Chapter 2
987 Words
“Yousijia, happy birthday,” Gu Yu murmured hoarsely, his voice carrying a weariness that made it sound almost fragile.
The words had scarcely left his lips before his broad palm encircled her waist, drawing her closer as he bent down, seeking her lips. Startled awake, Yousijia was still clouded with sleep, her mind slow to catch up. But as his shadow loomed closer, she suddenly turned her head aside. The kiss fell instead upon the tender curve of her neck.
Annoyance flickered in his gaze at her evasive gesture. He pressed his mouth hard against her skin, sucking at the delicate flesh with a near-punishing intensity. His voice, muffled and low, lingered against her throat. “Are you displeased?”
She gave only a faint sound in response before pushing him firmly away.
“I don’t want this,” she whispered.
His brows furrowed, then smoothed, as though comprehension dawned. Without argument, he sat up, reached for the bedside table, and opened a velvet box. Inside gleamed a ring.
“I was late tonight, I’m sorry. But I didn’t forget your birthday gift,” he said, flicking on the lamp. The warm light illuminated the object between his fingers—a pink diamond ring, brilliant yet cold.
“On my last trip, Christie’s in Hong Kong had this one up for auction. You once mentioned you liked it. Try it on.” Without hesitation, he took her hand, already slipping the jewel toward her finger.
She stared at his movements, her thoughts drifting. Her jewelry box was crowded with rings—rings of every kind, because years ago, she had once offhandedly confessed she enjoyed collecting them. From that moment on, Gu Yu’s every gift, without exception, had been a ring. Each one different, yet all the same.
What he never knew was that she did not long for countless tokens of affection, but for one single ring—the one that came with a promise of forever. She never truly loved rings; she only loved the idea of being chosen.
Earlier that day, Jiang Lingyu had sent her gifts—thoughtful, precise, each one attentive to her heart: the handbag she regretted missing last month, the Lego set she had been obsessing over, even a signed book by her favorite illustrator. Those gifts felt warm, alive.
Gu Yu’s ring, dazzling though it was, only felt hollow.
“Don’t you like it?” he asked as her silence stretched.
Yousijia pulled her hand back, twisting the ring slowly around her finger. It was loose. She had grown thinner over the years abroad—she never quite adapted to the foreign life, no matter how hard she tried. The ring didn’t fit, just as they no longer did.
Some people, she thought, only discover halfway through the journey that they were never meant to walk together.
“Gu Yu,” she said softly, lifting her gaze, wanting at last to speak her truth. But before the words could form, his phone rang.
At that moment, with cruel clarity, she saw the name glowing on the screen—Tang Yayi.
Her heart clenched. She said nothing, but her eyes spoke. Don’t answer.
The silence between them stretched taut, broken only by the shrill ring of the phone. At last it ceased. Relief nearly washed over her—until it rang again. The same name. The same wound reopening.
This time he did not meet her gaze. Rising swiftly, he muttered, “I’ll take this outside.” He stepped onto the balcony, tall and straight in the dark, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding the phone to his ear. Between them stood the closed glass door.
When he returned, his coat was already in hand. “You’re leaving?” she asked, her voice trembling despite her effort to remain calm.
He paused, then nodded.
“Tang Yayi?”
“She’s not well,” he answered vaguely.
The clock read 11:40 p.m. Her birthday was not yet over. She drew in a deep, steadying breath. “Gu Yu, do you even remember what today is?”
Her question made him falter, unease flickering in his eyes. He looked away, murmuring, “She’s alone here in Washington…”
“And if I ask you to stay?” Her voice was weary, stripped of all pretense.
“I’ll explain when I come back,” he replied, already at the door.
“You promised to spend today with me,” she reminded him quietly.
He froze, guilt heavy in the silence.
“There are still ten minutes left of today,” she said, meeting his eyes, her fingers clenching the sheets to steady herself. “Will you leave now?”
He said nothing.
The phone rang again. He glanced at the screen, whispered, “I’m sorry,” and walked out.
Her hands slackened. The mask she had forced onto her face crumbled at last. Tears slipped soundlessly, soaking into the sheets.
It wasn’t just that she was tired lately. She had been weary from the very day she married him, from the moment she abandoned her life at home to follow him across oceans. She endured a foreign land for his sake—its food, its climate, its loneliness. She adapted to everything, except that he never once tried to adapt to her.
Two weeks ago, she had glimpsed a message on his phone. A stranger had replied to his comment on a forum thread about marriage:
GY: Family arrangement.
Reply: Being “suitable” isn’t the same as love. Without love, can you endure a lifetime?
Suitable. Not love.
Even after years of marriage, in his heart she was never “beloved”—merely “appropriate.”
But she had chosen him out of love, not convenience.
Her hand trembled as she typed five simple words:
Let’s get a divorce.
She hovered for a heartbeat, then pressed send.
- Writer
