The day Lin Chih-yuan left Taipei, he didn’t tell Hsu Ching-yi.

Or more accurately, he didn’t tell her the flight time.

They had broken up seven days earlier.

That morning at six, he stood at Taoyuan Airport with two suitcases, his phone screen lighting up and dimming, dimming and lighting up.

The last message was from Ching-yi three days ago.

“Let me know when you arrive.”

No questions, no pleas to stay.

Not even an “I’ll wait for you.”

Those five simple words kept him sitting at the boarding gate for nearly half an hour.

In the end, he replied with nothing.

As the plane lifted off, Taipei gradually disappeared beneath the clouds.

Lin Chih-yuan closed his eyes.

He told himself this was right.

At least back then, he truly believed it.

Twenty-eight-year-old Lin Chih-yuan had nothing.

Debts left by his late father, his mother’s monthly medical bills, a low-paying job as a photography assistant, and Hsu Ching-yi, who had been with him for five years.

They had lived in a fifth-floor apartment without an elevator.

The air conditioner broke in summer, the water heater in winter. When they were poorest, they split a single chicken leg bento.

Ching-yi always said she didn’t like chicken legs.

Until one day Lin Chih-yuan got off work early and saw her sitting alone by the convenience store window, eating a fried chicken leg.

He stood outside the glass and watched for a long time.

That day when he got home, he asked nothing.

But in the middle of the night, when he held her, he suddenly held her very tight.

“What’s wrong?”

She asked groggily.

“Nothing.”

“Lin Chih-yuan, you’re weird.”

“Go back to sleep.”

She laughed softly and snuggled closer into his arms.

In that moment, he felt for the first time how terrifying poverty could be.

Not because he himself couldn’t afford things.

But because he began to see the person he loved giving up things for him, pretending those things had never mattered.

What truly broke him was the year Ching-yi’s father was hospitalized.

When she received the bill in the hospital corridor, she was silent for only a few seconds before calling to ask about installments.

Lin Chih-yuan stood beside her.

His pocket held only two thousand seven hundred dollars.

In that moment, he realized for the first time that the three words “I love you” could sometimes feel ridiculously light.

Love couldn’t pay hospital bills.

Couldn’t let her quit a job she hated.

Couldn’t let her say “I quit” when she was exhausted without worrying about next month’s rent.

The job offer from Canada arrived around that time.

The salary was nearly three times what he earned.

A three-year contract.

He accepted.

Then, a week before departure, he broke up with her.

“I’m tired.”

That day he didn’t even dare look at her.

“I don’t want to keep talking about a relationship with no future.”

Ching-yi was silent for a long time.

“So?”

“Go live your own life.”

“Lin Chih-yuan.”

Her voice was soft.

“Look at me and say it.”

He raised his head.

Those eyes he had looked into for five years were already red.

He almost gave in.

Almost told her, wait for me.

Wait three years.

Wait until I’ve paid off the debts, saved enough money, come back to marry you.

But in the end, he still said:

“I don’t love you anymore.”

Ching-yi looked at him for a long time.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

Just one word.

She turned and left.

That “okay” later became the word Lin Chih-yuan feared most to remember over the next five years.

In Canada, he began working almost obsessively.

Others shot eight hours a day; he shot twelve.

Weddings on weekends, photo editing at night, shooting menus for Chinese restaurants on holidays. Sometimes he fell asleep at the computer from exhaustion, and the first thing he did upon waking was still check his phone.

Ching-yi never contacted him.

He never contacted her either.

Only once, on her birthday, he typed a long message:

“Happy birthday. How have you been lately? Still having trouble sleeping?”

But deleted it all in the end.

Only four words remained.

Happy birthday.

But even those four words, he never sent.

In the winter of his third year in Canada, work took him to Alaska.

As the boat entered the bay, his companion suddenly called him outside to look.

Lin Chih-yuan walked onto the deck with his camera.

The sea before him showed a strange dividing line.

One side deep blue, the other gray-green mixed with glacial sediment. The two colors ran parallel across the water, looking from afar like someone had drawn a line down the middle of the ocean.

“Two seas?”

He asked.

The guide beside him smiled.

“It’s the meeting of waters with different properties. Glacial meltwater carries a lot of sediment, and with different salinity, density, and temperature, there’s a clear boundary.”

Lin Chih-yuan gazed at that line.

“So they’re incompatible?”

“No.”

The guide shook his head.

“They will mix.”

“It just takes time.”

Lin Chih-yuan paused.

The sea wind blew over, cold enough to make his eyes sting.

He had thought the guide would tell him they would never merge.

