Love that comes and goes

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-23

When spring arrived, because Ming was unemployed, I opened a restaurant for him, naming it "Coming and Going," a name that evoked the image of our illicit love.

In the once vibrant season, I carefully nurtured this affair. We went to temples together to pray, listened to Christmas bells together, and fervently said "I do" outside the church. No matter how far forever seemed, we promised each other eternity, until the seas dried up and the rocks crumbled…

The scenes in my memory, carrying the sounds of the seasons, began to shift, from one fragment to another, and "Coming and Going" took center stage.

Or perhaps we simply stumbled upon this manor, where large, vermilion characters hung on the high gate: "Coming and Going." This season, and these emotions, carried with them a cacophony of noise and restlessness, a sense of unease.

Before nightfall, my heart was already as calm as still water. This place was but a fleeting moment in the mortal world. Everyone is a passerby in each other's lives; there is no time to create eternity. Let us smile, for this blessing earned only once in a hundred years. And then, we brushed past each other, without a sound. In the quiet pavilion, there lies such a place. Ming stands beneath the greenery, her smile radiant, bathed in sunlight. Fate, guided by time, has tossed Ming and me before us. To pick it up? Or to avoid it?

At night, I listen to the wind rustling the leaves, leaning against the window to gaze at the bright, clear moon. Standing by the window, my eyes can no longer see the flowing moonlight, only Ming's sun-drenched shadow; my ears can no longer hear the bustling traffic below, only Ming's deep voice: "We are together." We

finally met. Will it be in such tranquil comings and goings?

I hold onto the shadows of the past, weaving them into a strong, resilient rope, to use as a knot for recording memories in my solitary days.

If, in the days of departure, will Ming yearn for the things placed in their original positions, that familiar feeling, as if a pair of warm hands have embraced life tightly, leaving no gaps? Until tears well up, and I weep silently. Those moments should hold the memories of the entire world.

Sunlight streams through the window, playfully dancing in many corners of the room, but the only thing missing is tea. Can a night's worth of bitter tea tell of a lifetime of vicissitudes? Are we all a group of persistent and unrepentant people, destined for a life of wandering? Only after profound enlightenment, after experiencing great love and hate, can we reach such a conclusion—that is not us. We are merely a weak group, adrift in our own loves and hates, unable to transcend. Panic fills our eyes. Fate is like that leftover tea, lingering in our hearts. No one will ever again be able to stealthily pour a pure heart into my teapot like Ming did.

This is a game, the outcome predetermined in the flow of time.

Many years later, as my fingers run through my hair, I, with an aged face, tell Ming a story of romance and fleeting beauty. Will Ming smile? Then, gazing at the marks of time on my face, I will recount the comings and goings of that year, without plot, only the protagonist. I yearn for a promise of forever, traversing the city's lingering lights, my thoughts drifting back to that kiss from years past. Those were merely vows made on a ferryboat of longing, drenched by the rains of life. Drifting is an excuse; none of us truly comforted our fragile hearts. We can only let the rain and wind batter us, witnessing the vicissitudes of life. Even May holds an unconcealable chill. Walking alone, the night road is nothing more than a winding path of the heart, revealing tender secrets, casting them aside to mock the city's beauty. We are all but mortals; how can we alter our desires and ambitions?

And so, in the changing seasons, I vaguely awaken from my dream. In my hazy vision, the clear water still ripples, echoing the comings and goings of that year.

My heart refuses to clear; how can the expectations of those comings and goings ever come true?

Time continues to tell the story of bygone years. In the crystal vase at the bar, clusters of delicate lilies, surrounded by countless stars, bloom quietly, a stark reminder of the arguments, persistence, and indifference that Ming and I shared years ago.

"I will never hurt you."

Only when the blade of the knife sliced three lines into my wrist, and bright red blood began to seep out, did I remember Ming's words.

For an entire day, I went nowhere, curled up in front of the computer, listening to music that sounded like it was cut off, foolishly playing games. I was tired, emotionally exhausted.

Thinking back to last night, the room was filled with an ambiguous atmosphere. In Ming's eyes, there were things I didn't understand.

"Is something wrong?" I looked at him almost shyly, because I was nestled naked in his arms.

"I want to go to Hefei these next few days, there's something I need to take care of," Ming said.

I don't know why, but the atmosphere was tense, as if the air in the whole room had solidified.

"Why? Do you really have to go?" No… I hadn’t finished my sentence, because I was in a good mood today, and this topic should be discussed another day…

—Okay, I won’t go then.

I looked at Ming, and suddenly felt a great distance between us. I knew Ming was going to meet his online girlfriend again.

In the end, Ming gave me a lie and still went. For three days and two nights, I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t face myself; a sour feeling of lemons welled up inside me!

I woke up in the middle of the night to find my pillow wet. Then I couldn’t fall back asleep, constantly sending text messages and dialing familiar numbers, only to hear “Sorry, the number you dialed is not in service.” I held my phone until dawn. I didn’t want to go out, didn’t want to see anyone. I was left alone, crying uncontrollably in bed. I knew Ming had finally gone.

Ming’s lie had stranded his once caring words in the past. How could I possibly resist the entanglement of this loneliness? Ming would never know the hurt he caused me, the hurt that I could never let go of.

I used to stubbornly cling to a landscape others couldn't understand, touting human civilization and trying to appear elegant and composed. But as I walked along, I realized many things I experienced contradicted civilization. The word "decadent" began to erode me, and by the time I awoke, tears were streaming down my face.

