For most couples, a separation is called a “breakup.” But for couples on the brink of marriage, it’s something much colder, something termed “handling.”
I’ve never liked the word “handling.” Applied to a romantic relationship, it feels clinical and detached. But “breakup” feels too trivial to encompass the gravity of such a bond.
Chu Ke Huan, with his ten years of relationship experience, had an even sharper term for it—“exit,” like pulling out of an investment.
Ending a decade-long relationship is no easy feat.
The years of intertwined relationships, untraceable financial exchanges, daily dependence, and the societal considerations of breaking up when extended families are involved—all these entanglements defy simple definitions like “love” or “feelings.” Such a weighty “relationship” can only be unraveled in stages, each move carefully timed to minimize the damage.
And yet, how was I supposed to end mine?
When I thought about it, there were no jointly purchased properties, no cohabitation, no public announcement of our engagement, and even our families weren’t aware of our plans to marry. The only expenditure related to the wedding so far was the ring. Stripped down, our engagement was just an understanding between the two of us. Technically, breaking up would be as simple as returning the ring—hardly a logistical challenge.
But Hao Yi had just lost his father. Bringing up a breakup now would only deepen his pain. Then again, since our wedding plans had already been postponed before his trip, there was no chance of progress during the mourning period. I decided to stay by his side during this difficult time, fulfilling my duties as a girlfriend. Once his father’s funeral was over, I would find the right time to handle things.
I took leave from work and traveled south to visit Hao Yi’s family home.
As soon as I stepped in, I noticed how much the living room had changed since my last visit. A large photo of Hao Yi’s father was prominently displayed, and his coffin was surrounded by unfamiliar elders. It was the first time I had seen so many guests in this house, yet the atmosphere was chillingly somber.
In the crowd, I spotted Hao Yi’s mother first. Her eyes were swollen and red, her face haggard. The moment she saw me, she rushed forward and embraced me tightly. I wanted to offer my condolences, but my gaze fell on Hao Yi, who was speaking with an elder nearby. His face was worn and devoid of its usual vitality. I stared at his vacant expression and felt the words I had rehearsed to myself earlier freeze in my throat. As Hao Yi’s mother trembled and sobbed in my arms, I was filled with doubt. Faced with such genuine, overwhelming grief, how could I bring myself to deliver yet another blow to this family?
During the mourning period, both Hao Yi and his mother adhered strictly to vegetarian customs. After I paid my respects to Hao Yi’s father, I accompanied them to a vegetarian restaurant for a simple meal.
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