An Cheng drove her home. The streetlight outside her building wasn’t working. He turned off the car in the pitch-black night, surrounded by silence. Suddenly, he reached out and held her hand. “Wei Lan, if you say the word, I’ll break up with her right now.”
Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and gradually she could see the light in his eyes, glowing like fire. Slowly, she pulled her hand back, inch by inch. With every inch withdrawn, the light in his eyes dimmed further.
Such cruelty—it was unbearable. Two tears silently rolled down her cheeks and landed on the back of his hand. Those two tears were enough for him to insist on canceling the wedding. His fiancée came to her office and slapped her across the face. Her ears buzzed with the sound. Heaven and hell, she realized, are separated by only a fine line.
Chen Fang Yu’s wedding, however, went on as planned. Wei Lan attended alone. When he saw her, his face turned ghostly pale, as if afraid she’d create a scene straight out of a soap opera. Instead, she smiled, handed him a red envelope, and turned to leave.
At the first traffic light, the taxi stopped. The world outside the window seemed to pause. Amid the exhaust fumes, she sat silently, laughing until she bent over the car window. The driver glanced back nervously but said nothing.
Back home, she rented a 40-episode Korean drama. The love stories on screen were nothing but dramatic, passionate, life-and-death sagas. Discs lay scattered on the floor like tears splashing and forming patterns.
The doorbell rang loudly. Annoyed, she hugged her knees in the corner. The heroine on the TV sobbed, “How can I live without you?”
Love isn’t a necessity. Many live their whole lives without it, yet manage just fine. But when the most precious, tender part of one’s heart is lost, it’s lost forever.
Finally, she opened the door. It was An Cheng, drenched in sweat despite the 23°C spring weather. Seeing her, he seemed to lose composure, his eyes burning fiercely. “What were you doing? Why was your phone off? Why didn’t you open the door? I nearly broke it down!”
Only someone who loves so deeply could be so flustered, so disheveled. She burst into tears, crying like a wronged child seeking solace from her mother. She knew he alone would indulge her this way.
The more indulgent he was, the less she cherished him. Drunk, half-joking, half-teasing, she said, “An Cheng, stay tonight, okay?” He turned his face away, avoiding her gaze. She laughed and leaned in, whispering into his ear, “Gao An Cheng, won’t you say something?” He pushed her away with difficulty, “Wei Lan, you’re drunk.”
Her eyes sparkled like stars as her fingers brushed his soft eyelids. “An Cheng, you’re such a kind and lovable person.” She knew he only wanted three words, but she couldn’t give them. Selfish and cruel, she let him hold on to false hope.
The next morning, he said, “Wei Lan, I love you.” Nonchalantly, she grabbed her phone. “Say it again. I want to record it as my ringtone.”
For the first time, he got angry. He didn’t call her for several days. When she called him, he answered but remained distant, responding only with a faint “Hmm.” Fei Cui taunted her, “Karma finally caught up with you, didn’t it?”
Seasons passed, and their public appearances painted a picture of a happy couple. Yet on a rainy autumn night, driving back from a bar with soft Kitaro melodies playing, she said suddenly, “An Cheng, if you didn’t love me this much, we might have stood a chance.”
He was silent for a moment before replying, “I know.”
Love is a scale. When the weights are uneven, it loses balance, plunging into a bottomless pit.
She was selfish, dragging him down with her. But even in his loss, he remained content.
In the end, it wasn’t about who loved whom more. Even the winner might never find happiness. Heaven turns left, but love always goes right.
[The End]
0 Comments