Sitting alone in a corner of a teahouse, I smoked, each puff more forceful than the last. When smoking becomes a habit, it's hard to break. Exhaling smoke rings, filling my vision, I just wanted to find release with them. What I held onto was a hopeless love, a hopeless wait! Like a faint cigarette, even now I don't know if this feeling is love, or some other kind of love, because it seems to be just my unrequited love, a cigarette that never burns out!

Perhaps love is as irrational as a cigarette. Even though the cigarette pack clearly says "Smoking is harmful to your health," I still love it! It makes people only tolerate and compromise for those they love, while being cold and hurtful to those who love them. The world of fame may be rich and colorful, but I don't know what role I play in it, whether my shadow exists in the sight of fame, or even in the heart of fame. It seems that my presence or absence is unimportant, yet fame holds an irreplaceable place in my heart. My deep affection can only guard the silhouette of fame, just as the smoke swirls from my fingertips every day.

It's not that I only realize I'm smoking when I'm crying, but that I only realize I'm crying when I'm smoking. Sigh, this smoke stings my eyes. Only smoking can stop me from crying out loud. It's so hard to leave behind the heart that misses fame. Perhaps loving fame is my complicated mistake, but I heard fame say they're not afraid of mistakes. If they're not afraid, then what am I afraid of? I love, and that's it. I don't need any title, I only need to love your soul!

For me, smoke is a kind of spirit. The higher the smoke rises, the harder my heart falls; just as the deeper the love, the deeper the hurt. There is no deep love, no deep pain. Plain and simple, plain and simple. Perhaps we are all shrouded in the shadows of life, perhaps we are all emotional cowards, unable to withstand the onslaught of storms... It's as if the tar from cigarettes is corroding my lungs!

Unable to let go of the shattered dream, I search and search, guarding only the memories of love. Between advancing and retreating, it is always the heart that gets hurt. I don't want to be hurt, and I especially don't want to hurt Ming's heart! I want the smoke from my fingertips to carry my longing and anticipation for Ming, to tell Ming how much I miss her… The smoke tells Ming not to say love is bitter, not to say love is tiring, you'll understand once you've loved.

Does Ming understand? These are my words for you to decide. Because I don't have the courage to tell Ming, only my beloved "smoke" tells you, hoping that when Ming makes her decision, the smoke from my fingertips will no longer swirl, leaving only the germ-free ash to sleep peacefully! The wind outside the window seems never to stop, and the cigarette in my hand is like you, eternally burning! Looking at my hand—smoke swirling from my fingertips—my heart is also soaring. Perhaps I will be lost in the smoke, perhaps I will slowly fall asleep, only the smoke from my fingertips swirling in my dreams… After experiencing some complicated things, I want to stop. To live a life called peace, to enjoy the happiness of being alone. Perhaps it will erode all my individuality, perhaps I will be submerged, but I must change my lifestyle, change my mindset. But I can't do it.

Alone, I emerge from the teahouse, facing a torrent of cars. Those cars, big or small, new or old, expensive or cheap, all roam driven by male hormones. The whole city is nothing more than a toilet, and people are merely tadpoles struggling within it, their minds castrated. I remember once applying the last drop of perfume to my wrist before leaving home, casually tossing an empty bottle aside, leaving with nothing in my hand. I didn't even notice the way I threw it.

A sense of loneliness hidden behind the clamor instantly transforms into sorrow. I never want to be like this, yet I always am.

—I hate this noise! I tell myself.

So I walk into a quiet alley, where there is not only quiet, but also desolation. But, dizzy, I find nothing. But I know that amidst the noise, I still yearn for the tranquility that solitude brings when I'm alone; now, in some cold corner of this city, I can freely and silently savor solitude.

Quiet.

Cold.

I finally understand that I am actually an addict, a lonely addict, an addict who craves loneliness. When the urge strikes, I crave solitude like an ecstasy; but after enjoying the pleasure it brings, I condemn it for devouring my soul.

The night is deep, but my mood is worse. I lazily stare at the computer, suddenly feeling very depressed. I'm a little tired, but I don't want to sleep. I wander in the not-so-empty internet. I play games, play about intimacy, then play about right and wrong; I play about emotions, play about insomnia, then play about alienation; I play about strength, then play about humility; I play about time, play about experiences, then play about age; I play about legends, play about death, then play about separation. I'm wearing headphones but can't find the songs I want to listen to. I've entered a chat room, but can't find anyone to chat with. I'm not chatting, I'm not typing, but my shoulder is inexplicably aching, a pain without reason, a pain that feels like it's tearing my bones apart. Suddenly, I realize how sensible, how gentle, how understanding I am. But if there were a knife in front of me right now, a knife that can kill, and if there were someone standing in front of me, someone who hasn't been killed yet, I would raise that knife without hesitation and kill him. I would definitely kill him. I hope that this person, this person standing in front of me who hasn't been killed yet, is Ming. I wonder if Ming would be willing to be killed by me? I wonder if Ming would be willing to die for me? I wonder if Ming would be willing to fly to heaven with my knife rising and falling? I know Ming wouldn't be willing, I know Ming wouldn't be willing at all, because Ming doesn't love me. Why doesn't Ming love me? I'm so good, so obedient. I can raise a knife that I've never dared to raise before, and never wanted to raise, just to kill Ming. It's all for Ming, all for Ming, for Ming. I won't forget the lies Ming told, I still believe the lies Ming told. A single sentence from before: "I really like you." Because of this casual sentence, I was naively dizzy for days. I threw many important things in my life into immature naiveté, neglecting what I should care about. Many aspects of life were abandoned in the realm of immaturity, even while trying to control maturity. I even treated it as the core of my thinking, the very soul upon which it depended, its support, wasting precious time on ethereal, intangible emotions, indulging in illusions, and finding endless pleasure in it.

