"Sure," I replied, afraid that saying too much might reveal something. A concerned inquiry about her emotional state caught in my throat, unable to come out. Would this unusual coldness also be seen as a flaw in my facade? My uneasiness grew as I agonized over every detail.
"I had a fight with Ke Huan," Gao Zi Yuan said, her voice so fragile that I could almost picture her tear-streaked face.
At that moment, my mind began to split. It was like watching a poorly synced video, the sound and visuals misaligned. The window reflected my own image back at me, showing my lips speaking “the outwardly kind words” to Gao Zi Yuan. But what echoed in my mind was far from comforting; instead, selfish and venomous thoughts whispered within: “Just a fight? So you haven’t broken up yet?”
"On Friday night, he disappeared for the entire evening. I asked all his friends, and none of them knew where he went."
"What’s the point of asking his friends? Chu Ke Huan and I were never friends," that cold, mocking voice sneered.
"He just said Brexit threw all his trades into chaos, that he was stressed and needed a quiet night in a hotel. If he really was alone, why couldn’t he just tell me? Why did he have to disappear? He’s never done this before... Lately, he’s been so impatient with me. Sometimes I wonder—should I even go through with this marriage?"
"Then—don’t—get—married—at—all!"
"I can’t calm down right now, Wei Wei. I really need a girlfriend’s advice. Do you honestly think he’s not lying to me?"
"I am not your girlfriend!" that inner voice screamed.
In that instant, I realized I could no longer distinguish whether the words leaving my mouth were warm and reassuring or if I had already begun to let my darker thoughts spill out. If I indulged this any further, those malicious impulses would surely take over. I took a deep breath and forced myself to focus on my outward demeanor.
"It’s okay," I said gently. "Sometimes an outsider sees things more clearly. To be honest, you’re the friend I’ve been in touch with the most over the past six months. I remember that night when he drove you home, he got back pretty late. Did you see him texting anyone or receiving any calls?"
"No, but he did kiss someone else," the voice gloated silently.
"I don’t know. He deletes all his messages, so I can’t see them. He suddenly set a password on his phone—he never used to mind me looking. I’m sure he’s seeing someone else! Don’t you think so too?"
The disruptive signals in my head finally began to fade. "Zi Yuan, I really don’t know. Honestly, I’m not that close to either of you. But I don’t think it’s as serious as you’re making it out to be. Maybe you should give it some time, and don’t push him too hard."
Under my soothing words, Gao Zi Yuan gradually calmed down. I think she truly trusted me, which made it all the more tragic that she had been misplacing her trust in the wrong person all along.
If I hadn’t fallen into this murky, inescapable vortex, if there were still a way to turn back, perhaps we wouldn’t have been confidants, but we might have been good friends.
Late into the night, after my call with Gao Zi Yuan, I finally received an apologetic message from Chu Ke Huan. He expressed regret, saying he felt powerless to stop what had happened earlier. Judging by the timestamp, he must have sent it while Gao Zi Yuan was asleep.
Of course, I understood his difficulties. After all, understanding and enduring the resulting grievances were part of the unspoken responsibilities of being accomplices.
Even though Chu Ke Huan disliked the label of “criminal,” the actions of destroying evidence and covering for each other made one thing unmistakably clear: we were accomplices in love. There was no denying it.
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