Hugo drifted into a drowsy sleep, his mind swirling with chaotic thoughts. How had things come to this? Why hadn't he noticed anything unusual? Were all those happy moments merely illusions? Had he done something wrong, or had this relationship already been flawed from the start? Or, in the cutthroat world of Hollywood, was it inevitable that even love could serve as a stepping stone? These tangled thoughts twisted together in his dreams like a mass of yarn, knotted and intertwined, impossible to separate. Hugo could see countless threads, yet find neither beginning nor end—unable to untangle the knots in his mind.
"Huh…" Hugo suddenly awoke, feeling a dull ache in his left knee—a lingering pain from the car accident acting up. He bent over, clutching his knee with both hands, trying to ease the pain with the warmth of his palms. Glancing out the window, he saw that the night sky had turned completely dark, and a fine drizzle fell outside. No wonder his knee was reacting.
The ache wasn't severe, but persistent, lingering like the faint scent of perfume beneath one's nose. Hugo looked at the pillow to his left—it still held the lingering scent of Uma's favorite perfume. It was strange: she hadn't stayed over since the Golden Globes, yet the scent seemed so vivid. He couldn't tell if it was real, or just his brain playing tricks out of habit.
Hugo shook his head, swung his legs over the bed, and limped toward the living room. The silent hall was bathed in moonlight, empty of any life. He entered the bathroom, turned on the shower, and let warm water wash over his left knee, the soothing heat relieving some of the persistent ache.
Leaning against the edge of the bathtub, Hugo watched the water droplets hit his knee. He knew this wouldn't solve the underlying problem. After drying his knee with a towel, he returned to his room, retrieved the white flower oil he had bought in Chinatown, rubbed it vigorously on his knee, and finally secured a thick knee brace before heading back to the living room.
Rubbing his empty stomach, he opened the fridge in search of food. Fresh octopus caught his eye, and he paused, staring blankly for a moment before closing the door. From the cabinet, he grabbed a box of cookies, sat on the sofa, wrapped his feet in a blanket, turned on the TV, and lowered the volume. He watched silently.
The TV was playing the classic first Star Wars film. Hugo stared at the screen, lost in thought, remembering times he had watched midnight movies with Uma. He wanted to watch something energizing, but Uma had insisted on a romantic comedy. In the end, Hugo had relented, and they watched Woody Allen's classic, Annie Hall.
Hugo and Uma had even discussed the controversial story of Woody Allen and his adoptive daughter, Soon-Yi Previn. Their unconventional romance had caused the breakdown of Allen's family. Mia Farrow, who had been with Allen for eleven years, eventually filed for custody of the children she shared with him. Allen's "romantic" involvement with Soon-Yi caused his children to completely turn against him. A woman he had grown up with as an older sister had become, legally, his stepmother—a fact few could accept.
For Uma, the focus was on love and societal taboos. She could not comprehend how Allen and his adoptive daughter could fall for each other, and their age difference only made it more incomprehensible. For Hugo, the idea of father-daughter impropriety was unacceptable, and Soon-Yi's appearance only deepened his discomfort. This led to a heated debate between them, until they realized it was someone else's life—the Allen family's life, not theirs. Discussing the gossip of others was never productive.
Snapping back to reality, Hugo realized he had started overthinking again. The lingering ache in his knee caused a sharp pain in his temples. Checking the clock on the wall, he thought hours had passed—but only fifteen minutes had gone by. Dawn was still three hours away. The night stretched endlessly, as if the morning would never arrive.
Charlize woke up in the middle of the night, thirsty. She stepped out of her room and saw Hugo quietly sitting on the sofa. She paused at the doorway. All she could see was his back. His expression was hidden, his gaze fixed blankly on the TV. Wrapped in the night and moonlight, his solitary figure seemed so fragile. His usually broad, strong back appeared thin and vulnerable, almost crushed under the darkness. The rain and wind outside made the empty hall eerily silent. The night was cold as water, and Charlize shivered involuntarily.
