Sun Jingcheng had been depressed and listless for several days in a row. In Zhou Yu’s view, however, he was frustrated and unfulfilled.
He no longer went running in the mornings. He stayed in bed until eight o’clock before getting up, then sat on the edge of the bed for five minutes, then went to collapse on the sofa for another five minutes, and finally only went to wash up when it was time to eat.
After washing up and eating, he moved from the dining chair to the piano bench and began playing piano in the morning sunlight. Previously the piano had been in a corner, but these past two days he’d moved it to the balcony doorway. If timed right, around nine o’clock there would be about ten minutes of sunlight streaming over.
He said those ten minutes of sunlight could soothe him.
Zhou Yu didn’t ask questions and let him be dramatic.
The past two days she had also been busy. The students were on winter break, but the teachers still had to study for two more days. Only yesterday afternoon had the study sessions ended and they were fully on vacation.
After breakfast this morning, she sat on the sofa reading professional books. Ke Yu, because the clinic was too noisy, rode his bicycle over to study in the study room. After studying for about ten minutes, he rode his bicycle to the library. His reason was that Sun Jingcheng’s piano music was too sad and made him feel very heavy-hearted.
Zhou Yu wasn’t disturbed though—one sat there playing, one sat there reading. These past few days he hadn’t even been enthusiastic about going to work, only slowly leaving at ten o’clock. She didn’t feel comfortable asking if the company was about to go under. Three months ago, he’d said it was about to collapse.
The piano music stopped. Sun Jingcheng spaced out for a while, then turned to look at her: “You’re not even asking what’s wrong with me.”
Zhou Yu closed her book: “What’s wrong with you?”
“I’ve discovered I’m old.”
“Did your mother give you an elixir pill when you were little that would let you live forever?”
…
Sun Jingcheng turned back around, covered the piano keys with a dust cloth, and prepared to go to work.
Zhou Yu changed her attitude and asked humbly: “When did you discover you were old?”
Sun Jingcheng turned around: “When I rescued someone and went viral.”
“Before this, how old did you think you were?”
“Twenty-eight.”
…
The two stared at each other, big eyes staring at small eyes. After a long while, Zhou Yu comforted him: “Theoretically, thirty-eight is still young adulthood. Sixty-six is when old age begins. You’re far from old.”
Sun Jingcheng didn’t speak.
“Are you under a lot of pressure lately?” Zhou Yu suggested: “You could go out and clear your head.”
Sun Jingcheng lowered his head and thought for a moment. When he looked up again, his eyes were red-rimmed. Then he rubbed his face with both hands: “Forget it.”
…
“I’ve noticed you haven’t been in a good mood these past few days. I didn’t ask because I was afraid of disturbing you. It’s not that I was ignoring you—I thought you needed space.” Zhou Yu said.
“Thank you.” Sun Jingcheng said.
“I’ve never thought you were a failure, because I don’t really understand what success is either. So far, I haven’t met anyone I consider a failure, nor anyone I consider a success. My concept of success and failure is very vague.”
“If we say Jack Ma, Wang Jianlin, Ma Huateng… these people represent success, I can also accept that universal value. But if we say the security guard at our school, the auntie selling jianbing guozi at the street corner… saying they represent failed people, I can’t agree with that.”
“In my values there are only two kinds of people—one is people, and one is people who have made contributions to humanity. I also never believed that all people are born equal. What is born equal is only life that day by day marches toward aging and death.”
“Just do what you yourself think is right. If we’re comparing personal wealth and career achievements, I never would have married you back then.” Zhou Yu said a lot.
Sun Jingcheng looked at her for a long time: “You really are like a teacher.”
Zhou Yu couldn’t be bothered with him.
Sun Jingcheng moved over from the piano bench and sat beside her: “When you teach students, you’re definitely adorable—at least more adorable than when you’re baring your fangs and claws while arguing with me.”
“You’re really being overly sentimental.” Zhou Yu was speechless. Just now she’d almost thought he was going to cry.
“Let’s call a truce and be honest with each other for a bit.” Sun Jingcheng asked her: “Did you have dreams when you were little?”
“No dreams.” Zhou Yu answered without thinking. Typical case of give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.
“When I was seven, my dream was to be a doctor.”
…
“Because if I was a doctor, lots and lots of kids would ask me for IV tubing.” Sun Jingcheng gestured. “When we were little, everyone made shuttlecocks, and the holes in IV tubing could hold chicken feathers.”
…
“When I was eight, my dream was to be a piano teacher.”
…
“That way when I played piano, lots and lots of kids would gather around me, and everyone would sing and dance happily. It didn’t matter if the singing wasn’t good, it didn’t matter if the dancing was wild. Just like when the music teacher played piano—we’d all gather around her like a bunch of demons dancing.”
Zhou Yu imagined a group of children singing and dancing, and told him: “You played piano very well before high school, but after high school you were just average.” Then she added: “My mom said you lost your spiritual connection, started becoming dull.”
“After middle school I hardly played anymore.”
“Why?”
“I just suddenly got tired of it. Didn’t want to compete anymore or take grading exams.”
“You knew me from childhood, right? I was quite impressive back then.” Sun Jingcheng seemed smug, then looked at her: “In my memory I don’t know you—you were probably too ordinary, didn’t enter my field of vision.”
…
“Yes, I heard about the Little Piano Prince like thunder piercing my ears.” Zhou Yu said: “I read in the newspaper that you represented the city in a competition and wet yourself in fear…”