Just like him and Hsu Ching-yi.

They had been so close.

Eating together, sleeping together, planning to get a dog one day, even discussing what kind of windows their future house should have.

Yet in the end, life had drawn them to opposite sides.

She wanted to stay.

He chose to leave.

One side love.

One side reality.

He had always thought the two could not coexist.

But the person before him told him:

They will mix.

It just takes time.

That day Lin Chih-yuan didn’t pick up his camera once.

He simply stood on the deck and watched for a long time.

Back at the hotel that night, he couldn’t sleep until three in the morning.

The Alaskan night was quiet to the point of cruelty.

He sat by the window and suddenly spoke.

“God.”

He had barely said two words before laughing at himself.

He had never believed in such things.

But that day, he suddenly felt the need to talk to someone.

“If you’re really there, take care of her for me.”

Only the sound of wind outside the window.

“She has a weak stomach and skips meals when she’s busy. She’s afraid of the cold, but in winter she always forgets her scarf.”

He paused.

“She’s a light sleeper. Stress keeps her up at night.”

“And she’s actually scared of being alone.”

At that thought, he lowered his head and smiled.

“But don’t tell her that.”

“She’d get angry.”

That night, he said a lot.

All the messages he couldn’t send her, all the longing he couldn’t voice, he told to a God he didn’t know existed.

Finally, he remembered the sea from that afternoon.

“I saw two kinds of seawater today.”

“Everyone says they’re incompatible.”

He looked out the window.

“But someone told me they’re not incompatible.”

“They just need time.”

He was silent for a long time.

“What about us?”

No answer.

Lin Chih-yuan gave a small laugh.

“Forget it.”

“Don’t answer.”

“I still don’t have the right to go back.”

He closed his eyes.

“If I can still make it to her, let us meet once more.”

After saying that, he suddenly felt too selfish.

“But if I don’t make it…”

This time he was silent even longer.

“Then find someone good for her.”

“Find someone who won’t let her suffer.”

“Find someone who won’t leave halfway.”

His voice slowly grew hoarse.

“Not like me.”

In the fifth year, Lin Chih-yuan returned to Taiwan.

The debts were paid.

His mother’s medical expenses were arranged.

His savings no longer hit zero at the end of the month.

He even bought a small house.

On signing day, the agent led him to the living room.

“Mr. Lin, this side has great natural light, and it’s floor-to-ceiling windows.”

Lin Chih-yuan stood by the window and suddenly remembered many years ago, Ching-yi curled in his arms scrolling through rental listings.

She pointed at a photo and said:

“Someday our house should have windows this big.”

“For what?”

“To grow plants.”

“You even killed a cactus.”

“Lin Chih-yuan!”

He had laughed loudly then.

Now the house was real.

The windows were real.

Only the person who wanted to grow plants by the window was gone.

Three weeks after returning to Taipei, a friend told him:

“Ching-yi seems to have someone.”

“An architect, pretty well-off.”

Lin Chih-yuan held his wine glass, silent for a few seconds.

“That’s good.”

The friend looked at him.

“You really think so?”

“Why not?”

He smiled.

“As long as she’s happy.”

That night he sat alone in his new home until four in the morning.

The house had no furniture.

He sat on the floor against the floor-to-ceiling window and suddenly thought of Alaska.

So he looked up at the ceiling.

“Hey.”

“Did you take it too seriously?”

No one answered.

He lowered his head and smiled.

But tears fell.

“I asked you to take care of her.”

“Not to actually give her to someone else.”

The room was quiet except for the sound of breathing.

After a long while, he wiped away his tears.

“Forget it.”

“If that person is really good to her… then pretend I never said anything.”

The next afternoon he went to the café they used to frequent.

Just to take a look.

Unexpectedly, when he pushed open the door, a familiar figure sat by the window.

Five years.

She had cut her hair short, wore a cream-colored sweater, head lowered over a book.

Only a cup of coffee on the table.

No man.

Lin Chih-yuan stood at the doorway and suddenly forgot how to breathe.

She seemed to sense something.

Raised her head.

Their eyes met.

Five years rushed back all at once.

In the end, she spoke first.

“You’re back?”

As if he had only been gone five days.

Lin Chih-yuan’s throat tightened.

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“Not leaving again.”

She lowered her head.

He finally walked over.

“I heard… you have a boyfriend.”

Ching-yi looked up.

“Who said that?”

“Chen Po-hsun.”

She suddenly laughed.

“Five years ago he also told me you got married in Canada.”

Lin Chih-yuan froze.

After a few seconds of silence, they both laughed at the same time.

As they laughed, her eyes turned red.