I sit alone, bend down to pick up the leftover wine from last night, and take a couple of sips. The computer desk is as messy and quiet as ever. My phone hasn't rung; the scent of lemon tea has long since faded, only the smoke from the cigarette lying askew in the ashtray wafts through the air. I log onto QQ, still frozen, just staring blankly at the lonely avatar, speechless.

Depressed and alone, I quietly savor the taste of decadence. Liquor is the essence of grains, pale in color like water, strong in flavor like fire. The headphones blare with unrestrained power, the room is shrouded in a somber silence, outside the window the night rain falls softly, my mood remains desolate. On the dark green glass vessel, the scarlet label bears the stark white characters for "Erguotou," the dark brown indicating 56 proof. It's bathed in a thin, soft glow from the light, yet its body remains unknowingly cold.

Gradually, hallucinations begin. Hallucinations are a blend of reality and dreams, like a mirror image in a distant place, yet seemingly close enough to be adjusted to fit within reach. In the narrow space between drunkenness and sobriety, I see the joys and sorrows of many promises.

Liquor, I like to get drunk alone, that's alcoholism. The body is merely a decaying shell, thoughts drift freely on the wind, carrying a touch of glamorous hypocrisy, adorned with a feigned profundity. The bottle in my hand is as soft as skin, so soft that I don't even want to utter a single unnecessary word. The dust-covered hands of my watch had long since stopped, the date on the dial frozen at some year and month. I longed to turn it again, but I couldn't…

My emotions were unstable, bordering on irritability and impatience. Alcohol seemed to be my only solace. I didn't want to speak, didn't want to explain, and didn't want to listen to nagging. Words were superfluous to me; I'd rather be sentimental in the hazy, drunken words.

Finally, on the third evening, I dialed the number, feigning calmness as I asked where Ming was. Ming was still telling lies. My gaze ached in the sunset. Though I wanted to cry, at least I wouldn't in a crowded place. The happiness I once felt vanished in the blink of an eye. It had clearly appeared, yet I couldn't find it; what I saw had disappeared, leaving only a longing gaze and an empty soul.

I stubbornly told Ming I was waiting for him at the station. The half-truth, half-false reproach stung my sensitive heart. No explanation could fully express the feeling of being deceived.

I wonder if the sky above where Ming went is filled with stars; I wonder if the city where Ming went is dazzling with neon lights; I wonder if Ming and she are nestled together in the mesmerizing night… But in Ming's heart right now, is there any trace of me?

What is it that makes my eyes sting? It's not the past, not the pain, just a faint loneliness, a lingering longing. I long for Ming in the distance, but has Ming ever longed for me in this way? My thoughts are stranded on the traces of tears, the fear of darkness, the bewilderment of silence. Alcohol, at its end, has lost its flavor, its rich aroma gone, like plain water. Perhaps it's like love as well.

I no longer want to dwell on who was right or wrong, nor do I want to bring up any grudges. Only after going through it all did I realize what is precious, what should be given up, what cannot be forgotten, and what cannot be waited for… Time has slipped away so quickly, leaving me only with hazy, dreamlike memories, and so many long days ahead, all alone before me. I cannot refuse, nor can I escape; I can only numbly grit my teeth and keep going!

Memories are endless. They hide within the body like incubating germs, thickly covered by the realities of life. But you can never truly forget; they always enter your first thought.

I don't know why. Every time, he said he would never contact her again. So real. It moved me, brought tears to my eyes. But the pain remained. I couldn't accept it all at once. I couldn't. However, in my struggles, I slowly softened. I was ready to accept it. I can't forget the beauty of the past. Such a good confidant. But he turned away, discarding it all. Withdrew. He was deceiving me, but I dared not think about it. He turned his back, and behind him lay oblivion…

Was the past just a shooting star? Its perfect arc abruptly ended halfway, then silently fell to the ground, without a loud bang, without smoke, without the whirlpools and churning bubbles of a sinking ship. Like those shooting stars that cannot penetrate the atmosphere to reach the ground, it left only a brief, bright trail before disappearing silently into the darkness.

It turns out that many people still have to leave, in one's life.

Actually, I so wanted to tell Ming that I always cared about him. Saying it didn't matter was just to avoid further pain for myself. But Ming never understood. I wanted to slap him, but I didn't know whether to slap Ming or myself. I still have my pride; even if I'm not as good as anyone else, you can't really hurt me.

However, in the days that followed, fear and unease followed. I felt a strong sense of hope while also avoiding slight disappointment; all the beautiful fantasies were cloaked in the ugly guise of reality. Because I opened a restaurant, I had to give up the tranquility of hotels and restaurants and venture into dirty markets; I had to abandon the fashionable boutiques of department stores and occasionally rummage through groups of middle-aged women for clearance items…

Looking back, the nearly 100,000 yuan I had gradually taken from my family was all gone. I knew I could no longer support a romantic daily life. This was the truth that reality had quietly taught me. We no longer went to restaurants and nightclubs in groups of three or five, and we rarely went to the teahouses we used to frequent. We gradually stopped holding hands and walking along the stone path by the city river, even though it was free. We had both silently avoided these topics. I sensed the subtle changes between us. Ming started spending time in internet cafes again, longing to meet female netizens. I gradually felt terrified and lost. Although we still worked hard together for the restaurant every day, we ate in silence every day, awkwardly speechless. Although life was just as tough when the restaurant first opened, we were full of confidence and hope for the future. Back then, although business at the restaurant was slow, we could still nestle by the window, quietly watching the twinkling stars in the sky, the people and cars coming and going on the ground… Each scene was once so warm and tender, but now it's all blurred. When did we forget romance and dreams? The only thing left was my endless arguments about the constantly changing women in his life.

