My childhood friend, Hank, was home for the holidays, and I overheard his mother trying to set me up on a date. He asked, “Are you that bored?” His mother seemed surprised. “Why are you getting angry?” Everyone knew he was brilliant, a graduate from a top-tier university, while I had only attended an average one – a world of difference. He had no romantic interest in me. But no one knew this was the third year since our unspoken, complicated relationship had ended. Back then, he had simply leaned against the bathroom door and said, “It’s probably better to end things early. It was quite dull.” 1 “Who’s angry?” Hank’s expression was cool and indifferent. “Don’t bother. She won’t agree.” His mother asked, “You’re so sure?” Hank didn't reply. He took his mother’s phone, scrolled through a few photos of potential suitors, and offered a lazy smile. His mother knew his arrogant demeanor well. Hank was a golden boy, effortlessly excelling in academics and blessed with striking looks. He was always the center of attention. “They can’t compare to you,” his mother conceded, “but what if Willow likes one of them?” “You can try.” His tone was detached, as if it had nothing to do with him. Yet, he paused, halting his movement towards the door. Ten minutes later, I sent my reply. [No need, thank you, Auntie.] He barely glanced at it, a silent “I told you so” expression on his face. He turned and walked out, dismissing the matter from his mind. So, he didn't notice the second text message that immediately followed. [Auntie, I’m getting engaged next week.] 2 The summer I loved Hank most was the darkest time of my life. On the eve of winter break in my sophomore year of university, there was a high school reunion. I was packing my suitcase, trying to resist checking if Hank had replied to my message. He hadn’t. Instead, he had added someone else to our group chat. [What’s going on?] [Who’s this?] Friends in the chat started teasing. Hank wrote: [My girlfriend.] The word “girlfriend” exploded in my mind. I knew Hank wasn’t short of admirers, but he had always seemed so indifferent. So indifferent that I clung to a foolish hope. I clicked on his girlfriend’s profile picture. She was beautiful. I sat in my dorm room, applying a full face of makeup, then removing it, finding myself looking terrible no matter what. When I arrived at the reunion, the room was buzzing with lively conversation. Seeing me appear, the laughter abruptly stopped. Hank happened to be standing up, making space for his girlfriend. He leaned halfway towards me, his eyebrow slightly raised. “Willow, what kind of awful makeup is that?” It was a perfectly normal, joking tone for a friend, exactly the same as always. It was me who was different. My insecurity overflowed, leaving me flustered. Everyone chuckled. I instinctively laughed along, trying to hide my embarrassment. “What’s so funny?” Hank’s girlfriend pulled me out of the private room and led me to the restroom. She helped me remove my patchy foundation, asking as she did, “Hank is too mean. I’ll give him a talking-to for you later.” Her hands smelled sweet, her skin delicate. She was so gentle that even I couldn't help but like her. How much more would he like her? That night, I trailed behind the crowd, watching Hank take her hand. They looked perfect together. In the latter half of the party, someone suggested drinking. Hank declined. His girlfriend got into the driver’s seat of his luxury car. I turned to follow the crowd, but Hank grabbed me and pulled me into the back seat. “Don’t pick up bad habits,” he said, his eyes smiling. “If your mother found out, she’d kill me.” “That’s right,” his girlfriend added, “We’ll drop you off at university.” Halfway there, his girlfriend decided she wanted crawfish and asked me, “Want to come eat with us?” Hank looked at me, one hand on the steering wheel, and I understood his expression: Don’t be a third wheel. “You two go ahead,” I said. Hank still dropped me off at university first. Before I got out, I heard his girlfriend quietly ask him, “Am I still coming to your apartment tonight?” The ink-black London night, a cold wind sweeping in, carried that soft but clear question right to my ears. His car sped away. I stood there, remembering high school evenings when Hank would stop his bicycle outside my house, waiting for me. At the time, I thought, If someday he drives a car, how would I feel sitting inside it with him? Now I knew. 3 I heard Hank broke up with his girlfriend after only