A Love Story: 554 Days of Love
I’m used to listening to music and writing things, the music not always my favorite, much like my words. If ugliness and beauty have anything in common, I think it’s their truthfulness. In this world, only two things deserve pride: sunshine and wounds.
Sunshine envies wounds for their unashamed reality, while wounds envy sunshine for their unparalleled brightness. If one were to attach to my soul, it would undoubtedly be the wound.
Truth is an angel, lies are devils. I wish I were an angel, but I fell in love with a devil. There’s too much uncertainty and helplessness in this world. As for me, I’m just a shadow wandering between happiness and sorrow.
If anything in my world can escape the shadows, it must be that name, engraved deeply in me, though it’s just a common name to others.
I met Yang one morning. To be precise, it was when the sun had just kissed my skin. Leaving the bar, the sunlight was so warm and clean, making me feel somewhat unworthy.
The bus wasn’t crowded, and quietness was abundant, a cheap commodity at this hour. This serenity lacked the midnight’s hidden filth, perhaps a gift, though I knew it wouldn’t last long for me.
When Yang boarded the bus, I glanced at my watch – it was 5:37 AM. At 5:37, a boy smelling of sunshine asked with a smile if he could sit next to me. His smile stunned me – it had been a long time since I’d seen such a warm, reassuring smile.
At 5:38, we exchanged a quiet “good morning.” At 5:45, Yang commented on the nice weather. I smiled, not knowing what to say. Silence, peace, the sound of newspapers rustling. At 6:03, I told him I had to get off.
Yang waved goodbye through the window.
As I turned away, I realized no one on that bus would remember me, nor would I remember anyone.
Back home, my head throbbed. The milk was delivered early, I ate a little, took a shower, and slept. Waking up at 1 PM, I went to the kitchen to make lunch. I enjoyed cooking for myself; it gave me a sense of accomplishment in taking care of myself.
By 3 PM, I was at my computer. A magazine had commissioned an article, and I needed to finish it quickly. At 80 yuan per thousand words, if one piece got published, I could cover my internet bill; two would cover utilities, and three would solve half my food expenses.
My writing was too bleak and gloomy, with few fans, including myself. Pulling the curtains shut, the occasional light that leaked in was lonely and fragile.
I often wrote about campus love – simple, pure, as clean as a child’s eyes, without money, deals, exploitation, or deceit. Yet these stories always ended in tragedy just when you wished they wouldn’t.
Love itself is a tragedy; eternal love is a wishful fantasy, and “till the seas dry up and rocks decay” is merely nature’s uncertain change. I didn’t believe in loyalty under hardship, nor in the initial simple repetitive love verses of ancient poetry. I was deceived as a child and refused to be deceived again as an adult.
The story was finished, but the protagonist lacked a name. The boy’s name would be Yang. Typing out this name sent a shock through me. Yang was just a passerby.
At 7 PM, I called my mother to assure her that everything was fine. She asked when I could come home. I said the company was too busy, maybe later.
The company I mentioned was no longer a place I belonged to. I didn’t want to lie to my mother but had to conceal the truth. I could still support myself.
In my second year of college, I fell in love with Wen, and our relationship was stable. After graduation, we moved to S City to make a life. I got a job in a company, and with Wen’s parents’ help, he started his own business.
We lived together peacefully for less than a year. Wen never talked about marriage, and I never demanded responsibility. Wen’s company struggled, while mine thrived. Wen insisted he needed my help to secure a project, promising marriage if successful. I agreed.
But things fell apart. I leaked company secrets, but Wen still didn’t get the project. I pleaded with my boss, who let me off, but I knew my career in that field was over.
Wen called me useless, his company went bankrupt, and he returned home. I stayed, alone, with six months left on the lease, no money, and a baby on the way.
Three days after Wen left, I realized I had nothing. I needed money.
The bar wasn’t big, but business was okay. The owner, a woman, pitied me and paid me fairly. I despised her pity but lacked the courage to refuse.
At 10:30 PM, I arrived at the bar. Tonight wasn’t too busy. After singing five songs, I could rest. I usually sang about 15 songs a night. After 2 AM, I could stop singing and chat with customers.