Standing for a moment, she returned to her room, grabbed a blanket, and approached the sofa. Hugo was not asleep—his eyes were open, yet there was no consciousness in them. He stared ahead emptily, like a bottomless abyss with no visible end. Seeing him like this, Charlize felt a pang of sorrow. She lowered her gaze to compose herself, then gently draped the blanket over him.
Hugo noticed the movement and lifted his head, seeing Charlize standing in the moonlight with a faint smile. He pulled his feet back onto the sofa, lifted the two layers of blankets covering him, and gestured for her to sit. "Why are you up at this hour?"
Charlize sat at the other end of the sofa, curling her feet under the blanket and leaning against a pillow. "I was thirsty."
Hugo nodded. "Forgot to drink water before bed?" He clearly knew her habits.
Charlize confirmed, "We had fried chicken tonight—Alex poured the whole bag of pepper and salt into the box." Hugo pursed his lips. He hadn't been there, but could imagine the scene. "What about you? When did you wake up?"
Hugo pointed to the gentle rain outside. Charlize understood immediately. "Your knee woke you up? I thought it hadn't hurt for a while. Bad this time?"
"Not too bad," Hugo replied lazily, whether from post-midnight fatigue or emotional low, his whole body exuded a sense of heaviness. "Probably just caught a chill from sweating in my sleep."
"Another nightmare?" Charlize let out a light sigh. Though phrased as a question, it sounded more like a statement. Over the past few days, Hugo hadn't slept well due to recurring nightmares. Charlize noticed the bright sparkle in his eyes now hidden behind dark circles. His long fingers rubbed his temples repeatedly, while moonlight filtered through his sparse hair and the gaps between his fingers, casting a pale glow across his side profile. "Are you still thinking about Uma?"
Charlize didn't shy away from the question, because she knew it couldn't be avoided. Hugo's lips twitched slightly, and in the soft moonlight, a faint smile appeared. Then, with a hint of mild reproach in his voice, he said, "You've hurt me."
Charlize rolled her eyes at him, amused, and let out a soft laugh. "Is it really that painful? You and her haven't been dating officially for that long."
Thinking carefully, Charlize recalled that when she moved in last year, Hugo had only had his first night with Uma. The real dating stage hadn't even started until later in the year. If you count Halloween as a turning point, that would mean they had been dating for less than three months.
Hugo stared at Charlize blankly. "Time… shouldn't be the issue, right?"
"I admit it," Charlize said, smiling and raising her hands in surrender. As a woman, she understood this well: some people fall in love at first sight, while others gradually discover the charm of a partner over ten years. In matters of love, time is never the issue. "I just want to ask—do you really love her? Or do you just like her?"
The question stunned Hugo. His mind, tangled like rusty gears, struggled to process it quickly. "I… I don't know. I think… I probably love her…"
Even his own tone was filled with uncertainty, prompting Charlize to raise an eyebrow. "You've never told her you love her?" Hugo shook his head. Deep down, he still hadn't fully adapted to Western cultural norms. Here, saying "I love you" is normal—between parents and children, siblings, or even close friends. It's an emotional expression, but Hugo wasn't accustomed to saying it aloud. Even hugging others had taken him a long time to adapt.
Hugo could adapt to the fast-paced dating style of the 21st century—start dating, confirm a relationship if it felt right, or just stay friends if it didn't—but saying "I love you" was something he couldn't easily bring himself to do.
He remembered New Year's Eve, when he had the chance to say it under the mistletoe—but he didn't. And just like that, he missed it.
Charlize looked at his vacant expression and shook her head with a small smile. "If it's just liking her, there's no need to exaggerate it as love. And if you don't love her, if it's just liking her, then why are you so heartbroken?"
Her words left Hugo speechless. He stared emptily ahead. Are you grieving the end of this relationship, or grieving that she refused to fight for it? Are you grieving that she used you, or grieving that she betrayed your trust?
...
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