I couldn't explain.

Because I couldn't understand it myself.

Chapter 18

After being discharged, I went back to my own home.

I assumed he would go back to his hometown.

After all, he had a stable job at the funeral home there, but in the city, he had no place to stay, no job, and no reason to stay behind.

Yet he didn't leave.

He found a short-term rental near my home.

He said it was nearby, but in reality, it was three streets away, a fifteen-minute walk.

Every day after finishing his business, he still came over, cooked for me, kept me company for dinner, and left after sitting for a while.

Sometimes when he was too tired, he would lie on the sofa for a bit before leaving.

I urged him not to come every day—I said it once, twice, three times—but he acted as if he hadn't heard me.

Eventually, I stopped saying it.

One afternoon, I didn't go to work and was tidying up things at home.

I had taken long-term leave after the surgery; the doctor said I needed at least a month to recover.

Bored at home, I dug out those old, dusty items from the cabinet to organize them.

I unearthed an old box—a paper box with frayed edges.

Inside were some miscellaneous items: movie ticket stubs, train tickets, attraction tickets, and a red string.

That red string was one I had braided three years ago.

Back then, I followed online tutorials to learn how to braid wristbands. I braided three: one for my grandmother, one for him.

After he and I broke up, I made another one for myself and kept it.

The one I kept for myself had never been worn.

It had been lying in this box for five years, still new, its color a vibrant red—no fading, no fraying.

It was like a piece of the past sealed in time, waiting for the day to be reopened.

I held that red string and looked at it for a while, then tied it onto my own wrist.

My movements were very light, like I was doing something shameful.

After tying it, I pulled my sleeve down to hide it.

The doorbell rang.

I opened the door, and he was standing outside, carrying groceries.

As he entered and changed his shoes, his gaze landed on my wrist.

I had only pulled my sleeve down a little, not covering it completely; a small section of the red string was exposed, the bright red standing out starkly against the white wall.

I followed him into the kitchen and leaned against the doorway.

His silhouette was still the same—broad shoulders, narrow waist; he looked very slender when wearing dark clothes.

The faucet was on, and he was washing vegetables; his movements were unhurried, the greens turning over under the stream of water.

"Where's yours?" I asked.

He was in the middle of washing the vegetables, and he freed one hand to roll up his sleeve, revealing that faded red string.

The string was already very old; the color had faded from red to a dull, dark ochre. The edges were frayed, and in some places, the threads had come loose, but the knot remained tight. It was clear he had been wearing it very carefully, never letting it unravel.

"Didn't you say you threw it away?" I remembered it very clearly; he had said those words at the tea restaurant.

At the time, he was sitting across from me, his tone very flat, as if he were talking about something unimportant. I believed him.

"I lied to you," he said. The sound of the water was loud, yet his voice was as clear as if it were right in my ear.

I asked him: "What else have you lied to me about?"

He turned off the faucet, dried his hands, and turned around to look at me.

His expression suddenly became very serious.

The kitchen light shone down from above his head, casting soft shadows on his face, and his cheekbones were more prominent than before.

"Mina, I've lied to you about many things, but there is one thing I have never lied to you about."

"What?"

"I like you."

The kitchen was very quiet; there were birds chirping outside the window, and a child crying downstairs.

I looked at his face, looked into his sincere eyes, and looked at the tips of his ears, which turned slightly red as he said those words.

It was exactly the same as it was five years ago.

Chapter 19

Days passed one by one, and my body grew stronger and stronger.

My weight slowly returned, and my complexion was no longer so pale. During my follow-up at the hospital, the doctor said I was recovering well and all indicators were normal.

Caleb was still staying in Shanghai and had found a new job.

I didn't know what specific job it was; he didn't say, and I didn't ask.

He came every day after work to cook for me and keep me company for dinner.

The conversations between us were minimal, like two strangers living under the same roof, but not quite.

Strangers wouldn't remember that the other person doesn't add sugar to their porridge, wouldn't remember that the other person is sensitive to light while sleeping, and wouldn't hand over a cup of warm water when the other person coughs.

One day he said to me: "Take a few days off, I'll take you back to the small town for a visit."

"What for?"

"To see your grandmother."

I froze for a moment.

My grandmother was getting old and lived alone in my hometown. I had always wanted to go back, but I was afraid she would notice that I had been sick.

The surgical scar was still on my abdomen; although it had healed, I didn't dare let my grandmother see it.

If she knew I had cancer, she would worry herself to death.

After hesitating for a few days, I finally agreed.

Some things cannot be avoided, just like some people.

When we got back to the small town, my grandmother was very happy to see me, holding my hand and saying, "You've gotten so thin, there's no meat on your face anymore."

She then saw Caleb standing at the door. Her gaze moved back and forth between the two of us, but she didn't ask anything, only saying, "Come in and sit."

My grandmother's health was still decent, but she was old after all, and her walking had slowed down a lot.

She leaned on her cane, shuffling one step at a time, each step looking like it took a great deal of effort.

We stayed in the small town for a few days. Before we left, my grandmother held my hand and whispered: "That boy is good; you shouldn't have broken up with him back then."

I pulled my hand back: "Grandmother, please don't get involved in this."

My grandmother sighed and said no more.

Her gaze fell on the red string on my wrist, and she looked at it for a long time.

On the train back to Shanghai, I didn't speak the whole time.

Caleb sat beside me, also not speaking.

The fields and villages outside the window flew backward, turning from green to gray, and from gray to black.

I leaned against the window glass and closed my eyes.

My grandmother's words spun in my mind for the entire journey.

But so what? I was the one who initiated the breakup, and I was the one who let go first; I had no right to look back.

After returning to Shanghai, I deliberately kept my distance from Caleb.

When he sent me messages, I would wait a long time to reply, and I would always be perfunctory.

When he came to my place, I would say I was tired and tell him to leave early.

He didn't say anything, but he still came as usual, and left as usual.

It was as if nothing I said affected his decisions.

One night, he worked overtime until very late, arriving at my place at nearly eleven.

When I opened the door for him, he was leaning against the doorframe, his eyes unable to stay open.

"Go back and sleep; why did you come here?"

"I wanted to see you." As soon as he finished speaking, he slumped onto the sofa and fell asleep in less than three seconds.

I stood beside the sofa, looking at his exhausted face.

His brow was furrowed; even in his sleep, he was frowning.

I reached out, hesitated for a long time, and then withdrew my hand. I fetched a blanket from the bedroom and gently covered him with it.

He turned over and mumbled something, but I didn't hear it clearly.

The next morning when he woke up and realized he was covered with a blanket, he was stunned for a moment.

He went to the kitchen to make breakfast, and the sound of the spatula was much softer than usual.