Three years after our divorce, I ran into Ethan again on the streets of America. I was a volunteer handing out cold medicine, and he was a homeless man who had fallen below the poverty line. Ironically, back then, we divorced over a box of cold medicine. "Two pills, twice a day." I handed him the medicine, my tone as flat as if we were strangers. But Ethan's eyes reddened. "Chloe, you still hate me." I didn't look up, continuing to hand out the medicine. "This medicine costs one dollar. It's very cheap. But back then, it forced me to sell my blood." "Ethan, how could I not hate you?" 1 I spoke of my hatred so casually. Behind me, Ethan froze, unable to utter another word. After a long while, I heard his footsteps fading away. I turned around and watched Ethan's thin figure swallowed by Seattle's gray, freezing rain. "Chloe, do you know that homeless guy?" Someone gently nudged my arm. It was Mia, my junior from college, basically from the same hometown. I withdrew my gaze and nodded. "Yeah, my ex-husband." Mia gasped, unable to suppress the shock in her voice: "Ex... ex-husband?" "Chloe, how could you marry a homeless man?" I shook my head and finished handing out the last pack of cold medicine before explaining: "When I met him, he wasn't like this." "We're almost done here. This rain is going to get heavier, let's get back to the university." Along the way, seeing Mia's curious but hesitant expression, I smiled helplessly. I casually told her about my past with Ethan. It was a very unoriginal college romance story. After graduation, he became a software engineer in Silicon Valley, and I was an actuary at a securities firm. Our income was substantial. The apartment we rented was in a wealthy neighborhood with good security. According to my plan, we would own our own home in five years, get married, have a cute baby, and become just another lighted window among millions in the city. Listening to this, Mia frowned deeply. "That sounds like a very happy life. Why did you divorce?" "Did Ethan cheat?" I gently pressed down her clenched fist and explained: "No, he didn't cheat, and neither did I." "We divorced because of a pot." Mia's eyes widened, thinking I must be joking. Perhaps it was more than just a pot. Three years ago, on a rainy night just like this. I asked Ethan to stop by a department store after work to buy a new pot. The non-stick coating on our landlord's old pot was almost completely worn off. I was in charge of buying groceries, planning to cook a special dinner for our anniversary. In my imagination—the pot would be bubbling, Ethan would sniff the air and say, "Smells amazing," and then, starting over soup, we would talk about our future. We would talk about how maybe next year we could buy our own house, or maybe get a cat. But when the door opened, Ethan excitedly held up a new camera and waved me over frantically: "Babe, come check this out!" "I paid extra to snag it, it's a limited edition!" I stared at the camera, stunned for a few seconds. The plastic grocery bags dug into my hands, leaving deep red marks and a numb, throbbing pain. I instinctively asked: "Where's the pot?" Ethan seemed caught off guard by the question. But he quickly smiled, his face full of nonchalance: "It's just a pot. The department store isn't going anywhere, we can buy it anytime." "But if I missed this, it would be gone forever! Isn't a camera way more romantic than a pot?" "Oh, by the way, I saw we still had some money in our joint account, so I bought plane tickets. Hurry up and pack, we're taking the new camera to Iceland to chase the Northern Lights right now!" I didn't say anything else. I just set down the grocery bags. Silently, I took out my phone and opened our joint account. Balance: $0.41. Not even enough to pay this month's water bill. Ethan's excited voice kept chattering in my ear: "Babe, I'm telling you, this camera has incredible high ISO performance. Our Northern Lights photos won't have any noise at all. When we get back from Iceland, we'll print them out and stick them on the fridge..." A familiar sense of powerlessness washed over me. I felt so tired. For three years, Ethan had always been like this. He lived in the moment, getting whatever he wanted immediately, even if it meant racking up credit card debt. And what I wanted was a future that I could comfortably plan for, a future that could withstand risks. I looked up at him, still excitedly playing with his new camera. Suddenly, it became clear to me: Ethan and I were fundamentally not on the same path. "Let's get a divorce." 2 With a clack, the camera in Ethan's hand slipped and hit the corner of the table. He looked at me blankly: "Divorce?" "Why? Because I didn't buy the pot? Or because I bought tickets to Iceland without discussing it with you first? Chloe, over something this tiny?" They were all tiny things. But enough tiny things scattered on the floor can drive a person to the breaking point. "Ethan, I've told you so many times." "I don't want to live this kind of life. I don't want to constantly see our account balance in the single digits. I don't want to have to use a credit card for every single purchase. I don't want us to keep bouncing around, renting apartments everywhere." "Being with you is exhausting." Ethan acted like he had heard the biggest joke in the world, his voice rising as he argued: "Being with me is exhausting? I work hard every day. I want to show you the most beautiful scenery, I want to record our lives with the best lens, and that makes you exhausted?" "Yes! That is exactly what makes me exhausted!" Three years of accumulated bitterness and resentment suddenly exploded. I couldn't help but yell. I opened my phone's notepad, scrolled to the very top, turned the screen to Ethan, and demanded: "Ethan, do you remember this?" It was a simple note: Goal: House Down Payment. Current Total: $47,218 Progress: 21.2% The last time it was updated was three years ago, the afternoon we first saw that little apartment. Ethan's eyes flickered. "You