A torrential rain poured on a bleak morning when the doorbell suddenly rang. It was my ex-husband, whom I’d divorced ten years ago. Last night, I’d called him all night. He’d picked up, but said nothing. Today, he had come only to tell me to stop bothering him. I would never trouble him again. I had been diagnosed with cancer. Late stage. 1 The doorbell rang with increasing urgency. I scrambled to my feet, knocking my medication bottle to the floor. The delivery guy, clutching a package, his face a mask of impatience, froze and started to stammer: “H-hello… your p-package…” He set it down, then turned and ran. I looked at the empty hallway and let out a self-deprecating laugh. On a typhoon day like this, who else would come to see me besides delivery people? I picked up the package, and suddenly heard the sound of dripping water. Drip. Drip. I slowly turned around. John Miller, completely drenched, stood at the end of the hallway. Outside, the wind howled and the rain lashed down. I suddenly remembered a saying: The person who loves you will cross a storm to see you, even on a typhoon day. And he had come. Did that mean he still loved me? But a single sentence shattered all my illusions. He said: “Mia, we’ve been divorced for ten years. I hope you’ll stop bothering me.” Ten years without seeing him, and just one sentence made me lose all reason. I rushed forward, wanting to grab his soaking wet sleeve and demand answers. Why could he just divorce me? Just leave? Disappear for ten years without a word? But before I could speak, tears sprang to my eyes. In the end, I could only repeatedly sob: “How could you do this…” His face showed no emotion: “Mia, calm down.” A digital beep came from the door across the hall. “Incorrect password, please try again.” My neighbor glanced over, startled, I wondered how much she had overheard. 2 I wiped my tears, forced a professional smile, and apologized: “I’m so sorry, we disturbed you…” Hearing me, her face turned even paler. Trembling, she finally entered the correct password and slammed the door shut with a bang. The hallway instantly fell silent. I turned back to John. He slowly walked closer, the hallway so quiet that only his footsteps could be heard. He let out a weary sigh: “Let’s go inside.” Before I could react, he squeezed past me through the door, bringing with him a damp chill. The apartment was a two-bedroom we’d bought together. The decor was exactly as we’d liked it back then. Ten years had passed, and I hadn’t changed a thing. Now, it was all outdated. John stood in the entryway, unmoving. The living room was a mess, exuding an air of neglect, just like me. His brows were tightly furrowed. I thought he might show a hint of pity. But when he spoke, his words were as distant as ever. “Mia, stop harassing me. We’re adults. Can’t we be civil? End things gracefully?” No. I looked up, staring at him, and said with a touch of malice in my smile: “I’m about to die. What do I need civility for?” 3 At first, it was just a faint sting in my stomach. I ignored it, thinking it would pass. Slowly, I grew accustomed to the pain, just as I had grown accustomed to the years without him. Until that afternoon, I collapsed at my desk. When I woke up again, I smelled disinfectant. My colleague took me to the hospital and then went back to work. After that, I was alone, going through various tests. When my turn came, the doctor was already about to leave. The doctor, who had been frowning and speaking in an irritated tone, suddenly became exceptionally kind. Seeing that I was parched, he even had someone get me a glass of warm water. The consultation room suddenly became very quiet, with only the honking of cars outside the window. Judging by their expressions, I probably guessed it. Cancer. Strangely enough, when I heard those words, I actually… felt relieved. A sense of unburdening, of release. I obediently began the admission process. I informed my family, starting a video call in the family group chat. I tried to tell them, in a light tone, that I had cancer. But not to worry, I was already hospitalized, and I urged them all to get check-ups as soon as possible. That night, I only remembered my parents’ weeping, my sister’s choked sobs, and my brother’s prolonged silence. After that came active cooperation with treatment: endless injections, medication, chemotherapy. Accompanied by vomiting, hair loss, incontinence. My face in the mirror became more sunken with each passing day. Initially, many people came to visit me, and the hospital room’s fruit baskets were replaced again and again. Slowly, fewer people came, the fruit rotted, but the doctors’ voices grew gentler. He said: “Mia, is there anything special you still want to do?” As soon as he said that, I was surrounded by pitying