Shi Chan, who hadn’t noticed Ke Bu’s expression, continued, “Wait here. I’ll go call Senior Zhi Li over so we can eat together.” Before Ke Bu could stop her, Shi Chan had already run outside. Ke Bu couldn’t clearly hear what she was saying to Zhi Li through the thick glass. He didn’t want to look over there, yet he couldn’t pull his gaze away. Zhi Li’s lips moved slightly, and Shi Chan returned looking disappointed.
“Senior Zhi Li has something to do again. He’s really hard to invite anywhere. Senior Ke Bu should’ve gone to ask him just now. He definitely wouldn’t have refused you, right? You two have always been really close.”
“Really? How close?” Ke Bu asked coldly.
“Very, very close, from what I can tell.”
“Actually, not that close.” Did this really count as being close? From the moment he woke up until now, it seemed as though all they had done was argue and mock each other. Neither of them was willing to lower his head, as though that useless pride mattered more than anything else. What exactly had that look in Zhi Li’s eyes meant? What the hell had it meant? Ke Bu desperately wanted to rush outside, grab Zhi Li, and demand an answer. But what would happen after he asked? It was everything that came afterward that made Ke Bu afraid.
Should I pretend to be more carefree too? Laugh off his reaction? But no matter how carefully I prepare every emotion and expression, they always seem to collapse when I’m in front of him. What if I’m smiling and suddenly start crying? Wouldn’t I look insane? What exactly are we doing to each other? What do I even want you to do? Act like someone in a television drama? Act like some ordinary warm, considerate boyfriend? When I wake up injured, when you hear that I’ve forgotten you, you’ll worry about my injuries and hurt because I’m suffering?
Then what exactly am I suffering for?
Ke Bu’s head began hurting again. He stared at the dishes that had been brought to the table, his stomach churning slightly. Bracing his right hand against the table, he stood. “I don’t feel very well. I think I’ll go back first.” He had stood too quickly and knocked into the corner of the table, stumbling. Shi Chan hurriedly caught him. “Senior Ke Bu, are you all right? You really look awful. Let me take you back.” Embarrassing. Pathetic. Was this really who he was? Living like such a pathetic, useless mess. So pathetic.
He waved her off and fled the restaurant alone. The sky was packed with dark clouds, but the rain stubbornly refused to fall. Ke Bu’s shoulder kept colliding with pedestrians as he walked, as though one more impact might knock his entire body apart. This feeling of wanting to tear his life to pieces felt strangely familiar. Maybe time was moving too slowly, because Zhi Li hadn’t gone far. He was standing at a bus stop. That image felt familiar too. Was it inside his memories or outside them? Was this the place where everything began or where everything ended? Ke Bu’s muddled mind could no longer tell.
Go to him or leave. There were clearly two choices, yet Ke Bu seemed capable of seeing only one. Go find him. Grab him. Don’t let him leave. Beg him to stay. Admit that you were wrong.
“Don’t leave!” Why were the things people thought always so different from the things they actually said? Why did his tone come out sounding angry, almost like an order? It was already too late to change it. Zhi Li looked at Ke Bu and remained silent for a long time, seemingly with no intention of speaking at all. A bus slowly pulled in. People got on. People got off. They constantly passed between the two of them, like a damaged strip of film where one moment you were in his sight and the next you were gone.
Zhi Li turned toward the bus. Ignoring the surprised looks around him, Ke Bu shouted, “I told you not to leave! Can’t you hear me?!” Zhi Li stopped. Thank God he stopped. It gave Ke Bu’s breathing one second to slow down. He continued, “We…” Zhi Li interrupted him in that cold, merciless voice. “If I don’t leave, then you leave.” The breath that had slowed for one second became slower and slower. Apparently breathing too quickly and breathing too slowly could both suffocate a person.
“You want me to leave?” Ke Bu had clearly heard him, yet he wanted to pretend he had misheard. Zhi Li pulled two tickets from his pocket, tore them apart with two quick motions, and casually tossed the pieces at Ke Bu. “You didn’t only forget me. You only wanted to forget me. Go live the life and have the relationship you think you can endure.”
“Zhi Li! You…” Ke Bu took two steps forward and grabbed Zhi Li’s clothes. Zhi Li didn’t even look at him. “Enough. Right now, I don’t want to stay with you, and I can’t stay with you.” Had he considered how cruel those words were before saying them? Of course he hadn’t. His words and attitude were far too casual, far too simple. Ke Bu had wanted to tear his life apart, yet Zhi Li tore him apart first. Skin, heart, soul… everywhere capable of hurting was in pain. He didn’t dare move. The slightest movement would make him tremble.
“Heh.” Ke Bu laughed softly. “Good thing I forgot you. Before you got tired of someone like me, good thing I forgot you.” Ke Bu released Zhi Li’s clothes as though he were releasing his own life. Then he turned around without looking back.
He had gotten it wrong. This wasn’t the place where everything began. It was the place where everything ended.
Ke Bu bit down hard on his lower lip and refused to let go even after all the color had disappeared from it. Every step felt so heavy, as though one careless movement might crack the ground beneath his feet and send him straight into hell. By the time he returned to his hospital room almost without realizing it, the rain had finally begun to fall. The sound of rain roared throughout the entire city, yet Ke Bu’s city was completely silent.
When you came looking for me, you chose the wrong moment.
When I came looking for you, I missed the right moment.
The pain that could have stopped has to continue again.
Ke Bu stared at the ceiling and suddenly couldn’t find anything to say or anything to think about. There was only a long stretch of emptiness, both inside his mind and on the computer screen. His fingers stopped. Only the cursor continued blinking. What came next? What was he supposed to write next? Who was supposed to fill the blank space that followed?
Why not end it here?
Why not finish everything here?
Ten years passed, and this relationship, just like every other relationship, became nothing more than a memory.
Leave a Reply