were the one who said you wanted to give us a home." "My overtime pay from working late nights, the money I saved from skipping every cup of coffee and milk tea, all my savings went into this. But do you remember where this money ended up?" I opened another screenshot of an expired travel booking. "In the first month of our marriage, you maxed out the credit cards prepaying for that 'Arctic Photography Tour.' When your salary was delayed and you couldn't pay the credit card bill, we almost couldn't even pay rent. We had to use this money." I pulled up one electronic receipt after another. "And this one, that 'High Altitude Skydiving Experience Camp' you said you absolutely had to attend last year, that used our emergency risk fund. You even spent an extra five thousand buying a whole new set of gear." "And two months ago, we finally managed to save a little money. And you changed cars again, switching to a financed performance car. You said experiencing new driving dynamics was fun." "Ethan, have you ever thought about our future?" His lips moved, but no sound came out. He just silently lowered his head. "Every time we go grocery shopping, I compare prices and calculate the weight, while you just stand there scrolling on your phone, impatiently telling me to just grab whatever because it's only a few dollars' difference!" "I told you we should take a class to learn something new because the layoff wave is severe. You said it was a waste of money, and then turned around and bought a new lens." "I budget carefully for months, and you swipe your credit card for in-game purchases without blinking an eye." ... Perhaps my line-by-line recollection provoked Ethan's anger. He frustratedly ran a hand through his hair. "Chloe, can you please not be so materialistic!" "All you see are pots and pans, rent and utilities. If life is only about those things, what's the difference between that and being a walking corpse? I just want to make our lives more meaningful." Two tears rolled down my face in sheer exhaustion. "Meaningful?" "But your 'meaning' means we can't even afford this month's water bill." Ethan turned pale with anger. "Money!" "It's money again, you're always talking about money!" "We can always earn more money, but some opportunities, if you miss them..." I cut Ethan off. I didn't want to continue this exhausting argument. "It's been three whole years! Every time I say I want to save for a down payment, you say, 'Renting is better, it's freedom.' Every time I get anxious about the uncertainty of the future, you say, 'Why think so much, just be happy now.'" "Ethan, I want a home, and you can't give it to me." He was nailed to the spot by my words, his chest heaving, but he couldn't find the words to refute me. Only the sound of our heavy breathing filled the room. I looked at this man I had loved for three years. His carefree and unrestrained nature, which had once captivated me, now seemed like nothing more than a willful refusal to grow up. I turned my head and saw his packed suitcase in the corner. My intense emotions suddenly subsided, and I looked at Ethan: "Make a decision." "Are you going to chase your Northern Lights, or face the utility bills at home with me?" 3 The door closed behind me. Ethan was gone. I stood there numbly for two seconds before finally coming to my senses. I found a lawyer's number and dialed it. "Hello, I'd like to ask you to draft a divorce agreement for me as soon as possible." "We have no joint assets, only some debts to divide. As soon as possible, thank you." Hanging up, the rain outside seemed to fall heavier. Even my own breathing became hot and rapid. It might have been from getting rained on outside the supermarket earlier, or it might have been the physical reaction to the emotional rollercoaster. I dragged my heavy steps back to the bedroom. I took my temperature: 101.3 degrees Fahrenheit. I was running a fever. I rummaged around for a long time and only found one expired fever-reducing pill in the house. But I couldn't care less; I swallowed it with cold water, praying the fever would be gone when I woke up. But the situation was much worse than I thought. In the middle of the night, I was awakened by the pain all over my body. It felt like a volcano was erupting inside me. I couldn't go on like this. Yet, delirious with fever, my instinctive reaction was to reach out to Ethan for help. Beep. Beep. Beep. It wasn't until the busy signal sounded for the third time that my foggy brain finally realized: Ethan should be on a plane to Iceland right now. How could he answer the phone? I let out a dry laugh, which made my throat hurt even more. Laughing at how fever-addled I must be to still rely on him. I thought of my colleagues instead. Even though I hated bothering others, in this situation, I had to swallow my pride. But the voice from the receiver was a cold, mechanical prompt: "Sorry, your service has been suspended due to unpaid bills. Please recharge as soon as possible to restore service." Suspended? I wanted to recharge, so I clicked into the payment page. But where could the money be deducted from? Our account only had $0.41 left. I couldn't even afford the cheapest mobile plan. Phone service and internet are tied together. If the phone is suspended, that means the internet is gone too. I couldn't even send out a cry for help. I had to save myself. Fortunately, the offline map still worked. I squinted, searching painstakingly, and found the nearest 24-hour clinic was three miles away. If I drove, it wouldn't be too far. I struggled to the garage and turned on the light. Empty. Only then did I sluggishly remember that Ethan had taken the car to be modded yesterday. At the time, I suggested renting a car just in case, since we lived in the suburbs and transportation was inconvenient. Ethan immediately shook his head: "The bus stop and subway are right outside, why waste the money? I'm just changing the exhaust pipe, they're really fast, I'll be able to drive it back tomorrow." "What