Zhou Junhao’s Side Story
The first time I met Qingyao was at her little brother’s tenth birthday party.
The celebration was lavish, a clear sign of her father’s favoritism.
I was fifteen.
I escaped to the creek behind the villa to get away from the adults’ overwhelming attention.
She was sitting on a rock, knees drawn up, watching the water flow.
A golden retriever lay beside her.
Later, at the party, I saw her again—her eyes filled with sorrow.
Amid the noise and laughter, she was silent.
I wanted to make her smile.
She came to my school’s junior high.
Her beauty and melancholy made her famous.
Boys lined up to confess their feelings.
During breaks, they’d whistle from the balcony, but she was shy and introverted, always hurrying past with her head down.
People said she couldn’t speak—that she was mute.
When others talked to her, she’d only smile faintly.
When my mother went to her house for tea, I asked to go along.
Her brother had torn her homework to pieces and scattered it everywhere.
She silently picked it up.
Then he tried to pull the golden retriever’s tail and threatened to cut its skin with a knife.
She pushed him away in fright.
He fell and started crying.
Her father slapped her to the ground without a word.
Her forehead hit the coffee table, and blood streamed down.
She didn’t cry.
She just sat there, watching them comfort her brother.
She was twelve. Her brother was ten.
I helped her up and shouted at her parents, “Why did you hit her? It was her brother who tried to hurt the dog! Are you blind?”
She hadn’t cried when she was hurt, but when I said that, her tears fell on my arm—scalding hot.
Ignoring everyone’s shock, I took her to the hospital.
The golden retriever followed closely.
After the doctor treated her, I took her to a dessert shop.
She stirred her colorful ice cream until it melted, never taking a bite.
Later, I learned her mother had died long ago.
Her brother was her stepmother’s child.
Her hearing had been damaged by her father’s beatings—one ear barely worked.
After that, she stopped speaking.
From then on, I often visited her, helping her with homework and walking the dog with her.
Sometimes, I wondered if she even knew who I was.
When she was in eighth grade, I took her to the park to walk the dog.
Blood stained her white dress.
She turned pale, grabbed my sleeve, and showed me the blood on her hand.
We rushed to the hospital in a panic, only to be told it was her first period…
After her first period, I searched online for what girls should pay attention to. The next day, I went to her classroom with a packet of brown sugar.
Her seat was by the window. She was bent over her homework, a boy beside her asking for help.
She wrote out the solution steps for him, but he still didn’t understand. She flipped through her textbook, found a similar problem, and wrote out a detailed explanation.
The boy scratched his head and gave her a thumbs-up. She pursed her lips and smiled.
At that moment, something inside me twisted.
I thought I was the only one who could make her smile, the only one who could be close to her.
But now I saw that others could make her happy too.
Silently, I turned and left.
For a week, I didn’t go to see her.
I dreamed about her every night—running on the grass with the golden retriever, smiling at me shyly.
I was listless. My mother asked why I wasn’t visiting her. I just said, “We don’t have much in common. She’s just a kid.”
Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I went to the park where she often walked the dog.
She seemed to be looking for something, then sighed and lowered her head. The golden retriever jumped around her happily, and she hugged it, rubbing her face against its fur.
I realized: She’s just a little girl. Why am I competing with her? I should just do what I want.
So I went back to her as if nothing had happened.
I visited her on weekends and at school, sometimes bringing her milk or snacks.
Rumors spread at school that she was my girlfriend. Both our parents ignored the gossip.
Her family stopped hitting and scolding her.
She didn’t like going home and often wandered the streets with the dog after school.
When she started high school, I went off to university.
She boarded at school.
Before the new term, she sent me a message for the first time, asking to treat me to a meal.
I was overjoyed—like throwing a stone into a well and finally hearing an echo.
She still brought the golden retriever.
She ate delicately, with a small appetite.
We often went to the mall to eat and to the park to walk the dog.
I lectured her about high school life, telling her to study hard and aim for the same university as me.
She was smart and didn’t need my advice, but I loved the way she listened, smiling and attentive.
Suddenly, she asked, “Junhao, can you take care of Maomao for me?”
Her voice was so soft, almost lost in the wind.
I was stunned. “You can talk?!”
She nodded, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
I took the golden retriever home.
During high school, she rarely went home. On weekends, she only came to see the dog—standing outside, waiting for me to bring Maomao out.
She started living in the old house left by her grandparents.
Her mother had died when she was three, and her grandparents passed away when she was six.
Like a bird with wings, she flew toward freedom.
I still helped her with homework, walked the dog, and even cooked for her—like a couple.
But when I saw her in the sunlight, her skin almost translucent, I reminded myself: She’s still a child.
Many girls at university chased me, but none of them were her.
