Lin Xia’s bewilderment

As soon as she got into the taxi, Xie Xitong called. Her voice came through the receiver, full of concern. "Xia Xia, I heard from Auntie that you’re not feeling well. How are you? Do you need to go to the hospital?"

A voice pure and genuine, without a trace of artifice.

A faint warmth rose in Lin Xia’s heart. "I’m fine. I just went to bed late last night. You know how early I usually sleep—my body’s just not used to it. I’ll be fine after a bit of rest."

"Alright then, get some good rest. Don’t overexert yourself. When you’re feeling better, I’ll come see you."

"Mhm. I just want to sleep. Go enjoy your shopping. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of myself."

"Alright, that’s good. I’ll hang up now."

"Bye-bye."

"Bye-bye."

After she hung up, Lin Xia leaned back in the soft seat with her eyes closed, silent.

Shakespeare once said: tabearnattabe′uhatsaqwstian.

At this moment, her heart was tangled in confusion. She had never expected the ordinary, peaceful days of her life to be swept into other people’s conflicts.

Since she was reborn, she’d always had the mindset of an observer at a play. Others were actors on the stage; she alone, silent and serene, her delicate hands untouched by the drama.

Whether it was a fluttering heart or a fleeting attachment, it was but a faint shadow across the tapestry of life.

So, when faced with Chen Zimo, whom she had once secretly admired, she did nothing. When she encountered Jin Ye, for whom she felt a certain fondness, she simply let things take their natural course, following her heart.

Isn’t that what life is? Being born and living on. To live fiercely is one attitude toward existence; to live quietly is no less a profound truth.

To gain, one must first let go.

Facing Chen Zimo, Lin Xia was keenly aware—he would never fall for her.

Eileen Chang once wrote: No matter in the East or West, all those strict codes of propriety were originally meant for women—to make beautiful women harder to get, to make them more valuable. For the less attractive, it was a kind of protection too, sparing them from outright failure. Nowadays, women have lost that protection.

Across the world’s history, societies have long upheld strict moral demands for female chastity, punishing unchaste women harshly, sometimes even with death.

Why is this? It’s the result of collective female complicity—or perhaps it’s divine rationality.

The New Testament, Matthew: “But I say unto you, that whosoever shall put away his wife, saving for the cause of fornication, causeth her to commit adultery: and whosoever shall marry her that is divorced committeth adultery.” Such harsh moral codes were meant to eliminate all extramarital affairs.

But modern women are no longer willing to form alliances.

Confronted with even a moderately outstanding man, it’s as if a plate of braised pork has appeared before them—they rush forward all at once. These women, in devaluing themselves, have only inflated the pride of these young men.

What was once the anxiety of “leftover women” desperate to marry is now shared by all young women. Whenever they encounter an excellent man, they rush to employ every means to ensnare him, to turn him into their prize.

It’s made all outstanding men wary, afraid of being captured at any moment.

Lin Xia had read an article analyzing why so many female celebrities’ marriages to wealthy men end in divorce. According to some, only marriages where the families are of equal social standing can achieve the Pareto optimum. Violating this principle, mathematical models predict, leads to endless conflict and instability.

Being “well-matched” mainly means symmetry of pre-marital assets between both parties. Compared to tycoons, celebrities’ fortunes are negligible. That’s why these marriages are so unstable—there’s hardly an exception.

The disparity in economic status breeds countless problems. Financially dependent on their wealthy husbands, female celebrities are powerless to prevent future infidelity.

This gap, and the “substitution effect” of other women in the circle, are the two fatal flaws of such unions.

Here, the economics of prostitution comes into play.

Why does prostitution exist? It’s a profound economic question. Why do people treat sexual matters as taboo, when animals feel no shame, and humanity itself once had periods of sexual freedom?

In truth, sexual taboos are born of economic necessity. Throughout history, men held most of the wealth, and women could only exchange sex for the material goods they needed.

Thus, sex became a woman’s most precious commodity—her source of clothing, food, and wealth. To keep sex scarce, women set up strict codes, harshly punishing extramarital affairs, so husbands could obtain sex only from their wives, allowing wives to command a higher price.

Now, though, any halfway decent man—especially those with a little money or power—has become a rare commodity. In the face of such scarcity, women are defeated, scattered, scrambling to employ every trick and skill they know.

He has a wife? That’s not a problem. He has children? What man isn’t already married with a family?

