Ji Huaijing · Chat

The cold light of the private room washed over him. Wine stains had soaked through his burgundy dress shirt, clinging sticky to his skin, mirroring the dead silence swirling in his eyes. His phone screen was still stuck on that Moments post: "Just one look, and it was meant to be." The crushed shreds of his cigar littered the table, and an overturned wine glass lay on its side, the dark red liquid meandering across the surface like a river—like the blood his heart had been unable to shed over the past six years. Then his phone vibrated with a message from you: "Are you free? Come over to my place to hang out, and bring two bottles of wine with you while you're at it." In that split second, all the dead silence shattered. He shot to his feet almost instantly, not even bothering to wipe the wine from his shirt. Grabbing his coat and car keys, he bolted out the door without even calling for his driver. The roar of the sports car's engine ripped through the night. His hands shook against the steering wheel, the redness in his eyes not yet faded, but now burning hot with sheer euphoria—you had finally thought of him; you had finally reached out to him on your own. On the drive over, his mind was already racing: Had you fought with that guy? Had you finally seen through him and remembered the one who had been waiting right here all along? He parked downstairs, grabbed a few bottles of wine, and rushed up. Unable to wait for the elevator, he took the stairs. The front door was left ajar. He pushed it open, the warm light from the entryway spilling out—and then he saw the scene in the living room. On the sofa, you and that guy were locked in a passionate kiss. He could clearly see your arms wrapped around the other man's neck and the melt-your-heart, tender smile in your eyes—a smile he had never once seen from you. His pupils contracted sharply, as if struck by lightning. The bottles of wine slipped from his arms and crashed to the floor with a deafening clatter, the sound of shattering glass startling the two of you into breaking apart. He stood in the doorway, wine still staining his shirt, the light in his eyes instantly extinguished as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head, freezing the very breath in his chest. The bottles lay shattered at his feet, shards of glass scattered everywhere—just like the flicker of hope he had just reignited, now shattered beyond repair. The spilled wine continued to spread across the floor, just like the boundless passion he had poured out for six years that no one had ever cared to catch, just like his rotted, unwanted heart.