Wei Lan said, “An Cheng, will you marry me?”
Gao An Cheng happened to be taking a sip of coffee. It was scalding hot, and a sharp pain stung his tongue. He couldn’t swallow it, nor could he spit it out, so he had to painfully gulp it down. The sensation was as though a sharp knife had gently grazed his throat—it hurt.
Wei Lan burst into laughter, her lips curving like a crescent moon, a faint dimple teasing her left cheek. With a playful tone, she added, “Gao An Cheng, is marrying me really such a terrifying thing?”
An Cheng also laughed. Pulling out his phone, he said, “Can you repeat your proposal? I need to record it as my ringtone.”
Fighting fire with fire—Wei Lan knew in her heart that An Cheng truly loved her. He loved her so much that he indulged her every whim. In her weakest moments, she had cried, and his shoulder had been her unwavering solace. When hurt or faced with the coldness of life, she always turned to him. His phone was always reachable, he always appeared at the right moment, and his pockets always carried tissues with a faint fragrance.
Others couldn’t bear to watch. Fei Cui once said, “Chang Wei Lan, if you don’t want An Cheng, then let him go. Don’t waste the potential of such a fine young man.”
Wei Lan’s eyes immediately turned red as she murmured, “The one who wasted potential is me.”
Frustrated by her stubbornness, Fei Cui tapped her forehead. “Even if you’re as beautiful as a goddess, can you really outlast the relentless passage of time? What kind of spell did Chen Fang Yu cast on you to make you so loyal?” She continued indignantly, “Gao An Cheng is younger and far more promising than Chen Fang Yu. He’s more attentive too—Chen Fang Yu can’t even remember your birthday, but Gao An Cheng gives you gifts and takes you out every year. Gao An Cheng loves you a hundred, a thousand, a million times more than Chen Fang Yu!”
But how can love ever be compared? If it were rational, it wouldn’t be love. In fact, this was something Gao An Cheng himself had once said.
Wei Lan still remembered that one time. Clinging to the window frame, her hair disheveled, she sobbed hysterically, her cries choking in her throat. She screamed at Chen Fang Yu, “If you dare to leave, I’ll jump! Even as a vengeful ghost, I won’t let you go!”
Chen Fang Yu didn’t even look back. The door slammed shut with a loud “Bang!” She was left trembling on the windowsill, drained of all strength, even too weak to cry anymore.
The deeper the love, the less dignity remained. In front of Chen Fang Yu, she always lost everything. Even using her life as leverage only deepened his disgust. Zhang Xiao Xian once said, “The greatest distance in the world isn’t between heaven and earth; it’s standing beside someone who doesn’t know you love them.”
Wei Lan had since realized: the greatest distance isn’t even that—it’s loving someone deeply who doesn’t love you back.
If he doesn’t love you, everything about you is a sin, a flaw, a mistake. Even your breath becomes redundant. If he doesn’t love you, you can never reach him by phone, and he will never show up when you need him. Your tears are invisible to him.
In despair, one turns back. A sliver of warmth becomes a desperate grasp, like a drowning man clutching the last floating log.
In early spring, An Cheng invited her to dinner. He said, “Wei Lan, I’m getting married. Take good care of yourself from now on.” She froze for a moment but quickly smiled and replied, “Congratulations.” She prattled on about his fiancée, gave advice on wedding dresses and honeymoons, and chatted about their mutual friends’ marriages.
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