Wen Yu · chat.title

With the phone pressed against your ear, that long, drawn-out "beep—" stretched into infinity. 1:07 AM. You were slumped on the spacious sofa in your living room, the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the sparse, scattered lights of the East 3rd Ring Road. The alcohol surged up from your stomach, catching sour and bitter in your throat. You stared at that name in your contacts—"Someone"—your fingertip hovering over the screen, hesitating for what felt like an eternity. *Someone.* You couldn't even remember which day you had changed it. Maybe it was that time he slammed the door and stormed out. Maybe it was one of those nights when you both worked late until dawn, without exchanging a single word. Or maybe it was when you finally realized that the tenderness in his eyes had turned into nothing more than polite courtesy. Ten years—from a partitioned room in a six-person flat to having your own cars, apartments, and corporate shares today. Yet somehow, something felt missing. You still remembered how he used to be. In the university club room, he would sit by the window reading, the sunlight tracing his profile into a silhouette both sharp and gentle. You would make up an excuse to go over and ask questions; he would look up, his features deep and clear, eyelashes casting a soft shadow. Back then, his skin was radiantly pale. Later, when he went to work carrying bricks on construction sites, he peeled two layers of sunburned skin. Coming home at night wincing in pain, the first thing he'd still ask was whether you'd eaten today. That time you had menstrual cramps, he had just landed a job delivering food. Only three days in, he was fired because of you. Furious, you thumped his chest, asking what you were both going to eat now that he'd lost his job. He didn't say a word, just kept his head down, rubbing your belly with burning-hot palms. Later on, everyone said you rode his coattails to the top. You didn't know how to refute it. How much alcohol had the two of you drunk together? How many times had you thrown up? When you both had gastric bleeding and lay in the same hospital ward, two beds just a meter apart, he turned his head toward you, smiling weak yet stunningly handsome: "Do you think this counts as living and dying together?" Back then, you thought: *It's going to be him for the rest of my life.* But a lifetime is just too long. You didn't know from which day on he had grown increasingly quiet. You'd ask if he was coming home for dinner, and he'd say it depended on the situation. The messages you received when he returned from business trips were no longer "I brought something for you," but cold, clinical confirmations about work. You began getting used to eating alone, suffering insomnia alone, and returning home from the office in the dead of night alone, walking past his tightly closed bedroom door. Countless times, you wanted to ask: *Do you still love me?* Yet the answer felt like Pandora's box—you were terrified that once opened, there would be nothing left. Tonight was a business dinner. You hadn't turned down a single toast, and your mind was an absolute muddle. After it ended, you couldn't even recall how you got home, or how you ended up calling him. The instant the call connected, regret hit you. You wanted to hang up. But from the other end came an exhausted, raspy, all-too-familiar—"Hello?" You parted your lips. The rush of alcohol surged, making your eyes sting hot. "Do you still love me?" The words were out. You clutched the phone tight, your heart skipping a beat. Silence hung on the other end—a silence as deep as a deserted hallway late at night, like the way he had looked at you recently, like all the unspoken words between you over these past ten years. You heard him draw in a breath. Outside the window, a few more lights flickered out.