Those same three words—once, they were like the joyous return of swallows in spring, full of endless possibilities. Now, they were cruel, like being struck down by the autumn wind. She didn’t even get the chance to shed tears in front of him; she quickly changed her phone number. But this city was pitifully small, and after circling around, they met again. She still smiled, calm and composed. There were plenty of good men around, easily enough to save face.
Qiao Chusheng said, “You’re naturally cold-hearted.” In fact, she had a very good temper. She worked as a customer service manager, specializing in dealing with difficult complaints. She had decent relationships with her colleagues, not too many or too few friends, occasionally going out to eat, drink, and have fun. She had been in a few relationships, all of which ended quietly. Qiao Chusheng had known her for too long, his memory stuck in the past, still thinking she was the brash Lin Ziyi from before.
Once, he remarked, “Ziyi, what a great name. Unfortunately, life rarely allows for such freedom.”
He was lounging on the other side of the bar, idly watching the bartender flip bottles with one hand, and casually asked, “You don’t think you live freely enough?”
She smiled evasively, “Unfortunately, I’m an only child. If I had a sister, I would name her Siyi
(Note: Ziyi means ‘freedom’, Siyi means ‘unrestrained’).”
With that one sentence, she neatly sidestepped the topic. Looking back, she truly did seem naturally cold-hearted. As time went on, the more she experienced pain, the more detached she became. Neither advancing nor retreating, neither warm nor cold, neither humble nor proud. She would cautiously extend her feelers, but at the slightest hint of trouble, she would quickly withdraw into her hard shell. Time passed lightly, and there were always others beside him.
On Mid-Autumn Festival, the bar was bustling. It was the perfect time for festive celebration. On the scattered tables, large vases of ginger flowers stood, their delicate stems emitting a faint, cool fragrance. The bright, glittering lights clashed with this subtle detail, which only deepened her feeling of pretentiousness. Even in something as small as this, she had been influenced by Eileen Chang’s (Note: famous Chinese author) aesthetics. She suggested to Qiao Chusheng, “Why not switch to osmanthus? It would fit the occasion better.”
The new apartment was on the ninth floor, growing higher and higher. Soon, the sky would be within reach. On the terrace, the night wind blew, cold as water. She cradled a cup of black tea, looking at the street scene below—the lights like clusters of pearls. Even the best moon seemed dim in comparison. She thought of the lyrics: “Every deep night, somewhere, there is always the deepest longing.” Even when you don’t think about it, it’s hard to forget. In the end, it’s an unresolved yearning.
He and she, it seemed, were betting on stubbornness, or maybe it was simply a shallow connection of fate. Even after all their circling, there remained a one-meter distance between them.
And so, that one meter remained—not too far, not too close, not abandoned, not embraced.
[The End]
0 Comments