Harsh words of severing ties
The late autumn rain pattered against the glass windows of the studio, making a dull sound. I leaned my last entry against the corner of the wall, and as I turned around, I accidentally knocked over the paint box. Indigo paint splattered on the white canvas, like a jarring bruise.
Zheng Yiming stood at the door, water droplets from his umbrella dripping onto the floor, spreading a small, dark stain. His face was grim, his brows furrowed, and he clutched a crumpled piece of paper in his hand—the draft paper I had left in the physics competition room yesterday, on which were written a few hesitant words: "Perhaps, we really aren't a good match."
"Not suitable?" He walked in, threw the umbrella hard on the ground, his voice filled with suppressed anger. "Shen Zhixia, what do you want now?"
I clutched the hem of my shirt, my fingertips icy cold. We had indeed gotten along well for a while after the reconciliation at the gallery—he would listen patiently to me, and I tried to stop keeping my thoughts bottled up. But last week, my physics score dropped twenty places in the mock exam. He frowned and said, "If I'd known you were so unfocused, I shouldn't have let you participate in the art exhibition in the first place." Those words were like a thorn, pulling us back to square one.
“I don’t mean anything,” I said softly, head down, “I just feel…we’re all too tired.”
"Tired?" He suddenly laughed, a mocking laugh. "It's because you're always getting stuck on this! Whose fault is it that your grades dropped? It's because you're thinking about drawing all the time! How many times have I told you how important physics is for the college entrance exam? Have you heard me?"
"What's wrong with drawing?" I suddenly looked up, my eyes welling up with tears. "Drawing is my hobby, not a burden! You've never understood that what I want isn't the 'future' you see, it's..."
"What is it?" he interrupted me, pressing me further. "Is it like before, throwing tantrums all the time and trying to gain sympathy by hurting yourself? Shen Zhixia, I've had enough of your sensitivity and affectation!"
The word "affected" pierced my heart like an icicle. Looking at him, I suddenly felt a terrifying sense of estrangement—was this the same person who said in the gallery, "I'll learn how to cherish me"?
"Me, being dramatic?" My voice trembled, and tears streamed down my face uncontrollably. "And what about you? Besides judging me by your own standards, what else can you do? You think I'm sensitive because you've never truly cared about my feelings! Do you think I want to hurt myself? I just..."
"Just what?" His voice suddenly rose, filled with a sense of despair. "Just that you feel I'm not good enough for you, not as good as others? Or that you feel you can find someone better without me?"
"That's not what I thought!"
“That’s exactly what you think!” He pointed at the painting in the corner, his eyes venomous. “You paint these useless things all day long just to get away from me, don’t you? Have you regretted being with me for a long time? Do you think I’m not good enough for you, an ‘artist’?”
These words came crashing down on me like hailstones, shattering all my grievances and forbearance. Looking at his face, contorted with anger, I suddenly felt a surge of absurdity—we clearly wanted to get closer to each other, so how did things come to this?
"Yes, I regret it." I sniffed, wiped away my tears, and said in a calm voice, "Zheng Yiming, I regret meeting you, I regret being with you, and I regret even more... that I still had expectations of you."
He froze, the anger in his eyes instantly replaced by astonishment, which was then covered by a deeper chill. "Fine, very well." He nodded, took two steps back, and glanced at the traces of him in the studio—the box of paints he gave me, the physics book he filled with annotations, and the potted green ivy he bought on the windowsill.
"Since you regret it, then let's break up completely." His voice was as cold as ice. "Shen Zhixia, listen to this, it's not that you're dumping me, it's that I feel... being with someone as unpredictable as you is exhausting and disgusting!"
The word "disgusting" was like the last straw, completely crushing the last remaining hope in my heart.
I looked at him and suddenly laughed, laughing until tears streamed down my face: "Fine, let's break up then. Zheng Yiming, let me tell you, I'll only be better off without you."
"Then I wish you 'better'." He turned and walked away, grabbing the umbrella from the ground, without looking back.
The studio door slammed shut with a bang, making the picture frames on the wall shake. The rain seemed to intensify, pounding against the glass and against my empty heart.
I squatted on the ground, staring at the indigo paint, as if looking at our relationship, now completely stained. All the warmth we once shared, the cautious attempts at reconciliation, the courage we thought we could start over—all shattered beyond recognition by his word "disgust."
It turns out that some people's impulsiveness is ingrained in their very being. The more sincere their apology, the more ruthless they can be when angry.
I slowly stood up, walked to the corner of the wall, picked up the potted green plant, went to the window, and threw it out with all my might. The flowerpot hit the rain-soaked ground downstairs with a dull thud, like the final chapter of our relationship.
Then, I picked up the box of paints, the physics book, and everything else he had given me, and put them in a paper bag. After I finished, the rain was still falling, and I was alone in the studio, surrounded by complete silence.
Perhaps he's right.
We were never a good match from the start.
He wanted an obedient, rational partner who could help him prepare for the physics competition, while I just wanted someone who could see through my sensitivity, tolerate my sentimentality, and be willing to slowly draw with me.
When the rain stopped, I walked out of the studio carrying a paper bag. The corridor was empty, and only the sound of my footsteps was clear in the silence.
I walked to the trash can and threw the paper bag in. The movement was very gentle, yet it felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
The scar on my collarbone throbs faintly, a reminder of those moments when I lost control. But this time, there's no excruciating pain, only a calm that feels like the dust has settled.
It's better if things fall apart.
At least I no longer have to struggle between "suitable" and "unsuitable," and I no longer have to hurt each other with his anger and my sensitivity.
The road ahead is long, and I can walk it alone.
But occasionally, when I think of that boy in the gallery who hooked his pinky finger with mine and said "I will learn," a bitter feeling still rises in my heart.
It turns out that some words, once spoken, can never be taken back.
Just like some relationships, once broken, they can never be put back together.
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