I always wanted to tell Ming that I didn't need a luxurious life; I was willing to be a woman in his life, to fill our lives with laughter again. As long as Ming had me in his heart, I would be content.

We were indeed exhausted under the weight of life, but why did our feelings wither away with the passing of time? Ming's familiar, warm, and strong hands hadn't held mine tightly in so long. A deep sorrow welled up inside me. I could only stare blankly at Ming, tears welling in my eyes. I wanted to tell him: I no longer care how you treat me, whether you respect me or not; I no longer care how many women you have. As long as you're sometimes by my side, I'll live each day as if it were a thousand years. A person's life doesn't last ten thousand years, but you've been by my side for far more than a few thousand years, and I'm content.

But now, I truly feel us drifting apart. When we sit facing each other, the air almost freezes; our conversations often falter, like a river in winter gradually weakening until it dries up. I try to maintain this ambiguous relationship, but the days are so mundane they're unsettling. I endure the hardship, helplessly waiting for the same sunrise and sunset each day. The days pass by obscurely, and our relationship has stagnated.

I'm powerless to pack my bags, powerless to desert my feelings, powerless to say goodbye, powerless to face his haggard face and the unintentional hurt we've caused each other. Recalling our familiar words from the past compels me to try and salvage our doomed relationship. We once loved so sincerely, but the wings of love were too delicate and fragile, so I ultimately fell to the ground, bruised and battered.

Perhaps those past hurts were just a missed opportunity for beauty. I no longer pray for tomorrow; I'll treat today as if it were ten thousand years.

Fate arrives so suddenly, and departs so silently. Actually, some things, once experienced, are enough… I say this because I am powerless.

My heart is weary, and I choose to give up.

The resilience I've always pretended to have finally crumbled. I've decided to live alone.

I stand on the most beautiful Gulou Bridge in this city, and I see them calling me, telling me not to, telling me to come back. I say, do you know, I never want to experience winter again, never want to hear the snow outside the church at Christmas again. I love fame, I want fame. I leave, for him. Never looking back. I climb to the edge of the bridge, the wind blowing my hair. I look down at this city. For the first time in so many years, I see its beauty shattered. I smile. I see fame, beckoning to me at the end of the darkness, wanting to take me away. I only hear my silent murmur: I no longer want to live for you. You didn't come to find me, not even in my dreams. So, I will come to find you, to our next life, to find you, to find you, to find you, and we will never be apart again.

I opened my arms, and under the starlit sky, I saw myself as a fleeting butterfly, fluttering my blue wings, dancing gracefully above the city…

The room grew lifeless; I lay on the bed, unable to move. The cold was proof that I was still alive. At times like this, I would light a cigarette by my bedside. But this time, it wouldn't work; my lungs could no longer crave the pleasure a cigarette could provide. My body grew colder, and even wrapped tightly in the blankets, it was no use. I began to crave warmth.

The clock ticked, the air thinned. The strain on my lungs couldn't allow me to absorb even a drop of oxygen in this thin air. I began to struggle, no longer needing warmth. The cigarette and the blanket slipped to the floor. This process was brief, yet it was the most painful struggle of my life. Finally, my heartbeat and breathing stopped simultaneously, but my mind continued to function. In that instant, I saw a bright spot, a name beckoning to me, then vanished, leaving only darkness. Life is so fragile!

My soul broke free from my shell, bidding a brief farewell kiss. Then, holding a candle, I searched for the paradise that my body had long bound and could not find. Many paths lay before me, with no clear choice. The candle had a dent; it burned to the very end, yet the path remained obscured. My soul began to feel its hands burning, but I could not give up; only with the candle could I see the way. Finally, my hands were ablaze, an excruciating pain, yet this was the necessary process, all for that longed-for paradise. Soon after, my soul was engulfed in flames, scattered and gone, leaving only a wisp of smoke.

People continued to smoke, people continued to have warmth, people continued to sleep in their beds, but I lost everything.

Having experienced such a brush with death, only my husband remained by my side.

"I want a divorce." I uttered these words, each one distinct.

"If you believe he can bring you happiness, I will let go.

" "No, Ming and I have already broken up.

" "Then let's not talk about the past anymore. I'm not trying to claim nobility, but because I love you, I don't care."

—No, because you're a man too. I'm sorry, divorce is fairer to you.

—If you feel sorry for me, then make it up to me by being good to me for the rest of your life.

—No, because of your kindness, I feel guilty and can't do it.

—You've always been so willful. I promise you, if you feel tired, come back. I'll always be here waiting for you.

I exchanged an agreement to give up all my assets for a green certificate. From then on, I had nothing.

Because I couldn't afford to leave for another place for the time being, I still lived in my old home, but now I slept in separate rooms. Every day I began to wander aimlessly in Fengming, perhaps because it was a place I visited every day. I couldn't help but recall the beautiful times of the past.

