Fang Zhe stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, his phone screen flickering on and off. He’d lost count of how many times he’d deleted and re-added Lin Jingxue on WeChat. The scene from that late-night snack stall replayed in his mind like an old silent film, looping endlessly.
A soft notification chimed. It was a single question mark from Lin Jingxue—simple, yet laden with meaning.
Fang Zhe stared at the symbol, his fingers hovering over the screen. He had a virtuous wife and two precious daughters. Jiang Caihong had just shared the news of her pregnancy, the joy of a new life still lingering. He shouldn’t—nor did he have the time—to pursue a new connection. Yet the stirring in his heart was undeniable, like a faint fragrance drifting through a spring night, subtle but irresistible.
"Got time for a drink?" He sent the message at last, as if signing an unspoken contract.
Night fell, and in the bar, the music struck a perfect balance—loud enough to drown out inner turmoil, yet soft enough not to hinder conversation. Lin Jingxue gently swirled her glass, the ice clinking crisply, a hidden rhythm. She spoke little, but when she occasionally looked up at him, her eyes held a depth beyond her years, as if she’d sailed through countless storms and seen through the ways of the world.
Fang Zhe could no longer recall exactly how they’d started meeting so often. Perhaps it was shared interests, or maybe just a need to fill the voids in their lives. But with each encounter, a subtle tension grew, like two celestial bodies drawing closer, their gravitational pull intensifying.
The turn of events felt both fated and sudden. By the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling window, Fang Zhe gazed at the streetlights below, flowing like a river. The cigarette between his fingers flickered, mirroring his wavering thoughts. Behind him, the faint rustle of sheets sounded like a silent sigh.
No words were needed. The night tenderly enveloped the room, like vast wings shielding them from the eyes and judgments of the world.
Fang Zhe’s phone buzzed suddenly. A message from the company’s executive group: Shanghai was about to go into lockdown.
"I need to get back to school," Lin Jingxue said as she stood and adjusted her clothes, her voice so soft it was almost a sigh, as if speaking to herself.
Fang Zhe watched her silhouette, wanting to say something but ultimately staying silent. Some words, once spoken, would feel redundant—better left buried in the heart with those unfinished emotions. The city lights outside still shone brightly, but an invisible shadow had begun to loom, like an unseen storm brewing.
The streets buzzed with unusual activity. Pedestrians hurried by, their eyes tinged with subtle panic, as if fleeing an intangible calamity or rushing toward an unknown fate. Fang Zhe stood by the window until Lin Jingxue’s figure vanished into the shadows of the street corner.
He opened his phone’s photo gallery. The picture from the late-night stall remained there, untouched. Under the neon glow, Lin Jingxue’s profile flickered in and out of view, like a flowing enigma. It had all happened so quickly, yet it felt predestined, as if fate had written the script long ago, waiting for them to take the stage.
A night breeze slipped through the half-open window, carrying the chill of early spring, a silent warning. Fang Zhe closed the window, but a corner of his heart felt as if it had quietly opened, ready to face an unknown storm.
Heaven, how can one resist such an undercurrent? Before the torrent of fate, we are but leaves adrift—where is our harbor?