That night, the wind entwined with the rain, the rain with the wind, as our southern city greeted the first cold snap of spring. Cold, piercingly cold. I lay curled up in bed, unable to shake the chill from my bones. In that biting cold, I imagined even the city's passions must have been subdued, for in the sound of the wind and rain, I could almost hear the city's shivering.
I had been working at my computer for sixteen straight hours, sustained only by two cups of coffee, two glasses of milk, and a handful of biscuits. When I finally completed the report and shut down the computer, I was already eighty percent drained.
After a cursory wash, I fell into bed, an indescribable exhaustion overwhelming me, and I wanted nothing more than to sink into sleep, never to awaken.
That's when the phone rang.
It was my ex-husband.
"I'm getting married. She's beautiful, gentle, capable. I feel so happy." His voice brimmed with excitement, a strange contrast to his usual slow, measured tone, his words tumbling out in an uncharacteristic rush of disordered enthusiasm. But I understood: he had found someone he cherished and was preparing to start a new life.
But what did that have to do with me? Why did he feel the need to tell me this?
"So, you're getting married? A whirlwind wedding?" My tone must have been laced with mockery.
"Yes, it was love at first sight. I think I truly love her." He regained his composure, his thoughts settling into clearer lines, and his voice, once rigid, took on an unexpected gentleness.
I don't know why, but anger suddenly flared within me.
"Fine, then get married. I wish you well."
After hesitating for a long while, he finally asked, "I've wrestled with this for a while, but would you be willing to come to the wedding tomorrow? Maybe bring your boyfriend? You must have a boyfriend by now, right?"
I wanted to curse him, but the words eluded me, my arsenal of anger drained in an instant.
Minutes after hanging up, I regained my senses, realizing that my heart had once again been hollowed out, left empty. It wasn't his marriage that mattered to me, but the audacity of his invitation to the wedding—a clear provocation. I felt parched, stifled, nauseated, yet I was too weak to even sit up. Struggling, I staggered to the kitchen. In my haste or weakness, I knocked over my beloved teapot, and the delicate crash of porcelain splintering on the floor pierced the silence. My treasured teapot, shattered in an instant. I gazed at the fragments, memories of it drifting back in fragments, too: I had insisted on buying it for its elegant design, despite his practical advice against such extravagance. Over time, he savored its utility, while I, indifferent to tea, adored its artistic beauty—yet our tastes and needs always diverged. Now, among those scattered pieces, I could no longer find any of its former beauty; it was merely shards of memory, like our failed marriage.
I had deliberately shattered my own marriage, striving to seal away the broken pieces forever. But why, on this frigid night, did the man who once wounded me feel compelled to tear open my scars?
Trembling, I dialed Yunke's number, hoping his voice might lend me strength. But Yunke didn't answer; instead, a message came through: his wife wasn't feeling well, and he couldn't talk now. He'd reach out tomorrow.
I slumped to the floor, too weak to endure till tomorrow.
That's when Fatty called. He later told me he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong with me that night, so he finally called to check in.
As soon as I picked up, I burst into tears, crying till the world seemed to darken.
He was alarmed. "Yan Yu, what's wrong? Should I come over right now?"
"No. Don't worry about me. I just need to cry it out." I didn't want him to come so late, even though, in truth, I craved a man's comforting shoulder. But I didn't yet feel drawn to his.
If only it were Yunke, I thought helplessly, clinging to a waning hope.
"But you need to tell me what's happened, or how can I rest easy?" Fatty's worried voice on such a night was warm and comforting.
"He's getting married," I said.
"Who? Someone you care about?"
"No, my ex-husband."
"Your ex-husband? Why are you crying over that? Do you regret it?"
"But he was so cruel, inviting me to his wedding and telling me to bring my boyfriend—knowing full well I don't have one! He just wants to spite me."
Fatty was indignant. "That's not a manly move at all. Yan Yu, don't worry. Really. I'll go with you tomorrow."
"I'm not going! Why should I?"
"Why not? Let's go dressed to the nines, cheerful and bright, and show him how wonderful your life is now."