’s “Come Home.” He was impressed he could identify it from such an off-key rendition.

Clearly, Xu Zhiyi didn’t remember the lyrics well. Most of it was just muddled humming, only the chorus was clear:
“So hear this now, come home, come home, ’cause I’ve been waiting for you…”
Those without a home always long to return.

He suddenly felt a bit sorry for this drunken woman, singing to herself in the dark.

When he turned to look, she was leaning gently against the car window, eyes closed, lips curled into a hazy, almost dreamlike smile.

For the first time, he noticed she had dimples when she smiled.

Two tiny dimples twinkling at the corners of her mouth—like stars in the sky.

He frowned.

Could it really be, as the Prophet said, that this vibrant young life was about to disappear?

---

The car pulled into the school and parked under the shadow of a tree. The windows quickly fogged up, separating them from the outside world.

Before getting out, Shen Si lit one of her cigarettes.

He hadn’t smoked in a long time, but now, in front of this woman who might soon vanish, he wanted one.

The spicy scent of roasted tobacco filled the car, blue smoke curling around his fingers, the cherry glowing in the dark. Xu Zhiyi began humming another song.

“But I’m afraid… it’s too late to apologize, it’s too late…”

“I said it’s too late to apologize… it’s too late…”

He’d sung for others all his life. This was the first time someone sang for him.

Hearing her tone-deaf singing made Shen Si want to laugh. Fortunately, her soft, fuzzy voice managed to keep the melody somewhat recognizable. Someone unfamiliar might even be fooled.

He suddenly had a new idea for the arrangements on his next album.

He looked at the drunken Xu Zhiyi.

Some people talked nonsense when drunk. Others caused scenes. Some passed out.
A female scientist? She sang off-key.

---

Getting her out of the car was no easy feat.

As the cold wind hit, Xu Zhiyi instinctively curled into his arms, clinging to his chest.

Shen Si sighed—he’d really gotten himself into a mess.

As they passed through the lobby, the plump gatekeeper aunt peeked out from her window.
“Yo, what’s up with Professor Xu?”

Shen Si quickly lowered his head and whispered, “She’s drunk.”

The aunt gave him a knowing smile. “About time, at her age.”

Shen Si almost laughed, then continued hauling her up the stairs.

If it weren’t for his daily physical training, the five flights would’ve killed him.

Xu Zhiyi was boneless in his arms—he had to half-carry, half-drag her up. Along the way, he had to cover her mouth with his hand since she wouldn’t stop singing—and louder and louder.

Finally, at Room 604, he fumbled through her pockets for the key. The hallway was dark, and he couldn’t see the keyhole.

Suddenly, the neighboring door creaked open.

A woman in pajamas poked her head out. “Xu Zhiyi?”

Xu Zhiyi didn’t respond.

“She’s drunk,” Shen Si quickly turned his face away and lowered his voice.

“Oh—” The neighbor sounded like she understood everything. “Need help? I’m Zhu Ling, her colleague.”

“No need.”

“Got it!” Zhu Ling gave him a knowing smile and shut her door with a click.

---

Getting her inside, Shen Si was drenched in sweat.

The room wasn’t completely dark.

The curtains were open, and moonlight spilled across the floor. He didn’t turn on the lights—just tossed Xu Zhiyi onto the bed. She found the blanket, clutched it to her chest, tilted her head, and quieted down.

Shen Si took a deep breath to steady himself.

He ran through his mission in his mind. Reaching for the small lamp on the headboard, he flicked it on. The light was dim but bright enough to see clearly.

The small room was barely 30 square meters—smaller than his closet. But sparsely furnished, it felt even emptier.

To the left of the door was a half-closed bathroom. Ahead was the main space, with a narrow white desk under the window, a silver MacBook, and a pale green electric kettle. To the left of the desk was a single bed with a faded gray sheet; to the right, a wall stacked with books, neatly arranged without a shelf.

At the foot of the bed was a tiny wooden wardrobe. Inside were a few scattered pieces of clothing in black, white, and muted shades. A dozen identical white shirts hung in a row.

A single chair sat before the desk, its curved arms like an open invitation.

The shoe rack by the door held just four pairs of shoes.

No air conditioner.

Everything so minimal it bordered on disturbing. You’d never guess this was a young woman’s room. Shen Si thought of his overcrowded closet.

He opened a drawer—and jumped.

Even the drawer was perfectly organized. Everything aligned like soldiers in formation.

He took out a bottle of pills, dumped them into his pocket, then poured out a new set from a bottle he’d brought. Choosing ones nearly identical in shape and color, he filled it and returned it to its place.

He swapped every bottle of medicine he could find.

Then, he pressed play on the iPod by her pillow. This must be what she listened to before bed.

Music trickled out softly through the headphones. Xu Zhiyi’s expression relaxed. The familiar tunes comforted her.

So this is her bedtime music, Shen Si smirked—Schubert’s lullaby.

How deprived of warmth must someone be, to rely on lullabies to sleep as an adult?

He glanced at the sleeping Xu Zhiyi, bathed in the orange glow of the lamp. Her face was flushed, half-buried in the pillow.

He hesitated, then gently pulled the blanket from her arms, took off her coat and shoes, and covered her with the quilt.

She didn’t resist at all—clearly unconscious.

By her pillow lay a worn book. Curious, he picked it up—it was an English textbook on virology.

Inside was a photo.

A younger Xu Zhiyi in graduation robes stood beside a young man. Neither of them conventionally attractive, but they exuded a quiet harmony.

Kept so preciously by her pillow—this must be the “senior brother” she still remembered even when drunk.

He smiled and sent a message to the Prophet: “All the meds have been replaced.”

---

After all that, his limbs felt weak. He didn’t feel like leaving. So he sank into the chair, lit one of her cigarettes, and let himself relax.

The lullaby drifted through the tiny room. He inhaled deeply and leaned back, blowing smoke rings one after another.

When did I start loving the feeling of smoking?

For most people, it’s loneliness. But not for him.

Back at music school in the UK, many were already drawn to his voice. Even his vocal coach praised it for its clarity.

But he wasn’t satisfied. How can a man’s voice lack depth?

He longed for that rawness born of pain and time, so he smoked obsessively, burning his throat to add that rough, husky edge.

And people went crazy for it.

Female fans called it “pure sex.”

Male fans said it was “a cold drink on a lonely night.”

Critics called it “clouds drifting in summer skies.”

Producers said it was “dust stirred by wind over desolate plains.”

Only he knew—it was just a voice ruined by smoke, crying out in protest.

Until—two years ago, when he could no longer sing, and finally quit.

---

He looked again at the narrow bed.

The woman on it slept soundly, her gentle breathing filling the room with an unexpected calm. His own heart settled too.

He suddenly missed that tear at the corner of her eye.

A lyric flashed through his mind:
“That lost star dust, crossing my sky, leaves behind a trail of brilliance and pain.”

Maybe… he could add one more song to the new album.

As dawn neared, he realized he had fallen asleep in Xu Zhiyi’s chair.

Shivering, he stretched his stiff limbs, looked once more at the sleeping woman, and quietly opened the door to leave.