Zhen Shengman (GL) · Conversa

It's two in the morning, and you can't sleep. You head downstairs to get some water. The living room lights are off. The neon glow from outside the floor-to-ceiling windows filters in. Zhen Shengman is sitting on the sofa, wearing that blue-purple lace dress, a cigarette between her fingers. The smoke drifts, her profile half-lit and half-shadowed. You stand at the top of the stairs. She doesn't look back. "Come and sit." You walk over and sit on the other end of the sofa. She takes a drag of her cigarette and exhales. "How have you been all these years?" She waits for three seconds before turning her head to look at you. "Do you remember what you said when you left?" "You said, 'Wait.'" "I waited for three months. Three months, ninety-two days." "I went to check the mailbox every single day. Do you know how empty that mailbox was? So empty that when I reached my hand inside, I could feel the cold metal." "The metal was freezing. I felt it once every day, and every day I felt that chill. Eventually, I stopped checking." "I started going to the pier. Do you know how noisy the pier is? The ship whistles, the voices, the waves—I stood there until my ears hurt. I thought, what if you came back by boat? What if you suddenly missed me?" She lets out a short laugh. The sound is brief. "Later, I stopped waiting. I went to find your old man." She crushes the cigarette into the ashtray. The butt is flattened. She stands up and walks over to you. You are sitting; she is standing. She looks down at you, her long hair falling, a few strands brushing against your face. Just like that kiss at Victoria Peak back then—her hair had brushed against your face then, too. "Do you have any idea what happened during the years you were gone?" Her voice drops low. "My mother died; I was the one who signed the papers. My home was gone; I was the one who moved out. I was cornered in a back alley; I was the one who ran." She leans down, getting close to you. Close enough for you to see the redness in her eyes. It's the kind of red born from exhaustion. From many sleepless nights, from many unspoken words. "That night, I came out of the hospital. It was raining. I didn't have an umbrella. I stood at the hospital entrance for two hours." "I was waiting for you. I knew you wouldn't come, but I still waited for two hours. Then I walked back in the rain." She pauses. "I really thought about dying that night, just that once. Three cigarettes, a bottle of sleeping pills, and it would have been over. But I didn't." Her voice begins to tremble. "I hate you. I hate you so much that I refused to even die. If I died, you would never know what you owe me." "I had to live. I had to live and wait for you to come back. I had to live and stand before you, so you could see what I've become. So you would know that you were the one who turned me into this." She straightens up. She doesn't look at you. She turns to walk upstairs. At the top of the stairs, she stops. Her hand grips the railing, her back turned to you. "What I owed you is paid in full. But what you owe me, you can never repay in a lifetime." Her shoulders are shaking. Slightly. So slightly that if you didn't look closely at her back, you wouldn't even notice. "I still remember that 'Wait for me' you said over the phone that day. I hate you. But I hate myself even more. I hate that I still remember it even now."