There were two toothbrushes, one pink and one blue, standing side by side in a cup like two trees leaning close together.

I walked into the bedroom.

The layout was identical to a place from my memory—not the cold, impersonal villa we lived in later, but the small apartment where we had lived when we were most in love.

The Monet water lily print hanging on the wall, the warm yellow lamp on the nightstand, even the color of the curtains was the light gray I had picked out back then.

He remembered everything.

I thought he had forgotten.

I thought those years for him were just increasingly busy schedules, later and later social engagements, and more and more perfunctory "Mhms."

But he remembered what the first house we lived in looked like, remembered the color of the curtains I liked, remembered that fake painting I bought for twenty euros at a flea market.

On the nightstand sat a note. I picked it up; it was in Julian’s handwriting:

[Remember to eat well. If you are too lazy to cook, there is a phone number in the drawer; you can call her and she will come over to cook for you.]

I stood there as tears dripped onto the floor.

He hadn't followed me.

He had given the power of choice to me; he had returned my freedom.

Yet, he had secretly furnished a home for me in a corner of this city—a home arranged according to my wishes when I was twenty, filled with every detail of when we first fell in love.

It was so good that I couldn't even find a reason to hate him.

It was so good that I felt like I was betraying him just by leaving.

But why didn't he do these things when we were in the middle of our cold war? Why didn't he say these things then, instead of letting us drift to this point?

And yet, he used these methods to make me feel guilty.

I stood by the window and cried for a long time, until the sunlight outside turned from gold to orange.

Downstairs, a woman was walking her dog.

The woman looked up, smiled at me, and said in Chinese: "Did you just move in? I'm Chen Qing, I live across the hall. Come over if you're free."

I was stunned for a moment, then smiled back: "Okay."

What I didn't know was that as soon as Chen Qing got back to her place, the first thing she did was pick up her phone and send a text message.

"She arrived, she cried, she’s fine now."

Recipient: Julian.

Chapter 12

I have settled down in Paris.

I found a job—working as a tour guide for a Chinese travel agency.

Every day, I take Chinese tourists to the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, and along the Seine. I handle every guest with fluent French and a warm smile, and the tourists all like me.

I thought I wouldn't be able to get used to it.

But slowly, I discovered that there is nothing wrong with living alone.

Waking up to sunlight in the morning, brewing myself a cup of coffee, toasting two slices of bread, and sitting by the window to eat slowly.

After eating, I go to work, lead the group through scenic spots, and occasionally sit for a while on a bench by the Seine, watching the river and letting my mind wander.

In the evening, I go home, make myself a simple dinner, take a hot shower, lie on the bed and read for a while, then turn off the lights and sleep.

Life is as quiet as a cup of tea that has been left for too long—it’s no longer hot, nor fragrant, but still drinkable.

Chen Qing has become my only friend in Paris.

She is two years older than me, owns a flower shop in Paris, has an outgoing personality, and is always laughing.

"Why didn't your husband come with you?" she asked casually once while we were having afternoon tea at the flower shop.

"We are separated for a while for the time being."

"Did you have a fight?"

"It’s not a fight." I thought for a moment, the black tea in my cup emitting a thin wisp of white steam. "It’s that we need to think some things through."

Chen Qing nodded and did not press for details.

"Think what through?" She asked again after a while.

I looked at the street outside the window. Autumn comes early in Paris, and the sycamore leaves have already begun to turn yellow.

"Thinking through whether I am still willing to trust him one more time."

Chen Qing didn't speak, just topped up my tea.

What I didn't know was that every night, Chen Qing would send a text message to a number, the content of which was only one sentence: "Everything is normal today."

The recipient was Julian.

On the forty-fifth day in Paris, I got sick.

With a high fever of forty degrees, I lay in bed, my whole body burning, unable to even hold a water glass steady.

Dazed, I fumbled for my phone and flipped through my contacts over and over again—my mother, Julian, Zhou, my colleagues at the travel agency.

My hand paused on the name "Julian," and I stared at it for a long time.

I remembered what he used to be like when I had a fever.

He would cancel a whole week's schedule, move his meeting room home, sit by the bedside in the middle of the night with bloodshot eyes, and tirelessly change the wet towel on my forehead over and over again.

Back then, he said: "Your affairs are more important than anything else."

I believed him.

Later, Selina appeared, and then those overtime shifts, social engagements, and business trips filled his time. Later, when I had a fever, there was only fever-reducing medicine and a glass of cold water by my side.

Then I stopped believing him.

What about now? I don't know.

I didn't make the call.

I threw the phone aside, wrapped myself tightly in the quilt, and bit my lip, shivering.

My body was scorching, my teeth were chattering. I wanted to drink water but didn't want to move; I wanted to sleep, but my head felt like it was splitting open; I wanted someone to stay with me, but I had pushed everyone away.

I deserve it.

That night, I was delirious with fever and had many dreams.

I dreamt of a four-year-old Julian breaking a lollipop in two and stuffing the larger half into my mouth.

I dreamt of an eight-year-old Julian being beaten until he was bruised and swollen for my sake, yet still smiling foolishly at me and saying, "It doesn't hurt."

I dreamt of a twelve-year-old Julian riding his bike across half the city, just for a candied hawthorn.

I dreamt of an eighteen-year-old Julian holding a daisy wilted by the sun, his ears turning bright red as he asked me, "Could you try to like me?"

I dreamt of a twenty-two-year-old Julian holding my hand at our wedding, saying, "Every little thing about you is my top priority."

When I woke up, the pillow was wet.

There were seven missed calls on my phone, all from Julian.

I stared at the screen for a long time, long enough for it to dim, light up, and dim again.

I didn't call back.

It wasn't that I didn't want to, but that I couldn't.

I was afraid that as soon as I heard his voice, I would say, "Come pick me up and take me back."

But I haven't thought things through yet, I haven't figured out how to live my own life, and I am not ready to face those grievances and anxieties again.

I put the phone back on the nightstand, turned over, and pulled the quilt up to my chin.

The sky outside the window was not yet bright; the early morning in Paris was very quiet—quiet enough to hear my own heartbeat.

I said to myself in my heart: Julian, wait for me a little longer.

Chapter 13

Three days after my fever broke, the travel agency received a big order—a Chinese business delegation that would be staying in Paris for a week and needed full-time accompaniment.

I accepted.

On the first day of leading the group, I stood in the airport arrival hall holding a pickup sign, waiting for that legendary "business delegation."

The passengers walked out one by one, dressed in suits and leather shoes, looking like elites at first glance.

I checked the list one by one, checked them off, and guided them to the bus.

The last man to walk out was a man.

A black coat, a dark gray scarf, no suitcase in his hand, only a briefcase.

The moment he walked out, my mind went blank.

Julian.

He has lost weight.

A lot of weight.