By 5 AM, I could leave, earning 60 yuan for six and a half hours, not counting tips. The bar owner knew many people in the city sought a stranger to talk to, ensuring her business didn’t lose money. Many customers sought me out, proving I wasn’t the only lonely one.
I walked out of the bar.
At 5:37 AM, the same boy asked to sit next to me, smiling as he did the day before.
Every morning at 5:37 AM, I saw Yang’s smile.
On the 30th day of knowing Yang, I borrowed money and terminated the pregnancy.
On the 50th day, I found a job at a print shop.
When I first came to S City, I never imagined I’d be supporting myself through writing, typing, singing, and chatting. Nor did I expect to meet Yang.
On the 83rd day, I got a formal job at a cosmetics company, and Yang and I started talking on the phone.
On the 113th day, I was officially hired. On weekends, I continued singing at the bar, chatting with customers, doing typing jobs, and writing for money.
On the 120th day, with some money saved, I began having nightmares about the innocent child I had lost.
On the 125th day, Yang confessed he wanted to pursue me.
On the 130th day, I told Yang not to love me.
Yang fell in love with me, unaware of my past in the bar, my typing job, my chatting for money, or my writing. He only knew I worked at the cosmetics company. I knew I couldn’t love Yang.
Yang was still in college, seeing me every morning as he returned to campus. I was two years older, had lived with a boyfriend for a year, and had lost a three-month-old child.
But the days with Yang were happy. I liked walking through his campus without makeup, feeling young amidst the prettier girls. Yang said he loved the melancholy and strength in my eyes.
Occasionally, Yang visited on weekends. We cooked, ate, and watched TV together. He always left before 9 PM, unaware I still went to the bar afterward. I needed the job to solve my problems.
Yang was simple, with a child’s outlook. He planned to marry me after graduation, saying he wouldn’t pursue further studies. Seeing his joy hurt my heart. I wanted to marry but not Yang, who only knew my sunlit side, not the shadows I lived with.
Yang easily found a good-paying job after graduation, being outstanding in his field. He wanted me to meet his parents, and I was scared.
At night, sleepless, I wrote about my life: the bar, chats, typing, articles, the lost child, the departed man, and the big kid who loved me, Yang.
On the 184th day, I became a contributing writer for a magazine. My work involved recording my life. They opened a column just for women like me, living without dignity but not selling their bodies. I convinced myself it wasn’t selling out. The extra income allowed me to quit the bar job.
Now, I worked at the cosmetics company by day and wrote at night. I kept my real situation a secret, preferring the sunshine.
The company did well, and I got a raise in three months. Yang was my lucky star.
On the 213th day, I met Yang’s parents. Both were gentle and kind teachers.
I thought marrying Yang might be nice. I could settle down and be a good wife and future mother.
Yang’s birthday fell on our 235th day. He wanted a special gift, so I took a sick day to be his wife for a day.
At 6 AM, Yang came over, and we went to the market. Watching him haggle made me feel that being his woman would be wonderful. He was adorable and genuine.
By 8 AM, we finished breakfast. Yang insisted I sit and read while he washed the dishes, looking funny in my small apron. He was meticulous, a perfectionist.
At 9 AM, in a dress Yang chose, we went shopping. The mall wasn’t busy, and I enjoyed walking arm-in-arm with him. Yang dragged me to home decor, planning our future home. He said my curtains needed changing to a warmer color. The ones he picked were beautiful, a mix of orange and white flowers, clean and simple.
At 1 PM, we sat on a bench eating boxed lunches. Yang called it “sharing hardship.”
At 3 PM, he helped hang the curtains, transforming the room’s atmosphere. I
felt more like a woman than a girl.
We spent the afternoon watching TV. In his arms, I felt secure.
At 5 PM, we took a long bus ride to a distant supermarket. Yang liked its decor.
At 10 PM, we finished dinner. Yang lay on the floor reading comics while I knitted a sweater for him. Though S City’s winters weren’t too cold, he’d wear it because I made it.
At 11 PM, Yang fell asleep on the floor. When I woke him, he asked me to be his woman.
In the final moments of his birthday, I became Yang’s woman, and he became the second man in my life. He kissed me, demanding my exclusive love. Yang was domineering.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