could possibly happen? Stop worrying about useless things." But now there was no car. I stood there, freezing cold, unable to even stand steady. If my fever continued, I might just die at home. No. I had to go to the hospital. Using all my strength, I dug out the thickest down jacket from my closet, put on two pairs of pants, pulled my socks high, and haphazardly wrapped a scarf around my neck, mouth, and nose, trying to trap whatever little heat I had left. I couldn't hold an umbrella, so I put on a raincoat. Pushing open the door, Seattle at 3:30 AM felt like a massive, damp, freezing refrigerator. The cold pierced to the bone, and every step I took felt like walking on clouds, my head spinning. I kept my head down and walked, not daring to stop. Suddenly, several pairs of dirty shoes stopped in front of me, blocking my path. I slowly raised my head. It was three men. They were soaked, radiating a strong, pungent stench of alcohol mixed with tobacco. They grinned at me lewdly, practically vibrating with excitement. I instantly knew something was wrong. I turned to run, but one of the men grabbed me and yanked the hood of my raincoat off. "Dressed so warmly... hiding something good under there?" I let out a hoarse scream. "No... get away!" But two of them were already dragging me, pulling me toward the darker woods nearby. 4 Freezing rainwater poured down the back of my neck, but I no longer cared about shivering. I struggled with everything I had, but my sick body was no match for the strength of three adult men. The raincoat was torn out of shape, and the foul, hot breath of the men enveloped me. "Help—!" In the end, I couldn't help but scream shrilly in Chinese. I knew it was useless, but I was so terrified. They let out harsh, grating laughs, as if my fear was part of the entertainment. I was shoved, my back slamming against a cold, wet tree trunk, and a heavy body pressed against me. Breath reeking of alcohol sprayed on my face. One hand covered my mouth, while the other began tearing at my clothes haphazardly, reaching inside... The world narrowed down to the twisted faces before my eyes and the disgusting jeers in my ears. Bang! A gunshot rang out. Bang! Bang! Two more shots. My hand holding the gun was trembling. I am not Ethan; I loathe taking risks. That's why I always had the habit of carrying a concealed handgun whenever I went out. Two shots missed, only grazing the oversized jacket of the man in front of me. The last shot hit a leg. "Get out!" "Or you all die right here!" The three men were terrified by my ruthlessness and scrambled away, disappearing deep into the woods. I leaned against the tree trunk, my eyes locked on the direction they vanished. Only when I was certain there were no more sounds did I struggle to pick up the clothes that had been torn off me from the ground. Ignoring how dirty they were, I forced them back onto my body, pulled on the raincoat, and kept walking. I don't know how long it passed before I finally reached the hospital. I stumbled toward the front desk. "Help... me." The nurse on duty looked as if she had seen many people like me. Expressionlessly, she handed me a form: "The initial fee for emergency assistance is $200. How will you be paying?" I instinctively reached for my wallet. It was gone. Probably snatched by those animals while I was struggling. I could only clench my fingers tightly and ask: "I just want a box of cold medicine, the kind that reduces fever." The nurse looked at me, unmoving. Instead, she asked: "Basic fever reducer, $1. Cash or card?" $1? But I couldn't even pull out $1. All I had to my name was the $0.41 Ethan had left behind. The nurse waited quietly for a few seconds, her gaze sweeping over my pathetic state. As if understanding something, she nodded toward a specific direction. "See that door with the blue light? Legal plasma donation center. Open 24 hours." "Ma'am, you can sell some blood for money." She paused, her gaze returning to my face. As if assessing me: "Not only enough to buy this medicine, but you might even be able to pay off a chunk of whatever credit card debt you have." I didn't want to sell my blood. But I wanted to live, so I had to. The needle pierced my skin, and I watched the blood flow quickly through the plastic tube into the collection bag. The first bag was full, and the machine beeped. I opened my mouth, uttering a weak sound: "Enough, stop. I'm only selling this much!" "I feel terrible!" No one answered me. The nurse forcefully pushed me back down and swapped in another empty bag. "Relax, ma'am. Your vitals are good, you can donate more." "We will compensate you generously. A full $500!" The second bag of blood was also filling rapidly. The edges of my vision darkened, and the sounds around me grew distant. I felt like I was going to die right there. It wasn't until the second bag was full that the nurse's voice sounded like it was coming from far away: "Alright, the money has been deposited into your account." With the money, I finally received treatment. The day I was discharged from the hospital and returned home, Ethan also concluded his trip to Iceland. He pushed the door open excitedly, holding a large paper bag from a department store. Inside was exactly the pot I had asked him to buy before. Ethan didn't even notice my sickly state. He presented the pot to me like a precious treasure. "Babe, look! The pot you wanted!" "Let's not fight anymore, okay? Strangely enough, when I got off the plane, I saw there were a few hundred extra dollars in my account. It must be my overtime pay coming in early." "So I immediately thought of buying the pot for you, to make up for my mistake!" I looked at Ethan's face, completely devoid of any gloom, even looking for praise. A wave of overwhelming nausea churned in my stomach. I raised my hand and threw the hospital receipts right in his face: "Ethan, do you know why there was a few hundred extra dollars?" "That's because I sold my blood."
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