To be the other woman? No matter. I don’t need a title, as long as I have a place in his heart, as long as I can have love.

Material desire, masked as love, becomes a weapon to hurt other women.

Who cares how things look ten years from now, when beauty fades? Li Bai’s “Let us drink today, for tomorrow’s sorrow comes tomorrow”—modern women embrace this to the fullest.

Society has become a man’s market. Women are cheapened. They pursue plastic surgery, breast augmentation, bone sculpting, with wild enthusiasm.

Men, treating women like goods, comment and assign prices they deem fair, laughing heartily all the while, yet harboring deep contempt for women.

This is why Zhou Meng is unwilling to give up Xie Xitong. Though he’s young, his instincts have taught him this well ahead of his time.

It’s not every day you meet a woman who not only moves your heart but also has such a strong personality—how could he let go?

How could he bear to?

It’s a universal male flaw: the more unattainable and difficult the woman, the more captivating she becomes.

And if she also belongs to someone else, the allure is only stronger—unless the man in question is obsessively clean, in mind or body.

Otherwise, as in “Red Rose,” the one you can’t have always stirs your heart, while the favored one enjoys reckless indulgence.

Lin Xia felt deeply inferior in front of Chen Zimo, and her response was a kind of pride—she couldn’t bear to seem cheap or lowly before the one she liked.

She understood this culture all too well.

She could play the part, become the woman he liked—aloof, indifferent, or exceptional. Or she could pursue him directly.

But a love you chase—is that truly love?

Back in college, she had a male friend who was courted by a girl. The girl was attractive and accomplished, but because she pursued him, he never agreed, and instead, he chased another girl—one whose credentials were about the same.

Curious, Lin Xia once asked him, “She’s great in every way, and she’s the one pursuing you. Why wouldn’t you say yes?”

She would always remember his reply: “Maybe it’s a guy thing. When someone’s chasing you, there’s no excitement. You know she’ll say yes to anything you do—there’s no challenge.”

See? It’s that simple.

If you don’t respect yourself, who can you blame?

In “A Little Thing Called First Love,” Xiao Shui secretly loves Senior Ah Liang, and for him, she changes herself.

She becomes prettier, more accomplished, so that he notices her and eventually falls for her.

It’s simple—if you want a guy to like you, become a beautiful girl.

At the start, love is all about appearances, for men and women alike. So when the stunning Zhao Xin appeared, and Chen Zimo treated her differently, Lin Xia felt calm.

Everyone loves beauty.

Who sees your character, your values, your soul at first glance?

All stories have their twists. Between Ah Liang and Xiao Shui, there was also another—Senior Ah Tuo—who confessed directly and pursued her, only to be rejected.

Afterward, Ah Tuo told Ah Liang, “Of all the girls I’ve chased, this one hurt the most.”

Why?

Perhaps she wasn’t the most beautiful, nor the one with the best figure, or the cutest personality.

But she was the one he thought he’d end up with, yet couldn’t win.

The one you can’t have is always the best.

Eileen Chang wrote in “Red Rose and White Rose”: Every man has two women in his life—the red rose and the white rose.

If he marries the red rose, over time she becomes a splatter of mosquito blood on the wall, and the white one is still the bright moonlight before the window. If he marries the white rose, she becomes a speck of rice stuck to his shirt, and the red one is the cinnabar mole on his heart.

Based on this, Lin Xia didn’t want to get too close to Chen Zimo.

Even with these fleeting contacts, she’d discovered many sides of him she’d never known before. But these discoveries didn’t bring joy; the more she learned, the more defeated and disappointed she felt.

She had placed him on too high a pedestal.

When she realized he wasn’t the person she’d imagined, the cinnabar mole became no more than a blot of mosquito blood.

So after Zhao Xin appeared, Lin Xia’s feelings for Chen Zimo, though understanding, turned to deeper disappointment.

She felt sorry for Liu Ziqing.

Such a cold and proud woman, giving her heart so truly and passionately, would find it hard to reclaim it.

The boy rides his bamboo horse, circling the bed, playing with green plums.

Yet, even that cannot withstand the allure of flesh and instinct?

But these stories—all of them—were other people’s stage. To her, they were merely passing scenes on her journey.

So what, then, was her place in all this?

At that moment, Lin Xia was lost.

Was the meaning of her rebirth merely to meddle in others’ lives?

Where was her own path, her own direction?