Jiang Hanwan (GL) · Chat

No Goodbyes I was the last to know about Jiang Hanwan going abroad. It's laughable, really. I didn't even see it on her social media—it was my mother who posted a message in the family group chat, along with a photo of Jiang Hanwan at the airport. The caption read: "Congratulations to Hanwan on getting her offer, wishing her smooth studies." I stared at that photo for a long time. She was wearing the cream-colored coat I had helped her pick out, and her suitcase was the brand I had chosen for her. In the photo, she was smiling happily, waving at the camera as if she were off to embrace a grand and bright future. And I had no idea about any of this. Not a single message. I scrolled through our chat history. The last message was from a week ago—she had sent a meme, and I replied with "sleep early." At that time, she was probably already packing her bags, probably already had her visa, probably already booked her ticket. She didn't tell me anything. I looked at that photo over and over again, zooming in, zooming out, zooming in again. The glass curtain wall of the airport let in a massive wave of light, making her look incredibly bright. And on this side of the screen, I suddenly felt like an outsider—no, I always was one. She never planned to tell me. This thought was like a needle, pricking a tiny spot in my chest. It didn't hurt much, but you knew it was there, and it couldn't be pulled out. For the next few days, I didn't reach out to her, and she didn't reach out to me. The chat box was as quiet as a dead river. Sometimes I would click in, watching the cursor blink in the input box, typing a few words and then deleting them. What would I say? Ask her why she didn't tell me? It would make it seem like I cared too much. Or worse—it would make it seem like I had no right to know in the first place. In a fit of pique, I threw my phone aside, only to pick it up again a moment later, over and over. It was only later that I pieced together the whole story from fragments of what other people said: she had applied to a school in the UK for a one-year master's program, and she left in a big hurry. It took her about three months to arrange all of this, and during those three months, we met four times, had five meals together, and chatted countless times on WeChat. She didn't mention it once. I even wondered, was she afraid I would stop her? But the moment that thought crossed my mind, I felt a wave of grievance. When have I ever stopped her? Whatever she wanted to do, I was always the first to support her. When she was hesitating about changing jobs, I stayed up all night with her analyzing the pros and cons. When she said she wanted to learn diving, I found her an instructor without a second thought. When had I ever stopped her? If she had just said a single word to me, I could have even gone with her. My job allows me to work remotely anyway; I wouldn't even have had to hesitate—and she knew that. But she didn't even ask. It was as if there was simply no place for me in her plans. This feeling was worse than being angry. It was the disappointment of being gently set aside, like a book closed halfway through, where you don't even know if there's a next chapter. The family gathering took place three months after she left. It was a winter weekend, and the elders had arranged a large dinner gathering in a spacious private room. By the time I arrived, quite a few people were already there. The heating was turned up high, and the air was thick with the scent of tea and cold dishes. I took off my coat, hung it up, and was about to find a corner to sit in when I looked up and froze completely. Jiang Hanwan was sitting by the window, holding a cup of hot tea, talking to our aunt next to her. She had lost a bit of weight, and her hair was longer, draping over her shoulders. She wore a dark gray cashmere sweater, with a small brooch pinned to her collar—a design I hadn't seen before. She looked like she was doing well, her complexion was great, and when she spoke, she tilted her head slightly, wearing that gentle, polite smile I knew so well. As if nothing had happened over the past three months. As if she hadn't quietly flown eight thousand kilometers away, as if she hadn't hidden it flawlessly, as if she hadn't left me to find out about it from a family group chat. My first reaction wasn't to confront her or rush forward, but—to leave. I turned around and walked straight out. I walked quickly, weaving past several tables of elders playing mahjong, passing a tea table piled with fruit platters and melon seeds, and bypassing the radiator that was always buzzing. My hand had already touched the doorknob, the cold metal sensation bringing me to my senses a little. "Jiang Hanwan said not to leave!" My cousin's voice chased after me from behind, crisp and tinged with the excitement of someone who loves a spectacle. The noisy chatter in the room seemed to pause for a split second, then quickly returned to normal—the elders were experts at pretending nothing had happened. I didn't look back. My hand had already pulled the door open a crack, and the cold winter wind rushed in, hitting my face. "Jiang Hanwan says—" "Tell her to come say it herself." My voice was calmer than I expected, and colder too. My cousin clearly hadn't anticipated this reaction; she froze for a moment and didn't reply. I stood at the doorway, not fully stepping out, yet not turning back either. The cold wind kept blowing against my face, while the heat from the room surged from behind. One side cold, one side hot—I felt suspended right in the middle. Then I heard footsteps. Very light, very steady, her heels making almost no sound on the carpet of the room. But I just knew she was walking over—that sense of familiarity couldn't be faked, just like how you know who is approaching even with your eyes closed. She stopped about a step behind me. I didn't move. My hand was still gripping the doorknob, my knuckles turning slightly white from the force. "Go on then." She spoke first, her voice not loud, but in the sound of the wind rushing through the crack in the door, every word was crystal clear. "With your temper right now, you probably won't listen to anything I say anyway." I whipped my head around to look at her. She stood right there, just a small step away, neither too close nor too far. The lights from the room fell on her face. Three months seemed to have changed nothing, yet everything. There was something in her eyes I couldn't quite name—not guilt, not regret, but more of a certainty. A certainty that I would return, a certainty that I would listen, a certainty that she had all the time in the world. This certainty made me even angrier. "Jiang Hanwan." My voice trembled slightly as I called her by her full name, not from the cold, but because the feelings I had suppressed for so long were finally bursting through. "When you hid the fact that you were booking your flight, why didn't you think about whether I'd be angry? When you were packing your bags all by yourself, why didn't you think that maybe I wanted to go with you?" Her eyelashes fluttered. Just for a brief moment. Then she lowered her eyes and said nothing. Suddenly, I felt like it was all so pointless. The words I had bottled up for three months, the confrontations I had practiced countless times, all turned into punches thrown at cotton in this very moment. She didn't explain, she didn't argue, she didn't even apologize. She just stood there quietly, as if she had known this day would come all along, as if she had already figured out how to deal with it. What hurt me the most wasn't her silence. As if in that split second, I suddenly realized—if she actually opened her mouth to explain, no matter what she said, I would probably forgive her. This realization made me feel utterly pathetic. I let go, and the door opened completely. The cold wind rushed in, making my eyes sting. "Let me be alone." With that, I walked out into the wind without looking back. No one chased after me. After taking a dozen steps, I heard the door of the private room close gently behind me. It wasn't slammed; it was closed very softly and slowly, as if afraid of disturbing something. I stood at the end of the hallway under a warm yellow wall lamp that cast a long, faint shadow of my figure. I pulled out my phone and opened the chat window that had been silent for three months, squinting slightly at the harsh light of the screen. I typed a few words, then deleted them. In the end, I sent nothing. The hallway was very quiet. The lively laughter and chatter started up again from inside the room, sounding muffled and distant through the door. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and stood leaning against the wall for a while, until the palms of my hands slowly warmed back up. My phone vibrated. I picked it up. It was a message from her, just a single sentence. "Then how long do you need to be alone?" I stared at those words for a long time, long enough for the screen to dim and turn off, light up again, and turn off once more. Snow began to fall outside the window at the end of the hallway, tiny white flakes landing on the glass and quickly melting into watery streaks. Someone inside the room called out that dinner was starting, and my cousin's voice rang out again, this time calling my name. I deep breath, flipped my phone face down in my palm, and walked back toward the private room.