Hao Yi went back to Taiwan.
More precisely, he returned, but I didn’t get to see him right away. Everything happened so suddenly—I had no information about his flight details or the airport where he landed, leaving me unable to meet him. It wasn’t until I received a rare call from a Taiwanese number that night that I learned he was already at his family home in the south. Apparently, he had taken a direct flight from Shanghai to Kaohsiung, effectively avoiding any possibility of seeing me in Taipei.
I could, of course, understand Hao Yi’s urgency to return home. But as his fiancée, with such a significant event unfolding in his family, how could I just stand by like an outsider?
“Are you sure you don’t need me to come and be with you?” I asked over the phone.
“No, it’s fine. Things are chaotic at home right now, and my mom is very emotional. She wouldn’t be in the mood to entertain you.”
“I don’t need anyone to entertain me! I just want to help. You’re the only child in your family, and since I’m going to marry into your family, I want to—”
“Weiwei,” Hao Yi interrupted me.
I instinctively wanted to ask him what was wrong but stopped short, sensing an unusual atmosphere. My intuition told me that whatever he was about to say next would not make me happy.
“I haven’t told my family about our engagement yet,” Hao Yi said, his voice tinged with guilt.
Just as I expected. Why wasn’t I even surprised?
Suppressing my anger took every ounce of effort. I struggled to stay rational, searching for words that wouldn’t escalate into conflict. In the end, silence became the only compromise I could muster.
“This isn’t the right time to bring it up,” Hao Yi continued. “I want to get through my dad’s funeral first and then find a better moment—”
“No need to explain. I understand,” I cut him off, my tone subdued. “If you need help with anything, let me know.”
The moment I hung up, it struck me that Hao Yi’s “return” felt like he had moved even farther away from me. Even though he still included me in his plans for the future, that future never seemed to arrive. The timeline connecting “now” to “the future” felt frozen, unmoving.
Deep down, I wondered—had Hao Yi ever truly seen me as part of his family? I no longer wanted to know the answer.
At that moment, all I wanted was to plan a reckless escape.
That afternoon, before I could figure out how such an escape might unfold, Chu Ke Huan messaged me first. His text was brief: he had something to say but didn’t elaborate, clearly implying we needed to meet in person. In response, I snapped a photo of a rarely visited bar’s business card and sent it to him.
After his read receipt, there was only silence. But I knew he understood—that would be our meeting spot for the evening. Without explicitly agreeing on a time, the unspoken understanding was that we wouldn’t leave without seeing each other. We both knew the rules.
As seasoned fugitives, the fewer traces and details left behind, the safer we’d be. Was it mutual understanding or shared skill as accomplices that made us click so well? I smirked bitterly at the thought, unwilling to dwell on it further. Whatever the answer was, I’d find out tonight.
By the time I arrived at the bar after work, Chu Ke Huan was already seated at the counter, waiting. I walked over, pulled out the stool next to him, and ordered a pint of beer.
“You’re here too? What a coincidence,” Chu Ke Huan said, turning his head to smile at me.
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