As the sky turned a pale white with dawn, Chu Ke Huan left my apartment.
Before leaving, his eyes fell on the shoehorn placed by Hao Yi’s belongings. He immediately understood its purpose. Without hesitation, he picked it up, his actions swift and unrelenting, like a lawnmower cutting through grass. The ease with which he used it to slip on his polished leather shoes was both casual and startling, as if scattering flower petals after rain.
He returned the shoehorn to its place and embraced me. While my face was buried in his chest, I asked him a series of technical questions: which messaging app we should use to communicate moving forward, the best times to send messages, setting a passcode lock on his phone, and most importantly, deleting all our message history. Chu Ke Huan endured it all until he finally couldn’t hold back and stopped me.
“Don’t arrange these things for me—it makes me feel like a criminal,” he said, frowning.
“You already are,” I replied.
I had once told Chu Ke Huan that we were neither friends nor lovers and that staying strangers was the safest choice. But I had slipped, fallen, and destroyed the ten-year relationship he had built. And so, the only definition left for us was this: accomplices.
As fugitives from love, I didn’t dare think about what his words—“I’ll think about what to do”—actually meant. Nor did I dare consider what I should do next. From realizing my guilt, to resisting it, to finally accepting the darkness of it, and now plotting how to continue this path of sin—it was tearing me apart.
Even though we loved each other, were we truly ready? Could we let go of the people in our lives and embrace one another? And even if we could, could we, having betrayed our partners, truly sustain a long-lasting love? The answers to these questions remained unknown.
And those unknowns were risks.
Chu Ke Huan was a trader, and trading in the financial market requires risk assessment. What was the true risk of our love? How would one calculate the risk premium to ensure a profit? It was entirely possible that by the time the Taiwan stock market opened this morning, the world would have turned upside down, and Chu Ke Huan would forget about “thinking about what to do,” letting life return to normal.
The Brexit referendum had been held over the weekend. Chu Ke Huan and I hadn’t contacted each other since. In the absence of clear communication, I could only stay silent and wait for something new to unfold.
That day, over a million people signed a petition on the UK Parliament’s website, demanding a second referendum on EU membership. The situation felt like a tragic comedy: a couple regretting their breakup the moment it became real. The market was in chaos, out of control. Lost assets and broken trust—just like the damage in love—could never be restored.
I endured two days of this chaotic, masquerading calm. Then, on Sunday night, I received a call from Gao Zi Yuan.
I ignored the first call, but a second, and then a third, followed within minutes. I hesitated. On this Sunday evening, unsure whether Chu Ke Huan was with her, I didn’t dare reach out to him impulsively. But her calls kept coming, relentless, like the night Chu Ke Huan didn’t come home.
“Hello?” On the fifth call, I decided to answer, planning to assess the situation as it unfolded.
“Wei Wei, is it convenient to talk...?” Gao Zi Yuan’s voice sounded like she had just been crying.
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