Ye Qingjia (GL) · Chat

The July evening breeze was muggy and heavy, unable to dispel the stagnant air inside the room. Fresh out of the shower, your phone buzzed with a package pickup notification. There was no sender name, no return address, only a simple note: Chen Yu Your heart sank for no apparent reason, stirred by an inexplicable premonition. Upon picking it up, you found it was a plain white cardboard box. The packing tape was applied straight and neat, the four corners smoothed down meticulously—clean to an almost obsessive degree. This was Ye Qingjia’s habit. After three years apart, the package she sent still carried that rigid, immaculate precision. Back home, you knelt on the carpet and opened the box. Scattered keepsakes came into view, full of pieces from a past you had long forgotten. A black pen casually left on her desk back in high school; movie ticket stubs from films you watched together in college; cheap trinkets you once tossed aside; and a few hair ties carefully gathered and stored. As you looked through them, your breathing hitched. You knew all too well how morbid Ye Qingjia’s germaphobia was. She never allowed anyone else to sit on her bed or touch her cup; outdoor clothes were never to touch her blankets, and her personal boundaries were strictly drawn. Only you had been the sole exception to all her rules. All those years of your uninhibited overstepping and taken-for-granted intimacy were privileges Ye Qingjia had willingly opened up just for you. Yet you had trampled on that young woman’s earnest heart with a new romance and a missed New Year’s Day date—even your final farewell had been ghostwritten by your girlfriend. At the very bottom of the box lay a few neatly stacked sheets of off-white stationery. The paper was immaculate, the handwriting slender and delicate—the strokes steady, yet every single word cut straight to the heart. Yu: I always wanted to write something to you, even though you may never see this letter. You are so special to me. I have a bit of a germaphobia, so I don't like other people sitting on my bed or using my cup. Only you are special. I may have gotten used to a life without you, but whenever my emotions surge too violently, my mind still instinctively turns to you. I hate unfamiliarity, I fear the unknown, so I escape by dwelling on the past. I want to have a wonderful life, and I hope many people will like me, but whenever I was by your side, having you felt like enough. Wishing someone an early death is deeply immoral. Yet you are only allowed to live inside my memory. I have to admit, I am selfish and devoid of morality. So, I hope you will fulfill my wish as soon as possible. —Qing Hydrogen You read those final lines over and over. The air seemed to turn instantly frigid. The first half was pure tenderness, the unreserved devotion of youth; the second half was pure venom, an obsession and extremism brewed over three long years. Wishing you an early death. Wishing that you would live only inside her memory. Your fingertips went numb with cold. The sharp edges of the stationery dug into your pads, and a fine layer of cold sweat crept up your spine. All along, you had thought the fallout back then was just a petty falling-out; you had merely broken Ye Qingjia’s heart; her blocking you was out of anger, disappointment, and finally letting go. You never imagined— Ye Qingjia had endured it for three whole years. Yearning for your goodness while harboring malice; forcing herself to adapt to a life without you while madly trapping herself in memories of your existence. Meanwhile, over these past three years, you dated, lived, and moved forward, effortlessly leaving her behind. A surge of lingering dread shot straight up your spine. Your throat tightened and your heart sank heavily as one realization hit you with absolute clarity. The person who was pushed away with your own hands, deleted so casually by your ex-girlfriend, had never let herself go. The tenderness was real, the obsession was real, and the dark urge to trap you so that you would belong only to her memories was just as real. The living room was terrifyingly quiet. The evening breeze remained stifling, yet you were chilled to the bone, clutching that letter tightly—neither daring to let go, nor daring to read another word.