My longing for her grew with time. Whether she was with me or not, I missed her.
One day, I waited for her at her house. She was about to take the college entrance exam, and I was leaving the country soon.
From the balcony, I saw a boy following her. Both in school uniforms—a bright, handsome boy and a quiet, beautiful girl.
The boy said something, ruffled her hair, and she went upstairs. He watched her disappear before leaving.
I never knew she was so popular.
I knew boys liked her, but I didn’t realize anyone could touch her hair.
She still didn’t speak in public, as if she were truly mute.
Did she talk to that boy?
I thought I was special.
When she saw me, she called my name.
I asked, “Who was that boy downstairs?”
“A classmate.”
“Your boyfriend?”
She shook her head.
“Then why could he touch your hair?”
She tilted her head. “Because he’s my friend.”
Friend?
“The boy who acted with you in the school play?”
She nodded.
I must have looked terrible, because she seemed uneasy, watching my expression.
“He’s just a friend,” she explained.
“Then what am I?” I stared at her. “Am I just a friend?”
Her face turned red. She twisted her fingers in her clothes and whispered, “I don’t know.”
I took her hand and placed it on my chest.
“I’m your boyfriend. Understand?”
She blushed and nodded.
When she came to France, it was a complete surprise.
We’d planned her graduation trip, but seeing the person beside her, I felt a new sense of danger.
Later, I learned his name: Bai Zhou.
In front of him, I kissed her.
After that, we became an official couple.
She was gentle and obedient.
I didn’t want her talking to other boys, so she didn’t add them on social media.
I didn’t want her in clubs, so she spent her time in the library or on dates with me.
Where I once took care of her, now she accommodated me.
We were happy for a long time.
People who knew her said I’d healed her—she smiled more, even spoke.
After we married, she got a stable job and waited for me every night.
When I came home, she and the old golden retriever would rush to hug me.
But gradually, I started coming home later and later.
My friends became more varied, my nights more chaotic.
Before I knew it, I was rarely home for dinner.
She never complained.
Running a business required socializing, and as a young man, I needed to build connections.
From business dinners to flirtations, to drunken mistakes—it all happened so fast.
At first, I felt regret and guilt.
Then I made excuses: “All men are like this when they’re young.”
I became more reckless.
She grew quieter.
Facing her, I felt more and more burdened.
My past love weighed on me, reminding me of my irresponsibility and selfishness.
I drowned myself in distractions until the woman in my bed was Cheng Xiaoyu.
That night,Xuanxuan died. I didn’t answer her call.
Cheng Xiaoyu was like her, but more passionate.
I sank deeper, but felt even more guilty.
I even convinced myself I didn’t love her anymore.
What was so special about her? She was plain, like an antique vase.
She didn’t understand business, didn’t get modern humor, didn’t follow trends.
Most of all, her gaze judged me.
The things that once drew me to her became reasons I didn’t love her.
I couldn’t face her, couldn’t face my past self, and didn’t want to face our daughter’s illness.
When I was young, I could stand up for her, scold her family.
But after I rescued her, nurtured her, and saw her bloom, I broke her and left her to wither in silence.
After her death, I learned she’d been taking antidepressants since giving birth.
Our family photo album hadn’t been updated in years. Many photos were yellowed from her tears.
I don’t know how she felt when she jumped from the building she feared so much.
She chose a quiet corner, in the early hours, like she always did in life—seeking solitude.
After she died, I realized my love for her had never disappeared.
I just didn’t know when I’d become blind and heartless, lost in my own fog.
If I could go back, I would love her properly.
But when I got that chance, her clear eyes looked at me with unmistakable disgust—as if her gaze were a sword.
I brought this on myself.
Bai Zhou—the doctor who cared for her andmiaomiao—married her.
She got the life she wanted: ordinary, peaceful, and full of love.
Fate gave me a second chance, but she would never trust me again.
My guilt toward her was matched only by my disgust for Cheng Xiaoyu.
Cheng Xiaoyu still tried to climb into my bed.
But the woman I married this time, Sun Jia, was no pushover.
She drove Cheng Xiaoyu out and exposed her at school.
Cheng Xiaoyu begged me for help, crying and saying she was sorry.
But sorry wasn’t enough. Qingyao would never come back.
I didn’t help Cheng Xiaoyu.
Later, I saw her clinging to a paunchy, middle-aged man.
As for me, I repeated my past life: nights out, never coming home, drowning myself in distractions.
This time, no one like Qingyao would wait for me.
One night, I came home in the dark to find a man and woman in my bed—my wife’s revenge.
I felt no anger, only bleak acceptance:
I tarnished a pearl. I don’t deserve happiness. This is my punishment.
End
Chapter 07
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