One late night, my husband (though we're divorced, I still call him that) perhaps had drunk a lot. He suddenly burst into my room, grabbed me as I stared blankly at the computer, and kissed me passionately. I knew what he wanted to do. It wasn't that I didn't want to—after all, we had been married for thirteen years—but I really didn't want to. I struggled and begged if we could do it another day. But my husband continued to tear at my clothes, causing me great pain; I felt multiple bruises on my body. Amidst my endless tears, he finished and returned to his room.

Tears streaming down my face, I stared at the screen and suddenly had an impulse: to throw myself into a strange place and give myself to strangers. I

set up an auto-reply on QQ: "Currently, I'm an ordinary divorced woman with no money, no looks, no job. Do you want me?"

Then I stared blankly at the screen, watching the barrage of "I want you~ I want you~" messages. I didn't know if I felt satisfied or disappointed, venting or comforting, trying to become more clear-headed or more numb. A wave of loneliness and helplessness washed over me.

Finally, I said to one profile picture:

"I want to see you."

"—Do you know if I'm a good person or a bad person? Aren't you afraid I'll sell you off?"

"—It doesn't matter anymore. I only have a few hundred yuan and two cell phones. I've already gone to heaven. My life is superfluous to me. "

"—Why don't you ask who I am or what I do?"

"—I don't want to ask, because I have no intention of getting entangled."

"—I promise you."

The next day, I woke up to a blindingly bright sunbeam outside the window. I chose a beige V-neck wool sweater, a matching beige plaid skirt, and brown suede ankle boots. I curled up under a beige shawl and got on the bus, letting my long hair obscure my face in the wind. I didn't want to see the direction; I just wanted to throw myself into a strange place and entrust myself to a stranger. As long as he could see me, I would live for him for one day.

After more than four hours of bumpy travel, I arrived in this unfamiliar city. In the cold wind, I couldn't help but tighten the shawl around myself, not knowing if it was the cold weather or my heart that was cold. After settling into the hotel, I sent him my room number via mobile phone. I stared blankly at myself in the mirror, knowing I possessed a somewhat neurotic elegance, always trying to appear composed. I possess an innate sensitivity to emotions, and an incurable attachment and longing for the care and affection of my beloved. But today, I'm leaving myself in an unfamiliar place with a stranger. I silently promised myself that if he comes to see me, I'll spend the day for him, no matter who he is.

Amidst anticipation and anxiety, the doorbell rang. After a moment's hesitation, I opened the door, somewhat flustered and unable to look at him, yet I could sense his composure and refinement. I stammered,

"I'm sorry, my impulsiveness has disturbed you."

"It's alright, it's just a bit sudden. I've never met you online before; you're my premiere!"

His teasing tone eased my tension considerably.

"You must be tired from the long drive?

" "Not really.

" "Are you hungry? Let's go eat."

I obediently followed him to the restaurant, though my mind was completely blank. I only vaguely remember him ordering a lot of dishes and opening a bottle of red wine. We talked a lot during the meal. I told him my story with Ming, the ending of my marriage, and my reasons for doing what I did. Surprisingly, he exclaimed that I was a foolish woman. A few days ago, when I was telling Zhuzhu (a chatbot I met at Fengming) and a few other chat friends on QQ about everything, they all gave me three words after listening: "Stupid woman." I was speechless. But I always felt that even if I was foolish, I was real.

After dinner, we went back to the room.

"You must be tired too, get some rest. I should go too. "

I was a little taken aback.

"Can you wait a bit? Just a little while?"

I wanted to keep my promise.

"I don't want to. I respect you, silly woman.

" "It's my choice."

I sat on his lap, nestled close to him, a little flustered. In the dim light, I slowly kissed him. He began to touch me, his warm hands moving from my waist to gently unbuttoning my clothes, kneading my breasts, burying his head in my chest. I felt him suckling my breasts, lightly but soothingly. He lifted me and placed me on the bed. My long hair hung low as I took off my wool skirt and sweater, removed my pantyhose, and completely surrendered myself to him, naked. I pressed my body against him, letting his hands gently roam over me. When he touched me, I couldn't help but moan softly and feel my body tremble slightly in his arms. He gently pressed me down beneath him. He slid his penis into my body, and with each thrust, the long-suppressed restlessness within me burst into a cry of pleasure. He then lifted my legs to allow his restless penis to make even closer contact with me inside. After a few thrusts, he flipped me over, making me kneel on the edge of the bed, and then entered me from behind. With each thrust and impact, I felt an unusual wetness inside me. Overwhelmed by pleasure, I couldn't control my moans. As he increased his speed, I reached the peak of my ecstasy… He hurriedly began to dress, and

I vaguely sensed a heavy weight in his heart—a sense of responsibility towards his family. I murmured to him, “I didn't ask where you came from, I didn't ask your name, I just wanted to put your mind at ease. I didn't intend to entangle you with this; it's just that my sudden change in circumstances made me want to leave myself in a strange place and entrust myself to strangers once.

—Forgive me for not being able to stay with you here; you should rest early.

” —Go home quickly, I'll be fine on my own.

I remained curled up naked in the corner of the bed, my hair disheveled and hanging low. He lovingly covered me with the blanket, and I gently kissed his cheek. He patted my face and said, "Silly woman."

Some things are just fragments—beautiful fragments, fragile fragments, neurotic fragments—never the whole story.