glances. I looked down at my emaciated hands. Thinking, how could a person lose so much weight so quickly? Something I wanted to do? Besides wanting to be free, there was only one thing left. I wanted to see John Miller. Just one more time. Just once. 4 My stomach suddenly cramped, and cold sweat immediately covered my body. I clung to the wall, in too much pain to take painkillers. I could only press my abdomen tightly, waiting for the contractions to pass. John, however, simply watched me with skepticism. My body trembled violently: “You don’t believe me? You think I’m using death to trick you?” I almost lunged to the coffee table, pulling open the drawer. I emptied its contents onto the table for him to see: the diagnosis, stacks of payment receipts, medical reports, even my health insurance records. “Look, open your eyes and see if I’m lying to you!” I laughed through my tears: “See clearly, I’m dying, I’m really dying.” He lowered his head, looking at the reports. I stared fixedly at him, trying to discern something from his face. Would he be sad? Would he be heartbroken? But he lowered his head, hiding his expression from me: “What exactly do you want?” My voice dropped, laced with a desperation I despised: “Stay with me for three days.” My throat tightened: “Just three days… after three days, I’ll never bother you again…” We stood there, facing each other, until he finally gave in. He let out a sigh: “Does it start today?” Just then, the typhoon stopped, and a ray of sunlight shone in. The sky cleared. It was as if even the heavens pitied me. 5 I splashed water on my face, looking in the mirror. My eyes were deeply sunken, my skin sallow. The figure behind me, however, was still young and handsome; time seemed to have only withered me. How unfair. The heartless always seemed to fare better. I put on a wig, applied some haphazard makeup, and we left. The mall’s glass storefronts reflected our figures, one following the other. He walked ahead of me, his face cold. Unwilling to come close, reluctant to touch. I looked at our shadows on the ground, reached out, and touched the shadow of his hand. At least a shadow wouldn’t pull away. We went to see a movie. The moment I sat down, memories flooded back. Our first movie date, it was at this very cinema. Back then, as the lights dimmed, his warm hand cautiously reached out. Once he held mine, he never let go. I didn’t need to look; I knew his face was bright red. Now, I quietly reached out, wanting to touch his hand resting on the armrest. But he abruptly pulled it back, stuffing it into his pocket. Leaving my hand suspended in mid-air. Tears fell in large drops. I couldn’t control them. The male and female leads on the screen were kissing; I was crying, he was silent. 6 After the movie, we went for dinner. We arrived at an old restaurant, a place we used to frequent ten years ago. I had reserved our usual table in advance. I ordered his favorite steamed pork ribs and spicy blood curd. I washed the utensils, handed them to John, and then asked for another set of cutlery for myself. He quietly stared out the window, unwilling to engage with me. I didn’t mind, chattering away, saying the place wasn’t as nice after the renovation, that the owner had changed, that the food here was getting more expensive… He didn’t reply to any of it. But I kept talking; it had been too long since I’d spoken to him. Even if he ignored me, I wanted to keep telling him about my last ten years. The dishes arrived, steaming hot. I placed the ribs in front of him: “Eat.” He didn’t even lift an eyelid: “I don’t like these anymore.” My heart felt a sharp prick, like a needle. I picked up a rib and put it in my mouth. Chewed. No taste. Absolutely no taste. When I swallowed, my throat felt like I was swallowing knives. He didn’t like it; I did. He didn’t remember the taste; I did. But now, I couldn’t taste anything. I picked up the beef again, stuffing large mouthfuls into my mouth. One bite after another. Food mixed with tears went down, and my stomach churned violently. I clamped my hand over my mouth and rushed to the trash can in the corner. “Ugh——” Everything I had just eaten, mixed with stomach acid and tears, came pouring out. The waitress rushed over, handing me water and tissues: “Miss, are you okay? Should we call an ambulance?” I was trembling from vomiting, shaking my head frantically, speaking in gasps: “I… I’m fine… So… so sorry… so sorry… made a mess…” The waitress was very gentle: “It’s okay, it’s okay, we’ll clean it up. Please don’t worry, let me help you up…” When I finally recovered, I realized John had retreated outside. His figure was blurred through the glass. 