"Goodnight, Clara."

"Mm, goodnight."

It was a dreamless night.

I slept well, and waking up felt so natural.

But the moment I opened my eyes, I sensed that something was different.

I immediately looked down, and I saw my own hands—slender, fair, and painted with light pink nail polish.

My hands.

I snapped my head toward the next bed.

Julian was lying there, still fast asleep.

We had switched back.

On an ordinary morning, without any warning, we had switched back.

I sat there frozen, clutching the corner of the quilt, my knuckles white.

In that instant, many things flashed through my mind—

The flight was at 12:00 PM; if I wanted to leave, I had to pack and leave the hospital now.

But could I really leave so silently?

My heart began to struggle. I don't know how much time passed—maybe a minute, maybe ten.

I lightly lifted the quilt.

However, just as I stepped out of bed, I saw two things on the nightstand.

A diamond ring, and a plane ticket.

The ring was my wedding ring, which should have been on my ring finger.

The ticket was the one I had booked long ago, from Shanghai to Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris.

The two items lay side by side, sitting quietly in the gray morning light.

My fingers began to tremble.

So Julian knew everything.

He knew I hadn't given up on going to France; he knew I didn't want to continue this marriage with him.

He knew what was in my heart during all these nights where I pretended to be asleep, pretended nothing was wrong, and pretended we could start over.

He knew everything.

But he didn't call me out, didn't demand an explanation, didn't beg.

He just placed the choice in front of me while I was asleep.

Leave, or stay.

He let me choose for myself.

Chapter 8

I stood there, stunned, looking at those two items for a long time.

The ward was terrifyingly quiet, save for the sound of Julian's steady breathing.

The morning light was too thin—so thin that I could see every scratch on the ring. He had put it on my finger himself eight years ago at our wedding; the band had worn down with fine lines, just like this marriage—it looked passable on the outside, but inside, it was full of scars.

In the end, I placed the ring gently beside his pillow.

I chose the ticket.

Julian was sleeping deeply, curled into a small ball, his eyelashes trembling slightly as if he were dreaming.

Was I in his dreams?

Would he dream of when he was eighteen, holding a wilted daisy, asking me, "Could you try to like me back?"

I shouldn't think about these things.

If I think too much, I won't be able to leave.

I took a deep breath and suppressed all my emotions. This marriage had come to this point; a temporary separation was the best ending.

I began to pack, my movements light, afraid of waking him.

My passport was at the very bottom of the drawer, pressed under that visa I had obtained three months ago but never taken out.

Back then, I was still in the cold war; back then, I still thought I didn't love him anymore.

Only now did I realize that the cold war was because I loved him too much.

Loved him so much I couldn't bear his silence, loved him so much I couldn't bear his absence, loved him so much that every moment he wasn't there felt like having my throat constricted.

So I used anger to replace the pain, and questions to replace tears, pushing him further and further away—far enough that he finally couldn't see how terrified I was.

Terrified that he didn't love me.

Terrified that he had never loved me at all.

Terrified that the boy who had broken his lollipop in two to give to me since he was four years old had already died in the long stretch of years.

These words are too dramatic if spoken aloud.

So I won't say them.

I will leave.

When the zipper of my backpack closed, it made a very faint sound.

I looked back at him—just one look.

He turned over and mumbled something in his sleep.

I didn't catch what it was.

I swallowed my tears back, found a sticky note on the nightstand, and picked up a pen.

The tip of the pen hovered over the white paper, trembling for a long time.

What to write?

"I hate you"? A lie.

"I'm sorry"? I have nothing to apologize to him for.

"Wait for me"? What right do I have to ask him to wait.

In the end, I only wrote one sentence: "When I have figured out how to live my own life, I will come back."

After writing, I folded the note and pressed it under the diamond ring.

My knees went weak the moment I stood up, and my fingernails dug into my palms as I placed my hand on the doorknob.

I took a deep breath, twisted the door open, and stepped into the hallway.

I didn't look back.

So I didn't see that the moment I closed the door, two lines of tears flowed from Julian’s tightly shut eyes.

The fluorescent light in the hallway made my eyes ache. My eyes were red, but I didn't let the tears fall.

The taxi took me onto the airport expressway. I watched the scenery of this city moving backward, getting further and further away, more and more blurred.

When I reached the airport terminal, checked in, walked through the gate, and boarded the plane—everything was done in one go, taking less than half an hour.

I sat in my seat and looked out the window. The sky over Shanghai was gray, just like my mood at that moment.

Then the plane began to taxi, accelerated, and left the ground—

The immense force of the takeoff pressed me into my seat. Outside, the high-rise buildings quickly became smaller, turning into building blocks, then blurred blocks of color.

Shanghai slowly faded away beneath my feet.

In that moment, I suddenly collapsed.

I bit my lip hard to keep from crying out, but the tears gushed out like a broken dam. I trembled as I reached for a tissue in my handbag, but in the side compartment, I touched something hard and square.

I pulled it out—it was a small, light gray velvet box.

Not a ring box, but slightly larger.

I was stunned for a few seconds and opened the box.

There were no jewels inside, only three things: a brass key, a handwritten French address, and a note folded into a square.

I unfolded the note first, and there, in Julian’s vigorous handwriting:

[Clara, if you are reading this, it means you have made your choice. I respect all of your decisions, whether to leave or to stay.]

[This key is for the apartment at 47 Sentier Street, 16th Arrondissement, Paris. Everything you need is there.]

[Take care of yourself.]

Chapter 9

Julian was not asleep.

The moment Clara lightly lifted the quilt, he had woken up.

He did not open his eyes.

He felt her get out of bed, her bare feet touching the floor, walking two steps before pausing.

What was she looking at? Was she looking at that ring and that plane ticket?

Then he felt her gaze fall upon him.

She was looking at him.

That gaze was very light, as light as a feather, but it scalded him.

He held his breath, afraid she would discover he was faking sleep; he didn't know why he was faking it—perhaps he was afraid she wouldn't be able to leave, or perhaps he was afraid that if she left, he would try to stop her.

He listened as she opened the drawer, unzipped bags, and packed her things.

Every sound was faint, so quiet as if she were afraid of waking him; she was carefully saying goodbye to this marriage.

Then, footsteps approached.

She stood by the bedside, very close.

He caught her scent—beneath the smell of hospital disinfectant was the faint fragrance of the body wash she always used.

He was too familiar with this scent, familiar enough that even with his eyes closed, he could find her in a crowd.

He heard her walk to the nightstand, pick up a pen, and write on a piece of paper.

The sound of the pen nib sliding across the paper was soft, but he heard every word clearly.

He couldn't make out the content of the words, but he heard the rhythm of her writing: pause, then write, pause again, then write.

She was hesitating.

Then the paper was folded and pressed under something.

She stood there for a while.

Deep breaths—inhaling, exhaling—as if she were psyching herself up.

Then she left.

The footsteps grew distant, the door handle was turned, the door pulled open, and she stepped out.