Tragic love story
“To know if he truly loves you, it’s simple. Blow gently into his ear, rub his belly twice, pat his butt, clasp his hands behind his back, fold him into a paper airplane, and let him fly out from the 100th floor at dusk. Late at night, see if he flies back to knock on your window, and if he remembers the way home after flying around the noisy neon lights.”
This is something my ex-girlfriend said jokingly. I still remember it.
Yes, we broke up in this humid April when the weather was warming up.
Sometimes I write bizarre novels, but when it comes to us, there really isn’t any special story to tell.
We were the most ordinary couple in the world. We spent a long time together at the same company and slowly developed feelings for each other.
There is no dramatic or extraordinary story to tell about us.
But I remember these little details. Whenever I encounter something troubling, I think of these and my heart warms up.
I remember, in spring, going for a picnic together, the scent of roses in the bushes mingling with your light perfume. In summer, sharing a huge chocolate ice cream cone under one umbrella in a rainstorm.
In autumn, our feet sticking out of the blanket on a small bed, like two carefree clouds in the sky. In winter, hugging each other to keep warm.
I remember your clumsy hands tying my tie for the first time before I went out.
I remember when I had just had laser eye surgery, and we were walking in the street at night, coincidentally during a fireworks festival. You immediately covered my eyes with your small hands and whispered in my ear, “Don’t look, it’s too bright, not good for your eyes.”
I remember a friend’s birthday dinner where all the dishes were spicy. The friend put a lot of delicious but very spicy food on my plate. Knowing my stomach was upset, you secretly ate the very spicy food from my plate.
I remember you quietly writing, the sound of wind through bamboo on the paper, and your hair falling over your shoulders.
I remember the particularly cold day when you knew I didn’t like wearing too much but didn’t want me to be cold. When I asked the temperature, you purposely reported a few degrees lower than the weather forecast, just to make me wear an extra wool vest.
I remember that summer when we were curled up on the sofa watching a movie. I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I found you carefully swatting mosquitoes with an electric mosquito swatter, like in slow motion in a movie.
I remember working late for a client meeting, exhausted and hungry, rushing to the suburbs in a taxi. You saw I was tired and said, “Sleep a bit, I’ll wake you when we arrive.” I also remember the time you were very tired and rested your head on my shoulder, sleeping soundly.
I remember once in IKEA, you saw a cozy and unique display room and didn’t want to leave, saying that our future home should be simple and warm like that.
I remember during a serious meeting, we exchanged mischievous glances while the boss spoke.
I remember going on a business trip to a remote place, and at the train station, you sent me off, foolishly saying, “You won’t come back, will you?” I laughed loudly.
I remember we never called each other husband or wife. We never said “I love you” or “You love me.” You said it sounded pretentious. We always casually called each other “Hey,” but we knew it was the most intimate term.
Yes, I discovered that really liking someone gives you many special abilities.
For example, the back of the person you like shines in a crowd, and you can spot her immediately. For example, you suddenly understand every lyric of so many love songs.
For example, when the phone rings, without looking, you know it’s her calling. For example, when you see delicious food, you automatically imagine sharing it with her. For example, at a crucial moment, you strongly sense she will leave you.
Yes, at that time, I clearly understood that you were going to leave me.
But we had lived together for some time, and the habits we unconsciously developed became an annoying bad thing. So now, I still sometimes set an extra place at the table, turn on the TV to your favorite channel even though I don’t watch it, let it talk to itself in the empty room, add a little extra sugar when cooking, and sometimes laugh foolishly when I remember you with a mouthful of toothpaste while brushing my teeth.
Although we broke up, I am very grateful for the good times we shared.
Because I know that when people are young, they always long for a profound, clear, and pure love. Although many people fail, get hurt, or are deceived, if you are lucky enough to have such a relationship, then in the future, every lonely night, under the cruel moonlight, this feeling, flowing in your heart like a clear spring, will form a protective layer, a transparent glaze that protects your heart from being devoured by the world.
I remember the day we broke up, it rained non-stop. We didn’t have time to say goodbye. The train took you away, along with all our past.
Now that you’ve left, these warm details are ultimately going to be forgotten. I think I might slowly forget them in the future. Or maybe, year after year, a heavy rain covers a fierce memory. No matter how many people come and go, I can never get over you. I started writing novels, fabricating 100 stories, using 99 different tones to say the words we never said when we were together—I love you.
I know that after a long time, I will get used to living alone.
Now, occasionally, I think about the future. It seems there are many places I can take my parents to visit, many interesting friends to meet, many delicious foods to slowly savor. In the distant future, will my wife be gentle? Will my son be naughty? Even further, will my grandson’s backpack be heavy? But thinking about the past, it seems to be filled with just one name. No matter how boring the night is, thinking about those beautiful times can immediately take me to the stars.
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