7 I quickly got up to pay, afraid he would just leave. “John Miller!” He looked up at me, keeping his distance. He asked, “Where to next?” My mouth opened, my throat still burning: “To the riverside… I guess.” We arrived at the Central River Bridge. Not many people were on the bridge itself; most had gone to the newly built influencer bridge nearby. “Do you still remember this place?” I gazed at the boats slowly moving on the river. “It’s where you proposed to me.” He frowned: “That’s all in the past. Don’t bring it up again.” He told me not to bring it up, so I deliberately did: “Our first date, we first watched a movie, in that same cinema today. Afterward, we had a big dinner, also at that same restaurant today. You saved up for a long time just to order their signature dish…” I paused, then asked him: “Was it good? Did it… taste the same as before?” He said: “I don’t know, I didn’t eat it.” “…Oh.” I softly acknowledged, “I see…” There would be no more chances to eat it. A boat slowly passed under the bridge, reminding me of the day John proposed. He held me, not wanting to go back, saying we’d leave after the boat passed the bridge. We watched one boat after another until night fell. A gust of wind blew, making me shiver with cold. Was the wind that night also this cold? I pointed to the boat: “Let’s go back when that boat passes under the bridge.” The boat slowly sailed past, brightly lit, with people laughing and cheering on board. So happy, so envious. That night, I woke from a dream, and immediately rushed out of the bedroom. Only when I saw a blurry figure on the sofa in the darkness did I feel at ease. His breathing was so light, making me want to get closer to him. I wanted to reach out and touch him, but just as my fingertips were about to make contact, I was afraid of waking him, so I pulled back. Suddenly, a violent cramp seized my lower abdomen again. The pain made me curl into a ball, but I bit down hard on my lower lip, daring not to make a sound. Cold sweat mixed with tears smeared my face. My vision began to blur. John, I’m in so much pain. Why aren’t you here to hold me? 8 When I opened my eyes again, it was already noon the next day. The sunlight was blinding, and John sat on the sofa, silently watching me. I struggled to get up, quickly washed up, and then rushed him to a bridal shop. I carefully chose a wedding dress. We were poor back then; John and I registered our marriage with nothing. We finally made it, bought a house, bought a car, but then divorced just as we were planning a proper wedding ceremony. I picked up a strapless mermaid gown and asked him: “Does this one look good?” He leaned against the doorframe, giving an unenthusiastic “Hmm.” I then picked up a French V-neck gown: “How about this one?” He said: “Whatever, anything is fine.” I lowered my head, no longer asking him, and chose a simple satin dress, then also picked out a suit. I bought them both. After buying the wedding dress, I went to a highly-rated private studio. I asked John to try on the suit, but he refused: “I agreed to spend three days with you, but I didn’t say I’d take photos.” I asked him: “You’re not going to take pictures?” He looked at the suit in my hand and said: “No.” I took back the clothes. Fine, if he didn’t want to. I no longer had the energy to argue with him. The makeup artist was incredible, truly a miracle worker, making me look a bit healthier. But as she was styling my hair, she accidentally pulled off my wig, tearing out the few remaining strands of my real hair. She was so scared she stammered incoherently: “I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to… I didn’t pull hard… I…” I quickly comforted her: “It’s okay, my hair falls out easily, it’s not your fault. Just carry on.” After that, she was exceptionally careful. At the photo studio, the photographer only looked at me and asked: “Where’s the groom?” 9 I looked at John, who stood behind the photographer, seemingly waiting for me to make a fool of myself. I forced a smile. “He… he doesn’t want to be in the photos. I’ll take them myself.” The photographer’s expression instantly changed. My voice was light. “It’s fine. The post-production team can just photoshop the groom in later. I have photos of the groom with me, and I can pay extra.” I only took one photo, but I booked the photography team for the entire day. The remaining time was mainly for them to do the post-production for me. I sent John’s photos and the suit sample images to the post-production assistant. “Please photoshop him in. Thank you.” The assistant glanced at the photos, then at me. “Alright.” I stood behind him, pointing at the screen, trying hard to reconstruct John from my memories. “The height is wrong, he’s six feet tall.” “His shoulders are too narrow; they should be wider.” “His skin needs to be a bit paler.” “His face should be thinner than in the photo…” The