two weeks. My contact with him had ended long ago. I was busy with exams, lab work, writing papers—busy trying to shed that dark, unremarkable version of myself. It wasn’t until a few years later, before my senior finished university, that she dragged me to a bar. “Do you know that super handsome guy at the next table?” “I heard he’s a tech mogul, his starting salary went straight to six figures.” The speaker gestured a number, and everyone gasped in amazement. I looked at the next table. Hank sat amidst a crowd of handsome men and beautiful women. “I’m going to get his number,” a girl said, standing up and heading excitedly towards their table. She returned ten minutes later. “You didn’t get it, did you?” “That hotshot is notoriously hard to pin down, even at his university.” I got up and went to the restroom. As I came out after washing my hands, I ran into Hank, who was waiting by the door, cutting me off. He wore a black turtleneck, his figure tall and broad. His fair neck looked clean and alluring. He held my coat draped over his arm. He asked, “Did I offend you somehow?” “No.” “Then why did you block me?” His dark eyes stared straight into mine, easily making me feel irritated. “Give me back my coat.” He turned sideways. “No.” The alley outside the bar was filled with the biting cold of falling snow. He asked me again, “Is the guy sitting next to you your boyfriend? Did you learn from him, coming to a bar so late at night?” Seeing my silence, he snorted. “No offense. Just warning you to be careful who you choose. He doesn’t look like a good guy.” My steady gaze met his face. I suddenly understood that some things couldn’t be cured by quitting. They could only be appeased by obtaining them. “Are you angry?” My tone was calm. He chuckled. “Why would I be angry—” “Hank, are you coming home with me?” He froze, as if he didn’t understand the meaning of the words. “If not, then someone else will.” I turned to leave, but he gripped my wrist. On that first snowy night of November, our secret, unspoken relationship began. Honestly, I just wanted to know. What did that arrogant face look like when it was lost in passion? So this was the expression. Even in bed, he was still playing it cool, teasing me. Maliciously, he asked, “Would anyone else do?” No. I looked away, trying desperately not to cry. Month after month, we grew more addicted than the other. I felt I was beyond saving. At one point, I even thought he might genuinely like me. So when he held the hairdryer, his large hand running through my hair, and asked, “Do you like me?” I couldn’t help but say, “Let’s end this kind of relationship—” and then, truly be together. But before I could finish, he let go. The hum of the hairdryer stopped, and the bathroom grew silent, save for the sound of running water. He stared at me for a long time. Leaning against the bathroom door, he gave a faint smile. “It’s probably better to end things early. It was quite dull. Our kind of relationship, you know, it doesn’t even qualify as a breakup.” My soaking wet hair stuck to my back. One moment cold, the next hot. That was the moment I truly wanted to retreat. All these years, I had been so ordinary by his side. But I didn’t want to shortchange this ordinary self of mine anymore. [Auntie, I’m getting engaged next week.] Hank, who hadn't seen this message, was at his childhood friend’s christening celebration. He knew I would be there today too. We hadn't seen each other in three years. He casually glanced at my name tag, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Someone at the table mentioned, “Arthur Stone is getting engaged, did you hear?” “No way! He’s always been single, to the point the media questioned his sexuality. How did he find someone so fast?” “Met her through a setup.” Hank’s eyebrow twitched at the word. He was somewhat allergic to it today. Someone asked, “What kind of fiancée is she?” “A bit like Willow.” Hank’s gaze shifted from the door to the person who spoke. “So he likes that type,” the person joked, then asked Hank, “Why didn’t you ever think of introducing Willow to him?” Hank maintained his detached expression. But a cold draft from the half-open window ruffled the hair on his forehead, making his eyes seem a little darker. “I did introduce them,” Hank said. “She wasn’t interested.” Arthur Stone was known for his fierce, untamed nature, always hungry for more. He was a completely different type from Hank. “I was kind enough to have someone drive her home in her first