Some people’s departure isn’t a farewell.

It’s retreating from your life day by day, until in the end, you can’t even say exactly which day it began that you no longer belonged to each other.

I received Zhou Yu-An’s message at two in the morning.

“I’m getting married.”

I had just finished showering, my hair still wet, and it was raining outside. Taipei’s winter isn’t really cold, but when it rains, the whole city feels like it’s been dropped into a cup of cold coffee, even the neon lights looking listless.

I stared at those five words for a long time.

Long enough for the phone screen to dim, then I lit it up again.

In the end, I only replied with one sentence.

“Congratulations.”

After sending it, I placed the phone face-down on the table.

I didn’t cry.

At least not at that moment.

Zhou Yu-An and I had known each other for twelve years, been together for seven, and apart for three.

We didn’t have any earth-shattering romance.

The first time we met was at a friend’s birthday party. He sat across from me, wearing a somewhat faded dark blue shirt, pouring drinks for everyone but not taking a single sip himself.

I asked him, “You’re not drinking?”

He said, “I’m driving.”

I laughed at him for being so boring.

Later I learned that most things in his life were like that.

Restrained, rational, always considering the consequences.

Except when it came to loving me.

That was probably the only thing he ever lost control over.

One night in our second year together, we had a fight by the Tamsui River. I was so angry I turned and walked away. He chased me for two blocks and finally cornered me at the convenience store entrance.

I said, “Weren’t you supposed to be so calm?”

He looked at me, out of breath.

“Not when it comes to you.”

Back then I thought those words could make me love him for a lifetime.

When you’re young, it’s easy to believe in forever.

We once rented a tiny apartment, twelve ping, where turning around in the kitchen would bump into the fridge. The water heater in the bathroom was always breaking, so showering in winter was a matter of luck.

He couldn’t cook, only fry eggs.

And they were always burnt.

I complained, and he said matter-of-factly, “Burnt tastes better.”

I said, “That’s carcinogenic.”

He smiled and flipped the nicest side toward me.

“Then eat this side.”

Looking back now, what makes a relationship truly unforgettable was never the grand moments.

Not birthdays, not trips, not rings.

But those evenings no one photographed.

Him drying my hair for me.

Me waking in the middle of the night to find him still tucking me in.

Us arguing over who forgot to buy toilet paper, then going downstairs together in slippers.

Those mundane, almost boring things later became the sharpest parts of my memories.

We truly began to drift apart in the fifth year.

No third party.

No betrayal.

Not even anyone doing anything wrong.

It was just that his work got busier and busier, and I started having my own life. Where we used to exchange dozens of messages a day, now all that remained were “Have you eaten?”, “What time are you coming back?”, “I’m going to sleep first.”

One day I suddenly asked him:

“Do you still love me?”

He was looking at the computer and didn’t look up.

“Why ask that all of a sudden?”

I said, “Because I can’t feel it.”

He was silent for a while, then finally closed the laptop.

“I come home every day because you’re here, isn’t that enough?”

I didn’t know how to answer then.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

But he also hadn’t answered my question.

That’s probably the cruelest part of love.

Neither of us left, yet we had already begun to lose each other.

Our last fight was on a typhoon night.

The windows rattled nonstop in the wind. I sat in the living room and asked if he still wanted to continue.

He stood at the kitchen doorway looking at me.

For a long time.

Finally he said:

“I don’t know.”

Those three words hurt more than any breakup line.

I nodded.

“Then let’s not.”

He didn’t stop me.

And I didn’t look back.

Over the next three years, I still heard about him occasionally.

Friends mentioned he got a promotion.

Someone said he moved.

Someone else said he seemed to have a girlfriend.

I always acted calm.

“Oh, really.”

Like hearing about some high school classmate I hadn’t contacted in years.

Until tonight, when he told me himself that he was getting married.

It was past three in the morning and I still couldn’t sleep.

So I got up to make coffee.

The sound of boiling water was especially clear in the quiet house.

I suddenly remembered seven years ago, the first time he made coffee for me and put salt in instead of sugar.

I spat out the first sip.

He took a sip himself, face scrunched up, and said:

“No wonder you looked so disgusted.”

I laughed until I could hardly breathe.

How could we have known back then that one day even remembering something like this would make my nose sting?

I picked up my phone and opened our chat again.

That “I’m getting married” was still there.

Below it was my “Congratulations.”

Clean, as if twelve years had never happened.

I suddenly wanted to ask him so many things.

What kind of person is she?

Will you dry her hair for her?

Will you still burn the eggs?

Have you taken her to any of the places we used to go?

Were you nervous when you proposed?

Did you think of me, even for a second?

But I didn’t ask any of those questions.

Because I suddenly understood that once the time to ask has passed, some things no longer need answers.

Three months later, he got married.

A mutual friend asked if I wanted to go.

I said no.

“Afraid it’ll be awkward?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

I thought for a moment.

“Because that day doesn’t need me.”

The friend glanced at me and didn’t ask again.

On the afternoon of the wedding, the weather in Taipei was beautiful.

I took my camera and went to the seaside.

The sea breeze was strong. I walked slowly along the breakwater and saw a young couple sitting on the shore arguing.

The girl walked forward crying.

The boy stayed where he was.

I stopped and watched them for a few seconds.

For some reason, I suddenly wanted to run over and tell the boy:

Go after her.

Now.

Don’t just stand there.

You think it’s just one fight, but some people really will turn around once and never come back.

But in the end, I said nothing.

The boy finally ran after her.

The girl turned around and was hugged by him.

I raised my camera but didn’t press the shutter.

The sunset sank into the sea.

My phone suddenly vibrated.

It was Zhou Yu-An.

Just one line.

“Got married today. Suddenly thought of you. Hope you’re doing well.”

I looked at those words and tears fell without warning.

Some tears aren’t because you still want to go back.

They’re because you finally admit you really can’t go back.

I stood by the sea typing for a long time.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

In the end, only four words remained.

“I’m doing well.”

Sent.

Then put the phone back in my pocket.

The sea breeze blew against my face. I closed my eyes.

Many years ago, I thought loving someone meant giving everything.

Later I learned that sometimes the gentlest thing you can do for a relationship is to do nothing at all.

Don’t ask.

Don’t chase.

Don’t disturb.

Not because you no longer love.

But precisely because you once loved too much, you finally understand that some happiness no longer needs your participation.

In the distance, the couple walked away hand in hand.

Watching their backs, I smiled faintly.

I used to hate Zhou Yu-An most for not chasing after me that night.

Later I slowly understood that maybe that night we both knew that taking one more step would only drag out an already exhausted love even longer.

We didn’t lose to anyone.

We only lost to time that had already run its course.

The sky grew dark.

I picked up my camera and walked back.

I didn’t look at my phone again.

From today onward, Zhou Yu-An’s life has someone else standing beside him.

And I can finally stand in my own world, watching that relationship I once thought had to have an ending slowly sink beneath the horizon.

I didn’t wish him eternal happiness.

Nor did I hope he would think of me sometimes.

I simply, for the first time, truly allowed him to become someone unrelated to me.

So letting go doesn’t mean forgetting someone completely.

It means that years later, you still remember the way he smiled, remember that twelve-ping apartment, remember the burnt eggs, remember that typhoon night.

You might still feel a little ache.

But you no longer walk toward it.

You simply stand at a distance.

Quietly watch.

Then turn away.

This time, it’s my turn to stand aside.

#OneSongOneStory#ShortStory#Love#Relationships

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