He left, and I remained curled up there, lighting a cigarette. The surroundings felt like a tomb, and the faint smoke instantly enveloped me, making me slightly tipsy. My thoughts slowly unfolded and spread in this tranquil and serene atmosphere, then devoured my body. And so, I became a cloud of mist, a cloud of mist filling every corner of the room! I haven't felt this way in a long time. The empty room, the empty heart—a wisp of sorrow and resentment, so distant, a jumble of unresolved anxieties, lingering thoughts, unresolved emotions—all these things, in varying degrees, assail me now, catching me off guard… I don't know how to face this unfamiliar version of myself.

Last night, around 3 AM—no, it should be 3 AM this morning—I was exhausted from thinking about my willfulness, my guilt towards him, and the harm I'd caused his family before finally lying down to sleep. But in my hazy sleep, I had nightmares about him. In the deep darkness, I seemed to see him looking at me with indulgent laughter. Just as I opened my arms, suddenly a woman's angry face loomed over me, shouting sharply, "Shameless woman, give me back my husband!" I was terrified, breaking out in a cold sweat. "No, no, no, no, no!" Why did I shout that? I wanted to say that I didn't actually steal your husband, I didn't want to and wouldn't do it. Please believe me, really. But the woman's voice kept echoing in my mind. Shameless woman, give me back my husband! I woke up with a start, muttering to myself, "I'm a bad woman, a really bad woman. I wanted to throw myself into a strange place and entrust myself to strangers for a day, but I unintentionally hurt someone else's family." Tears streamed down my face.

I drifted back to sleep, but suddenly heard my phone ring. I turned over and grabbed it to look, but there were no messages. The text message tone was also from my dream. I laughed in horror. In my dream, I didn't know who I was hoping for a message from. I didn't know, I really didn't know.

Zhang Yizhi said that happiness is fleeting and accidental, which is why it is so grand and precious! But once it becomes a habit, you will eventually overlook its taste. Is this true? Is happiness a fragile soap bubble floating in the air, ethereal and unapproachable, which is its beauty? What kind of face is hidden under that Kunlun slave's mask? I raised my hand to lift it, hoping to see Xue Shao, with whom I could stay forever, but there was no one. I cried out, because under the mask, I saw myself covered in wounds!

I could no longer fall asleep. I stood by the window, leaning lazily against the railing like a cat, lighting a cigarette as usual, overlooking the silent city at dawn. My heart was suddenly jolted, fragments of memories crashing against me disorderly. I just leaned on it, leaned on it... The warmth on my right index finger brought me back to reality. A cold wind gently brushed past, leaving my face feeling wet. I stubbed out the cigarette, turned around to wash my face, letting the water soak through my hair, face, and neck.

As dawn broke, I finished washing up and went to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. When the waitress brought me rice porridge and tea eggs, a wave of sadness washed over me. I remembered how, every time I ate breakfast at the hotel, she would peel tea eggs for me, knowing I liked the yolks, she would carefully peel them and gently place them in my porridge bowl. Now, alone in a strange city, sitting forlornly in the hotel restaurant, facing this scene, tears streamed down my face as I fled back to my room amidst the strange looks of those around me.

The nightmares of the night and the poignant scene of this morning made it impossible for me to stay any longer. I hurriedly packed my things, checked out, and braved the biting wind, huddled in my shawl, boarding the long-distance bus. Humans aren't plants or trees; how could we be without feelings? I hate this restless heart, hate its purity and frivolity, its frankness and harshness, its gentleness like soft water, its strength like iron, hate that our fate is sealed in this life… The

song "Ten Years" by Eason Chan drifted from the bus: "

If those two words hadn't trembled,

I wouldn't have realized how much I was hurting. No matter how I

say it, it's just a breakup.

If there are no expectations for tomorrow,

holding hands is like a trip.

Of the thousands of doorways, someone always has to leave first

. Since we can't stay,

why

not enjoy the moment while shedding tears?"

Ten years ago,

I didn't know you; you didn't belong to me.

We were still the same, walking side-by-side as strangers,

gradually becoming familiar with each other's streets.

Ten years later,

we are friends; we can still greet each other

, but that tenderness is gone, and there's no reason to embrace anymore

. Lovers inevitably become friends in the end. Only

after being friends with you for many years

did I understand that my tears

weren't just for you, but also for others.

The bus carried me, tears streaming down my face, out of the station…

I'm probably a picky person. I have countless flaws myself, yet I can't tolerate the same flaws in others. I pay special attention to feelings; once the feeling is bad, even the most precious friendship can be abandoned. I'm somewhat incomprehensibly selfish and narrow-minded.

Since returning from the unfamiliar city the day before yesterday, I've been staring blankly at the screen. Although my mind is clear and I'm consciously breathing, my face is enveloped in invisible radiation from the computer screen's dim blue light, yet I'm completely unaware. My body is tired, or perhaps my mind is tired; I want to shut myself off, indulging in impulsive whims and wanton decadence. I want a warm bed, to hug my pillow and have a good sleep, but I don't want to rest at all. Online, with QQ open, there's no clear goal, no beginning, and no end. Beside the computer, there's nothing but cola. Almost gone. I desperately drink this sweet beverage, trying to dilute the bitterness I've encountered in life. My Marlborough is just a beautifully torn shell, a pile of cigarette butts, lying comfortably beside the computer. The room is filled with a faint smell of tobacco. I like to sit in front of the computer in my pajamas, legs crossed, hair disheveled. My hair is draped over my shoulders. It's been a long time since I've been to the hair salon. I haven't found a reason yet to cut off this head of hair filled with expectation and longing. In this fickle world, will I be able to find something permanent in the new century? Besides, I love long hair now, I love it so much. In the game of love, I've been battered and bruised. If I were selfish, I could have escaped unscathed. In this materialistic age, our hearts are filled with restlessness. And who can truly make me settle down and have a serious relationship? If I could do it all over again, I would still say to him, word by word, on a snowy night: Let's go listen to the snow together. I thought I wasn't frivolous, but I'm falling into depravity.

