Chapter 20
I don’t know when it started. Maybe time has dulled the initial passion, or maybe distance has worn away the patience to share. The opportunities for the two to really sit down and talk are becoming fewer and fewer.
Video calls have all but been abandoned. That small window, once a source of endless longing and comfort, is now often disconnected due to one party being busy, tired, or simply unable to find common ground. Occasionally, a call will occur, but its duration is growing shorter and its content increasingly dry.
Around that time, a social media app called WeChat was quietly gaining popularity, quickly becoming a household name thanks to its convenience and speed. Naturally, they were among its earliest users. Ironically, however, the more advanced the communication tools became, the more brief and insipid their conversations became.
At first, Zhao Jinglu would enthusiastically send long voice messages, excitedly sharing an anecdote from her work or a hilarious new video she'd discovered. By the time Ling Peng saw them, he'd often be between meetings or swamped by project challenges. He'd only be able to quickly reply with a "Haha, that's hilarious" or "Not bad." By the time he had time to ask more in the evening, her desire to share had long since expired, and she'd simply replied, "It's okay, it's all over."
Later, Ling Peng hit a bottleneck at work, his projects stalled, and his interpersonal relationships became increasingly complex. He wanted to complain to her, seeking comfort. But Zhao Jinglu, listening to the unfamiliar technical terms and the complexities of personal relationships, struggled to understand, unable to truly engage. She could only offer vague solace: "Don't worry too much. Take your time. It will eventually work out." This superficial reassurance only made Ling Peng feel even more isolated.
In the past, even the most insignificant things would be shared with each other immediately, with long text messages and continuous voice messages. But now, the most frequent thing in the chat box is just a mechanical greeting:
"What are you doing?"
"Have you got a meal yet?"
"good evening."
Later on, even these greetings became less frequent. Often, the way to find out about the other person's recent situation became to refresh their circle of friends.
Ling Peng often clicks on Zhao Jinglu's WeChat Moments to look at her photos. Dressed in a smart business suit, she smiles heartily at dinners with colleagues, and her gaze is focused and confident at industry conferences. She looks radiant and energetic, rapidly integrating into and enjoying her new world.
He was happy for her, genuinely happy. But amidst this joy, a deep sense of loss crept in. Her world was becoming more and more exciting, and in that world, his participation seemed less and less necessary. He was more of a spectator than a participant in her happiness and achievements.
It was as if the gears between them had lost an important part without their knowledge. They no longer fit together perfectly, and the operation was filled with sluggishness and noise, and it would be difficult to return to the tacit and perfect state of their former state.
During the National Day holiday this year, Ling Peng had already bought his flight back to Beijing long in advance. He harbored a glimmer of hope, hoping that a meeting would ease the inexplicable estrangement.
However, reality dealt him a heavier blow.
Aside from the first day, when Zhao Jinglu squeezed out time to have a meal with him, she was almost completely consumed by work for the next few days. She was working on a very important project, and at the most critical moment, working overtime became commonplace.
Ling Peng understood the importance of work. He tried to wait for her downstairs in the company and bring her food, but she was always in a hurry. She took the food, hugged him apologetically, and said, "I'm sorry, baby. I don't know what time I will be working tonight. You should go back and rest first." Then she turned around and went back to the office building.
Throughout the holiday, he felt like an unwanted tourist, wandering the familiar streets of Beijing but feeling out of place. On the day he left, Zhao Jinglu's project was in its final stages, and she couldn't even spare the time to see him off at the airport.
"I'm really sorry, my boss is watching me and I really can't leave... Send me a message when you arrive." Her voice on the phone was full of fatigue and apology, but more of it was a busyness that was completely occupied by work.
Ling Peng sat alone on the return flight, watching Beijing shrink outside the window. He felt a sense of emptiness, as if a large part of him had been taken away. Shenzhen was still brightly lit at night, but when he returned to his so-called "home," the cold air hit him.
A huge, unspeakable frustration and panic finally overwhelmed him. He picked up his phone and impulsively, almost desperately, sent a message to Zhao Jinglu on WeChat:
"Do you still love me?"
The words came out of his mouth so childishly and insecurely, totally unlike his usual style. But he desperately needed a confirmation at this moment, an anchor to keep him going.
Time passed by minute by minute. The phone screen was pitch black, and there was no response.
He waited, his mood gradually changing from initial eagerness to anxiety, and finally sinking into a cold and dead silence.
It wasn't until after one in the morning that the phone screen finally lit up.
He grabbed the phone almost instantly and unlocked it.
There was only one new message from her on WeChat.
She didn't explain why he came back so late, didn't show any concern for his safe arrival, and didn't even show any surprise at his abrupt question.
Just four simple words:
"Of course. Goodnight."
There was no warmth or emotion in the response, just a programmed one. And then, nothing happened.
Ling Peng stared at those four words for a long, long time. The light from the screen illuminated his dazed face, then slowly faded, throwing him back into the cold darkness.
good evening.
But this night is destined to be sleepless.
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