Chapter 3
After Jonathan found out I'd removed him from the family payment group, he switched tactics.
He started paying as a "friend" instead.
After each payment, he'd leave a note.
"Time to change the cat food."
"Your period's coming up."
"Two packs of tissues left."
Like a dutiful housekeeper, reminding me of every little detail in my life.
I never replied.
He just kept at it, talking to himself.
Until one day, his note changed.
"It's raining today, bring an umbrella."
I stood at the company entrance, looking at this message.
It was pouring outside.
I really hadn't brought an umbrella.
Three minutes later, he sent another one.
"Do you still have that black umbrella?"
I turned off my phone.
That black umbrella, the one he'd given me in 2018—I'd thrown it away.
The day we broke up, I packed everything related to him into a cardboard box.
Old clothes, his razor, his half-used body wash.
That umbrella leaned against the wall, its ribs broken twice, its fabric faded to grayish blue.
I picked it up and stared at it for a long time.
Then threw it in the trash.
I thought I'd let go long ago.
Until this moment, when he asked me, "Do you still have that black umbrella?"
That's when I realized.
Throwing away an umbrella takes three seconds.
Forgetting someone—I don't know how long that takes.
On Black Friday, he opened my "wish list."
All my expired hopes were lying there.
A limited edition eyeshadow palette I'd saved in 2019, later discontinued, never found again.
A camping tent I wanted to buy in 2020. That year on my birthday, we'd planned to go camping together, but he missed it because of a last-minute meeting.
A wedding planning case collection I'd added in 2021, the year we got engaged, when I was so excited.
These things were like thorns, stuck in my heart, and now stuck in Jonathan's eyes too.
He couldn't buy that discontinued eyeshadow, so he searched everywhere online, found seven palettes with the closest shades, and sent them all over.
He couldn't buy that tent from three years ago, so he bought the latest model, with more features and more expensive.
As for that wedding planning book, he ordered seventeen copies.
That night, my phone got bombarded with delivery notifications all night long.
The vibrations sounded especially harsh in the silent night.
I turned it off.
The world finally went quiet.
I thought I could get a good night's sleep.
Instead, I dreamed all night.
In my dreams, Jonathan kept asking me over and over.
"Why?"
"Why won't you talk to me?"
The next morning, I turned on my phone.
Seventy-three unread messages.
Sixty-two were delivery notifications.
The remaining eleven came from the same number.
1:14 AM: [The eyeshadow's been discontinued. I found seven similar ones. Don't know if the colors are right.]
1:52 AM: [Can't buy the same tent, is the new model okay?]
2:37 AM: [Didn't you say before you wanted to go camping? What year was that?]
3:01 AM: [I checked our chat history, July 2020. I'm sorry.]
3:22 AM: [I didn't mean to skip that day. Mom's test results came back. My head was all over the place.]
3:23 AM: [Should have told you.]
3:25 AM: [That was my fault.]
4:18 AM: [The wedding book, I bought seventeen copies.]
4:20 AM: [Because I don't know which page is your favorite.]
4:21 AM: [Afraid one copy wouldn't be enough for you to look at.]
4:22 AM: [I'm pretty stupid, aren't I?]
5:00 AM: [Are you asleep?]
5:01 AM: [You must be asleep.]
5:02 AM: [Good night.]
The last one, at 7:49 AM.
[I'm heading to work]
No period.
Like an unfinished sentence.
I don't know what he wanted to say.
Or how long he waited for me to turn on my phone.