The QQ avatar is flashing:

—You didn't go online yesterday because you went to a strange city?

—Yes

—You shouldn't degrade yourself like this

—No, it was my own choice.

—I originally wanted to invite you to my place, but I was too embarrassed to say it.

—Hehe~ You're still a child, don't overthink it.

—I'm not a child anymore, I'm telling the truth.

"It's not worth doing this for a penniless stranger."

"I'm willing."

Speechless, moved, I grabbed a shawl and boarded the bus. Gazing at the passing scenery outside the window, a deep, subtle sadness lurked in my heart. My already wounded heart no longer cared about the extent of suffering. I once thought the pain was gone, that my world was now sunny. But after the chaos and desolation, struggling to open my eyes, I discovered that shadows lingered behind the bright sunshine. I realized the pain was still there, just transformed. Yes, yesterday was still there, yesterday's story was still playing out in my heart, only now with added self-punishment and hurt. Facing reality and sunshine, a darkness crept into my heart. Was it betrayal? Or the beginning of another kind of hurt? My heart felt a little lost. Without realizing it, a shadow welled up in my eyes, a sadness, a sorrow, a helplessness. I couldn't face yesterday, I couldn't escape yesterday, I couldn't face those tears of yesterday hidden deep within my heart.

Speechless, speechless…

More than two hours later, I arrived in another city and texted him to let him know I had arrived and that I was waiting for him at the McDonald's entrance in the station square. I didn't want to book a room in a strange city and wait for a strange man again. I wanted to relive our encounter, to feel romantic care, not just sex for the sake of sex. In the dimly lit square, I counted my shadow under the streetlights. The lights shining from different directions divided it into several parts, as if they were different facets of life—sorrow and joy, separation and reunion. A cold wind blew, and even leaves fell, lying in front of me. In the hazy light, they were the same green as the lush leaves of the day, as if telling me that falling doesn't choose its color. I still couldn't stop counting the lights in the square, as if counting the cycles of life, the joys and sorrows, the separations and reunions; but in fact, life cannot be reincarnated, only the same birth and death can be reincarnated. I wanted to see through the constant flashing of the lights how humanity faces various changes amidst joys and sorrows, separations and reunions, and how life moves forward with heavy steps through hardships and twists.

But then I received a text message with a hotel room number. My hand holding the phone trembled slightly. My heart was heavy, but I dared not sigh. Everything was still the same, everything was repeating itself. The moonlight was cool and still. I decided to stop thinking about anything. I wanted to leave… really. The lamplight in the square stretched my shadow longer and longer, silently watching over me with such bitterness, such hardship. I tried to frame yesterday's broken story with my wounded heart, but all I got was emptiness and pain. In the end, I walked dejectedly towards the hotel. Leaves fell from the trees in the square—but those weren't my petals; they were only my broken heart!

Ultimately, I tasted a bitter aftertaste, a sense of helplessness, and even a fear of the future… I started walking towards the hotel, my body moving through the space, but my consciousness lingering somewhere in time.

I raised my hand to knock on the door, and before me stood a tall, imposing young man. My mind went blank. This wasn't the first time I'd felt this way; I was gradually getting used to it. The desolation transformed into a murky, gloomy emptiness, drifting through the empty, cold chamber of my heart. I felt utterly shameless at that moment.

The boy pulled me into his arms. I hesitated, trying to use the cold of the night to freeze my thoughts, but an unspeakable chill took the opportunity to erode my body and my will. I didn't want to think, to ponder. Even, if possible, I just wanted to walk numbly, but I couldn't feel anything anymore. I let the young man kiss and caress me. At that moment, I silently said to him, "If you had come to the square to see me first, if you had walked around with me instead of waiting for me in a hotel room, or if we had done something good today, I really wouldn't have liked sex for the sake of sex. It doesn't feel right. Maybe my expectations for romance are too high. I only felt myself violently rubbing, colliding, and tearing at the dry, cold air." I felt as if my heart was carrying millions of volts, desperately trying to break through this oppressive atmosphere, trying to release the pent-up frustration, but I couldn't. It just accumulated more and more, higher and higher, heavier and heavier—like an overinflated balloon, ignoring its transparent skin, and just endlessly pumping in tasteless air.

I felt dizzy, my body began to feel heavy, and my mind drifted. The tall boy's hands roamed over my cold body, removing my clothes one by one, until I was naked, embraced on the bed by his tall frame…

After our lovemaking, the boy told me he had some things to do and had to leave. Before he could finish speaking, I burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably. The boy seemed at a loss, pulling me back into his arms and whispering in my ear, "It really is something I have to do; there's no other way." I didn't blame him for leaving me; I was just heartbroken, afraid of loneliness, yearning for warmth, only to find myself alone, accompanied by cold and desolation.

After he left, I stood under the showerhead for the second time, leaning against the white tiles behind me, head tilted back, trying to wash away all that so-called tenderness, loneliness, and helplessness… wanting everything to vanish, to just sink into this state of lucidity and despair, still alone in this unfamiliar city, sleeping, extinguishing, emptying…

In the morning, after checking out, I suddenly remembered that he had booked the room, so I still had a deposit left at the counter. I texted him, offering to return it, sending message after message, but no reply. Although the amount wasn't large, not returning it made my heart ache; I couldn't let go of everything.

