Emotional love story about noodles
When his call came, she could clearly hear his breathing, short and hurried. He was taken aback, speechless for a long while. She, busy with her work, didn’t recognize the number and asked, “Who is this?” Finally, he asked, “Making noodles?” This time, it was her turn to be silent for a long while. When she finally let out a faint “hmm,” his voice gently drifted over, “I miss the noodles you made.” Without a word, she hung up the phone.
Yes, he was all too familiar with her busy moments like this. She used to make noodles just for him, always picking up his calls in this breathless manner. He would laugh on the other end and say, “Making noodles again?” And she would scold him: “Hey, kneading dough is tiring work! You’re not allowed to be dissatisfied!”
Back then, they lived far apart, needing to cross several cities just to see each other. Their meetings were always brief, leaving her with just enough time to make him a lot of noodles, packing them into plastic bags and stuffing his fridge full. He would laugh and tease that noodles were probably the only thing she knew how to make. Ever since he had been hospitalized for stomach problems, she had started learning how to make noodles. Sometimes she thought, maybe because she was too far away, she couldn’t really do anything to regularly take care of his meals. So noodles became the longest-lasting comfort.
Every time, she would be drenched in sweat from kneading the dough. Once, she jokingly said to him, “You know, in Japan, they use their feet to knead the dough. Do you think I could try that?” At the time, he was busy on the other end of the line, but hearing this, he suddenly pictured her cute toes and laughed, “I think it’s possible.” She didn’t catch the playful tone in his laughter and simply said into the phone wedged under her neck, “Next time, you come knead the dough.” Then she hung up and continued with her work.
Her favorite part was running the dough through the noodle maker, watching the noodles emerge like a curtain, like a waterfall. She told him that the noodles cascading down were like the smile behind a beaded curtain, or like a serene stream beneath a waterfall. He would say the way she gathered the noodles into bunches, stuffing them into bags and containers, reminded him of her thick braids. Back then, to keep her hair out of her eyes while busy, she often tied her hair into two thick braids hanging down her chest.
She continued to knead the dough by hand, making all sorts of noodles—egg noodles, sesame noodles, vegetable noodles, perilla noodles, grapefruit noodles. She couldn’t even count how many different kinds she’d made. Whenever she heard about something new, she’d try it. He joked that he was her guinea pig. At that moment, her forehead still glistening with sweat, a smile would bloom on her cheeks. The only noodle she never tried making for him was chili noodles, for fear it would irritate his stomach. He probably never even knew there was such a thing as chili noodles.
She also made various noodle dishes for him to eat. On cool days, she made hot noodles; on warm days, cold noodles. She would add chicken pieces and scallions to the noodles and tell him it was Chinese-style noodles. She’d put fish balls and cilantro into hot broth noodles and say it was Thai-style. When she added ribs and fish cakes, she claimed it was Japanese-style. She even mischievously told him, “This is udon.” He quipped, “You’ve never even been abroad.” She just chuckled, “Chinese-style udon, Chinese-style udon.”
One summer, she visited him and excitedly declared she’d make him Korean cold noodles, using Sprite as the broth. Since she didn’t dare add kimchi, he ultimately declared that he was still undoubtedly her experimental subject. She also made stir-fried noodles for him. She believed the colors looked just right, and after plating them, sprinkled some cilantro and bean sprouts. She told him, “If you eat it with a fork, it could even be called spaghetti.” He just shook his head at her inventive ways.
They went through periods of breaking up and getting back together. She always knew about the pain in his heart from before, so she never touched on his past, neither asking nor mentioning it. But every time she saw the people who came and went around him, she felt like she was from a completely different world. Later, when they broke up, she gave herself the excuse that he hadn’t given her enough encouragement to not feel inadequate. From the initial arguments they had, he slowly became more patient and accommodating, going along with her excuses, and even jokingly ran his fingers through her long hair, fostering a deeper affection.
He was always the more rational one, and more than once, he brought up the issue of distance. She asked, “Is it about personality or feelings?” He said, “Space and time.” She always believed she could stand beside him and negotiate with time and space. But three years later, all she got was his negotiation with her: just one sentence—”Out with the old, in with the new.” And then he offered a free gift—a final view of his back as he walked away.
She insisted on meeting the “new person.” Her brows weren’t just like a painting; they seemed like they were genuinely painted on. She had to admit, though, she was indeed a beauty. Her aura was impressive, her appearance suitable, and walking hand-in-hand with him, anyone would agree she was a far better match for him than this “old person” could ever be.
She turned around and changed her phone number, leaving her contact list empty, a stark contrast to the tearful expression she wore. She never dialed that number again, the one she had memorized so well. She thought she had blessed him—or, to put it more grandly, blessed them. But she could never truly bring herself to smile and say sincerely, “Wishing you happiness.”
For a while, she stopped making noodles, but she would often find herself swirling her hands around in a bowl of flour. It reminded her of the ancient practice of divination. The flour was like a sand tray, her hands the divination sticks, yet she couldn’t read her own fortune. She had always believed that she didn’t need to ask the gods or the fates—he was surely her destined match, for lifetimes upon lifetimes. Sometimes she wondered if he had already divined his fortune while eating the soup noodles she made, using his chopsticks to predict with certainty whose breath would eventually grace his pillow.
He once joked, asking her if she planned to make him eat noodles until all his teeth fell out and his hair turned gray. Back then, she had resolved to see them both grow old together. She thought he would wait with her, slowly, through time.
Her tears finally fell, half an hour after receiving his call and his words, seven years later. At that moment, she was steaming noodles, the water boiling, steam rising thickly. She turned and saw a child, just learning to speak, toddling through the living room, with a pair of silent, protective hands always close behind. In that moment, she truly understood—they wouldn’t grow old together.
She knew she no longer needed to wonder whether he was blissfully drowning in the depths of happiness or slowly being poisoned by dissatisfaction. It no longer mattered. And those thoughts of each other that had once connected them, they were like the steam rising now, clinging momentarily to a corner of her heart before quietly dissipating.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