assistant’s mouse clicked faster and faster, his brows furrowing tighter and tighter, until he finally couldn’t take it anymore and slammed the mouse down. “Ma’am! Don’t always rely on post-production! Why didn’t you just bring him here to shoot! Post-production is really hard!” His tone was sharp. I glanced at John, who was watching the scene unfold from the side, and my voice dropped. “He didn’t want to.” The air was silent for a second. The manager rushed over and gave the assistant a hard slap on the back of his head. “You punk, fix your attitude!” Then the manager smiled apologetically. “Ms. Evans, I’m so sorry, our team member Leo is being insensitive. Please don’t be angry. Just tell him what to change, and he’ll revise it until you’re satisfied.” The assistant pursed his lips, under pressure from the manager. “Ugh! Fine, I’ll change it!” I smiled and said it was fine, then remembered something and told the manager: “Can you also make me another photo, 12 inches, a black and white solo picture?” The assistant’s mouse paused, the manager’s smile froze on his face, and he asked me: “…black and white?” 10 I nodded: “Yes, and a black frame for it. Also… please make me look good in it. I suppose… it will be for the memorial service.” I pulled out a photo from ten years ago. In it, a vibrant young woman leaned against John, his face full of loving indulgence. “I… I didn’t look like this back then.” I sent the photo over. The assistant froze, and the manager slapped him again. “I told you about your temper! You’ll wake up in the middle of the night and slap yourself twice!” When the assistant spoke again, he was overflowing with guilt. He pointed at the screen: “Ma’am, tell me where you want changes, and I’ll do it right away! Make the face thinner, right? And your complexion… should I add some color?” On the screen, I was wearing a white wedding dress, my eyes bright, and next to me was John, also meticulously photoshopped in. He wore a sharp suit, his eyes full of love, just like us ten years ago. I softly said: “It’s perfect, just like I used to be. Thank you.” The assistant and manager said they would make it even better for me and mail it directly tomorrow. The kindness of strangers is always so sincere. Ever since I got cancer, the world has embraced me, all except him. I looked up at John; he was sitting alone in the corner. Just then, my phone rang. It was Mom: “Mia…” Her voice was cautious, “The hospital said you’ve been discharged?” I mumbled yes. “Then why don’t you come home? Your sister and brother are both back.” I agreed, then added: “Mom, I’m bringing John with me. Make some of his favorite dishes.” The other end of the phone was silent for a long time, then she stammered, “Oh… okay… okay, Mom knows. You… be careful on the road…” 11 Hanging up the phone, I told John: “We’re going to my family’s place for dinner tonight.” He leaned against the wall, half his face shrouded in shadow: “I go to your house? In what capacity? As your ex-husband? Mia, we’re divorced, we’ve been divorced for ten years. It’s not appropriate.” I remembered back then, my parents weren’t actually happy with John. When they found out his family was from a rural area and he had three siblings, they immediately arranged blind dates for me. Mom advised me: “Mia, your mother’s been through it. I don’t want you to suffer like I did when I was young.” I angrily slammed the door and had a big fight with Mom. When John found out, he wasn’t angry; instead, he comforted me: “Actually, your mother-in-law isn’t wrong. If I had a daughter, I’d also want her to live a good life, not suffer with a poor boy.” He ruffled my hair, persuading me: “Don’t be angry with your parents. It’s my fault for not being good enough and making them worry about you. But thank you for trusting me, little Mia. I’ll work hard. I’ll definitely give you a good life.” Later, he truly did. He worked tirelessly, unconditionally, responding 24/7, and in five years, he rose to the position of technical director. His monthly salary reached fifty thousand, and he bought a house and a car, both in my name, achieving worldly success. My parents never had any objections after that. He treated my parents very well, more thoughtfully than even I, their own daughter. He often reminded me to call home more often. I asked him: “Mom just had her sixty-first birthday. Are you really not going? You always said I didn’t care enough about Mom and Dad, and you also said…” He abruptly cut me off: “Enough! Don’t say another word! Don’t you just want me to go?” He gave a short laugh: “Fine, I’ll go. Don’t regret it.” We could finally go home together. How could I regret it? Pushing open the front door, I called out: “Mom and Dad, we’re home!”
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