So, holding my phone, my long hair hanging low, I aimlessly wandered through the crowds of this beautiful city, waiting for his reply. I walked on like this, my memories perhaps lingering in a certain year, month, or even a single second, like a shooting star streaking across the sky and falling over a bustling city. Watching the fleeting beauty fade, leaving only the lingering taste of emotion, I watched the unfamiliar city, so vibrant, not seem to feel any less melancholic because of my presence as a wounded woman. A sense of loneliness hidden behind the clamor instantly transformed into sorrow. I never wanted to be like this, but I always am. It's a kind of willfulness, straddling the line between the unbearable and the unpredictable.

There was no reply. Helpless, I went to an internet cafe. Thankfully, I finally found him online. I told him I had sent him a message. He casually told me he hadn't noticed. I asked where he was, saying I'd bring him the extra money.

—"No, don't worry about it. Consider it my return ticket."

—"No, I don't want it. You made me cry."

—"Listen, I didn't mean anything by it. This is all I can do for you for now."

—Speechless, tears streaming down my face.

Because I was online, other netizens asked where I was. I answered truthfully.

—Why are you ruining yourself like this? Didn't you see everyone's replies? Don't you know there are many people who care about you?

—I'm sorry~I'm sorry~I'm sorry~

I escaped the internet cafe, my heart was bleeding and screaming. I'm falling into depravity, but I don't want to be a bad woman.

I'm not a good woman, so I can't go to heaven.

I'm not a bad woman, so I can't travel the world.

As the city continues to burn, I burn too. I tell myself it's not worth it, but I'm like a moth drawn to a flame, reckless. I don't know why I treat every relationship with such wholehearted devotion, only to be hurt so deeply in the end.

This morning my head feels so heavy, like I'm about to lose something! I feel like I'm isolated from the world, I don't want to move anything, I'm too lazy to think about anything! Thinking back to my impulsiveness a few days ago, I lament the fleeting nature of time! Perhaps one day I will suddenly leave! I like quiet spaces, yet I'm afraid of so much loneliness all by myself!

The sun hangs lazily in the sky, without a trace of warmth, a coldness seeping from the bottom of my heart! Even though there's no wind blowing in, I feel quite a chill! I deeply felt the fragility and vulnerability of life! I don't know what to call days without hope, I don't know why so many people are still "walking corpses"! I didn't try to make my words sound nice, but actually, whether they're nice or not doesn't matter anymore, it's just me!

The sky darkened, and it started to rain. Standing alone on a familiar yet unfamiliar street, without an umbrella, I let the rain fall freely on my face and body, a very pleasant feeling. Until my vision became blurry, until I couldn't distinguish between raindrops and tears, I habitually wiped away the so-called "rain" with my left hand. I subconsciously checked my phone; I hadn't received a message from you since. Perhaps you're busy, perhaps… "Heh," I laughed self-deprecatingly. What's the point of using this communication tool if I don't hear from you? Maybe I care too much. Perhaps you're annoyed, I don't know! Suddenly, a sentence came to mind: "Excessive concern is actually a kind of harm." I hope my concern isn't harmful to you! Don't you understand even now that when I'm feeling down, a phone call from you, even just a simple greeting, can make me happy again! "It's cold, wear more clothes!" "Don't wear skirts, or you'll catch a cold!" "Are you home yet? Be careful!" Those words still echo in my ears, but when I realize they're gone forever, I realize…

When I got home, it was already dark. The endless darkness was perfect for hiding myself! Finally, I could be myself! My throat is hoarse, I don't want to move, and even my eyes seem to have lost their daytime sparkle! Sitting quietly in front of the computer, I habitually talk to your profile picture, as if I were talking to myself! Even though I know you'll never be online again, I still hope we can still connect! At this moment, I'm so tired, you know? Maybe my choice deeply hurt you, maybe my deliberate actions made you hesitate, but tonight, I'm secretly thinking of you, you know? I thought I was used to being myself! I thought I could be myself without any worries! I thought it could last a lifetime. I thought, as you once said: perhaps it was predestined from a past life, perhaps it was fate that brought us together, perhaps there are too many "perhaps," but from now on I will no longer belong to myself, and I am destined to experience everything! Life itself is a journey; what is meant to come will come, and what is meant to leave cannot be kept! I have tried many times not to look back, easily letting go of everything, including you! But you always appear at the right time, so I can't even control myself anymore, and I feel really useless!

There's something called indifference, and a feeling called loss! When I give my heart to a relationship but receive nothing in return, I have no choice but to continue wallowing in despair… If I hear from you, I'm here, and you're there. I waited for you, but I don't know who you were waiting for… I've walked this road for a long time, but I've never reached my destination, because every time I take a step forward, you take the same step… You didn't even leave a footprint, only mine… This kind of relationship, being with you, is already enough. It's not friendship, it's not even romance… To be precise, it's nothing. But for you, there's a strange familiarity… But, step by step, you walk in different directions… If one day, you leave… I mean, I won't see you anymore… Please… don't step in my deep footprints with another woman… Please!

At this moment, I've decided to give up, decided to leave, to disappear from your sight forever! Even though I have nothing left! Can you hear me?

I don't know my future, I only hope: in some corner of a city, there will be a place for me! [The End]

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