year of university, to create an opportunity for them.” Hank’s voice was very soft as he spoke. “She even complained to me that Arthur was too aggressive.” Just then, Hank’s childhood friend, Patrick, walked over. He was one of the few who knew about Hank and my past relationship. He looked at Hank with interest and asked, “Do you know what ‘blind spot’ means?” Hank looked confused. Patrick didn't explain further, but narrowed his eyes and smiled, telling the gossiping group at the table, “They say they met through a setup, but Arthur had a crush on her for many years. Too bad the girl was completely devoted to someone else. He finally got his chance.” Everyone was surprised. “No way, he’s got such great qualities, and he’s still poaching someone else’s girl.” “Whose girl is he poaching?” Patrick didn't answer, just clapped Hank on the shoulder. “Did Arthur invite you to his engagement?” “No.” “That’s odd, you two are so close.” Patrick’s smile grew deeper as he asked Hank, “Want to see a photo of his fiancée?” With that, he pulled out his phone and shoved it in front of Hank. Hank leaned down to look, but someone nearby exclaimed, “Willow, you’re here!” His gaze instantly shifted to me at the entrance. I walked in, wearing a cream-colored knit dress. Patrick meaningfully put away his phone and said to Hank, “She looks good, doesn’t she? Never realized Willow had such a great figure back in university.” Hank’s calm gaze fixed on me, then he looked away. He knew. The first time we shared that snowy night, I wore a similar dress. I wore styles I liked for a long time. I was constant in everything. But he didn’t know that people and clothes were different. Once I hit a brick wall, I would turn back from my misguided path. I pulled out a chair and sat down. A long-lost scent drew near. Hank didn’t speak to me, didn't even touch me. He was well-liked. People came to toast him, round after round. “When are you two getting married?” A drunken classmate clapped Hank on the shoulder, pointing at him and me. “What nonsense are you talking about?” He was pulled away by others. “Oh, right, it’s Willow.” “I thought she was Hank’s girlfriend.” “You two are dressed in black and white; I thought it was your wedding.” Hank chuckled at the remark, deflecting it, a charming glint in his eye. He raised his glass and drank the toast. This was the first time he had smiled tonight. 4 The banquet ended. Patrick, who hadn’t drunk, offered to drive me home. I opened the back car door, only to see Hank sitting there. When Hank was drunk, he didn't like to talk; he just liked to stare at people with those dark, cold eyes. “He’s completely out of it. We’re taking him back together. You don’t mind, do you, Willow?” I got into the car and sat down. Hank’s hand remained suspended in the middle, maintaining a distinct separation. It was a long drive back to the city center. I leaned my head against the car window and closed my eyes, trying to sleep. The car would occasionally jolt, causing my head to bump slightly, but I didn’t care. The car window reflected Hank’s face. He stared at the noticeable distance between us, lost in thought. When we arrived at my place, Hank offered to see me upstairs. “No need.” He ignored me, his voice cold. “If anything happened to you, we’d all be responsible.” In the elevator, he leaned against the wall, alcohol-flushed, loosening his tie. “My mother’s setup was quite good. Why didn’t you go for it?” He tilted his chin slightly, looking down, his gaze probing. “Not impressed?” “Then what kind do you like?” He was deliberately provoking me again. “Like me?” I met his gaze in the elevator’s reflection. “Not anymore.” “Then the opposite of me, like Arthur Stone?” My gaze froze. He said, “Too late. He’s getting engaged.” Hank seemed intrigued, asking casually, “Willow, since you’re going on setups anyway, how about we give it a try?” With that, he leaned down, looking into my eyes. “You haven’t been waiting for me to say that, have you?” “No.” I looked up at him earnestly. “The day we ended things, I made it very clear: I wouldn’t like you anymore.” “Really?” He slipped one hand into his pocket, a lazy smile on his face. “Good. Don’t just marry someone to forget me.” Hank’s attitude was indifferent, explicitly a scoundrel but fond of saying pretty words. His tone was remarkably sincere: “More than anyone, I hope you find someone you love and marry them. I’ll definitely wish you well.”
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