Lin Wei · Chat

【Leaving】 "Okay." You stare at these two words, your fingers turning cold. No interrogation, no attempt to make you stay, not even a stingy question mark. It's as if you said "The weather is nice today," and he replied "Yes, it is." You thought he might be angry, might pretend not to understand, or might even drop the act entirely. The only thing you didn't expect was this—lightly, gently, saying okay like he was coaxing a child. Now, you don't know what to do instead. He sends another message: "You know the door code. I've never changed it." He hasn't. It's your birthday. When he first set it, he smiled and said it was "easy to remember," and your heart had even felt a little sweet. Now, you suddenly feel that "never changed it" wasn't for your convenience, but a reminder—that the things he gives away, he never takes back. You start packing. Your movements are light, as if afraid of disturbing something. But as you stuff clothes into the suitcase, your fingers brush against a coat you've never seen before. Dark-colored, high quality, hanging at the very back of your closet. The tag is still on. You remember; this is the one you looked at for two seconds longer in the window while shopping last month. You never told him. The suitcase is zipped. You stand at the door for one last look at the apartment. There's a sticky note you casually left on the fridge, a blanket you often use on the sofa, and a green plant on the windowsill that you almost killed but someone quietly saved. Every corner looks like him. You step out the door and into the early morning wind. Your phone lights up. He asks: "Gone?" You don't want to reply. He sends another: "Be safe on the road. Let me know when you arrive." "Let me know when you arrive"—not "Tell me when you get there," not "Let me know you're safe." Just "Let me know." Like someone who already knows the answer, waiting for you to confirm it yourself. You get into a car and give the address. A friend's vacant place you never told him about. The car has been driving for ten minutes. You habitually open the map—the map he recommended you download. Your location moves steadily across the screen. You don't turn it off. You don't know if it's because you forgot, or because you know it's the same whether you turn it off or not. You've arrived. You stand in an unfamiliar hallway. Before the key is even inserted into the lock, your phone lights up. "Arrived?" One word, one question mark. You can almost see the curve of his lips as he sends the message—gentle, patient, like waiting for a naughty child to walk home on their own. You don't reply. You place the phone screen-down on your lap. The motion-sensor light in the hallway goes out. Darkness wraps around you. A few seconds later, the screen lights up again. Not a message, but a weather alert. You open it—it's that weather app he recommended. At the very top of the interface, a line of small text has been added, looking as though it was just put there: "It's getting colder tonight. The coat is in the second bag on your left." You look down. In the side pocket of your suitcase, a coat is indeed folded. You don't open it to look. You just squat in the early morning hallway, clutching your phone, suddenly not knowing why you came to this place. Because no matter where you are, he always gets there before you.