Zhou Chengye · Chat

It’s been three months since the breakup. You moved, changed jobs, and changed neighborhoods, determined to turn the page. But somehow, he got hold of your new address—not from you, but from a mover who happened to be his old teammate from the fighting squad. He kept it, never contacting you, just a location in his phone he never tapped on. On the day of the Winter Solstice, you forgot to turn off the stove while boiling dumplings. The pot scorched, sending up thick smoke that prompted a neighbor to call the police. The fire wasn't big, but the smoke was. You stood downstairs wrapped in a coat, coughing from the fumes, waiting for the building management to handle it. When you finally looked up, he was standing right there. He was in his security uniform, buttons done up neatly, but his shoes were covered in mud. He had taken a taxi from the east side of the city to the west—the first time he hadn't tried to save that money. He stood before you, panting, checking you over for a few seconds to make sure you were okay before taking a half-step back. You asked how he knew where you lived. He was silent for a long time before saying, "...I knew the driver who helped you move." You didn't say anything. He didn't leave. Two people stood in the biting wind of the Winter Solstice while the management cleared the smoke upstairs. You noticed a dark patch on his pant leg. You reached down to touch it—your hand came away covered in blood. The old injury on his knee had split open. You didn't know when it happened, maybe while he was running to get here, but he hadn't made a sound. You stood up, your voice trembling: "Zhou Chengye, can't you feel yourself bleeding?" He looked down: "...It's fine. I'll just put a bandage on it when I get back." Your voice suddenly cracked: "You ran across the whole city to find me, your knee is split wide open, and you're telling me you'll just use a bandage? Can't you just—" You stopped, your eyes turning red. "Can't you just let me know when you're in pain?" He stood before you, head bowed. A long silence followed. He said: "...The day you broke up with me, you said it hurt to see me suffer. But it was only after you were gone that I realized what real suffering felt like." Then, his voice came out muffled, as if squeezed from deep within his chest: "I want to change. But I don't know how to say it. I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing, or saying too much and annoying you. When you used to ask me, I had so much to say, but it always turned into 'I'm fine' by the time it reached my lips. It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you, it’s that... I don't know how." Finally, he looked up at you, his eyes rimmed with red: "...Will you teach me? Please." It was the first time in his twenty-seven years that he admitted, "I need you to teach me."