“Lin Chih-yuan.”

“Mm.”

“Why didn’t you let me wait back then?”

His smile disappeared.

“Because I was afraid you really would.”

Her tears fell at once.

“Who gave you the right to decide for me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Five years.”

“I know.”

“I waited five years for you.”

In that instant, he went completely still.

Ching-yi wiped her tears.

“I always thought, if you came back, I definitely wouldn’t forgive you.”

“Mm.”

“I’d find someone a hundred times better than you.”

“You should.”

“I’d get married, have kids, make you regret it.”

He nodded, eyes red.

“Okay.”

She suddenly glared at him.

“Okay what?”

Lin Chih-yuan didn’t dare speak.

She cried and laughed at the same time.

After a long while, she asked:

“Did you think about me these years?”

He looked at her.

The snow in Alaska, the window at three in the morning, that line dividing two kinds of seawater—all rushed back in an instant.

“Do you know Alaska Bay?”

She paused.

“I do.”

“I used to think there were two incompatible seas there.”

“And then?”

“Later someone told me no.”

He looked at her.

“They will mix.”

“It’s just slow.”

Ching-yi didn’t speak.

Lin Chih-yuan took a step forward.

Five years of distance suddenly reduced to one step.

“That day I was thinking, maybe we’re the same.”

“Not that we stopped loving.”

“Just carried away by different currents.”

His voice trembled slightly.

“I went far out of the way.”

“What about you?”

Ching-yi looked at him.

After a very long time, she said:

“Me too.”

Lin Chih-yuan’s eyes instantly reddened.

The next second, he reached out and held her.

Tightly.

As if trying to make up for all five years of distance.

Ching-yi didn’t push him away.

She simply buried her face in his chest and asked through tears:

“Why did you only come back now?”

He closed his eyes.

“Because I was too stupid.”

“I thought I had to become someone worthy of loving you before I could return.”

She mumbled into his chest:

“Idiot.”

“Mm.”

“Very stupid.”

“I know.”

The afternoon sunlight fell on the two of them.

Lin Chih-yuan suddenly remembered that Alaskan night five years ago.

Back then he had asked God to take care of her.

Asked that no one would bully her again.

Asked that if he couldn’t make it, to find someone else to love her properly.

It turned out some prayers went unanswered by God.

Not because they weren’t heard.

But because the answer was saved for much later.

Later Ching-yi moved into the house with the floor-to-ceiling windows.

She really did plant things by the window.

The first pot of mint lived three months.

The second pot of rosemary lasted half a year.

The third one died again for some reason.

Lin Chih-yuan looked at the withered plant and couldn’t help saying:

“I knew five years ago it would turn out like this.”

Ching-yi turned her head.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Lin Chih-yuan.”

“I’ll go buy new ones.”

“You’d better.”

He smiled and walked over, hugging her from behind.

Outside the window stretched an entire afternoon sky.

One day Ching-yi suddenly asked him:

“Shall we go to Alaska?”

Lin Chih-yuan paused.

“Why?”

“I want to see the sea you talked about.”

He was silent for a few seconds, then smiled.

“Okay.”

“But I have to tell you something first.”

“What?”

He lowered his head and kissed her forehead.

“Those two waters were never truly incompatible.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

Ching-yi leaned into his arms.

“Different temperatures, salinity, and sediment make the boundary look clear, but the water has always been exchanging. In the end they still mix.”

Lin Chih-yuan froze.

“When did you look that up?”

“The night after you told me.”

“……And you still let me talk for so long?”

She laughed.

“Because I wanted to hear it.”

Lin Chih-yuan looked down at her and suddenly laughed too.

Turns out what took him five years to understand, she had finished researching in one night.

But it didn’t matter.

Some people walk fast.

Some walk slow.

What matters is that in the end they reach the same sea.

He held her tighter.

Yet in his heart he quietly remembered that Alaskan three-in-the-morning.

God.

Don’t ever tell her the things I said to you those nights.

Especially don’t tell her that in the place farthest from her in the world, there was a man who once faced the entire night sky and whispered her name again and again.

Also don’t tell her he once thought he would never come back in this lifetime.

Just keep this secret for me.

As for her—

You don’t need to take care of her anymore.

This time, it’s my turn.

Because what Alaska Bay taught him was never that some seas are destined never to merge.

Quite the opposite.

Two seemingly completely different waters, from the moment they meet, have already begun to seep into each other.

It’s just invisible to the eye.

It just takes time.

Just like them.

Not incompatible.

Nor not loving enough.

Just each carried far, far away by the currents of fate.

Until finally, they flowed back to each other.

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