Early summer in Paris. Sunlight slanted across the streets, warming the old cobblestones. Chen Tao sat by the window, gripping his phone. The screen was black, missed calls blinking one after another. He stared at it, fingers resting on the table…
After so long without news, he couldn't settle. Each time he thought of calling Li Ming, he hesitated—afraid of silence, or worse, that no one would answer at all. He stood, paced the apartment. The floor creaked faintly under his steps; he heard it sharply. Outside, someone walked by, cars rolled slowly along the street, horns faint in the distance. He noticed everything, yet it felt as though separated by a thick pane of glass.
He stood, then sat again. Fingers drummed lightly on the tabletop. Images of her flooded his mind: the little courtyard in Milan, the light and shadows along the C&O Canal—fragmented, chaotic, yet piercingly clear. He knew if he didn't go see her, he would never find peace.
He booked a ticket. Packing, he folded his clothes neatly, tore a page off the calendar, and circled the June dates. Each small gesture seemed to remind himself: he must go.
At the airport, the boarding lights glimmered. His palms were slightly sweaty. He watched the travelers around him, dragging suitcases, moving slowly. A strange hesitation hovered in his chest, like the long-suppressed breath of months finally released. He didn't know if Li Ming would see him, but he knew that if he didn't go, the emptiness inside him would remain.
The plane ascended. Clouds piled up outside the window. He looked down at the ticket stub in his hand. Early summer light filtered through the clouds, touching his face. He closed his eyes…
Washington's summer was humid. The air smelled of vegetation and river water. Chen Tao dragged his suitcase along streets familiar yet strange, slowing his pace to avoid startling anything. When people passed, he shifted slightly, palms still damp.
At her door, everything was unusually quiet. He pressed the doorbell; the chime echoed down the hall like a memory from long ago. A few seconds later, the door opened—Li Ming stood there. Light spilled through the crack, falling on her shoulders. She stepped forward, hugging him lightly. Relief washed over him—she was here, he could see her.
He looked at her, anxiety flickering in his eyes. He wanted to speak but didn't know how. The air was thick with early summer humidity and faint dust; books lay scattered on the table. The soft hum of the air conditioner served as background music to their silence.
The door clicked. Dawei entered, carrying several bags of groceries. He looked up, paused at the sight of Chen Tao, then nodded. Chen Tao froze for a moment. Li Ming quietly introduced them: "Chen Tao, this is Dawei, my classmate."
There was no awkwardness, no forced cheerfulness—only the faint sound of breathing and the rustle of paper bags. Over the next few days, they walked together along riverside paths, dappled with sunlight and shadow. Chen Tao said little, simply accompanying her. He noticed her steps had grown steadier, her breathing more even, her eyes softening with a gentle light.
Back in the Paris apartment, the air was thick and silent. Chen Tao set his luggage in a corner and opened the window. Summer wind drifted in, carrying dust from the street and faint distant flowers. He sat on the sofa, clutching the notebook he had brought back, filled with papers from Washington—Li Ming's notes, reminders from her therapy exercises…
His wife appeared from the kitchen and paused, noticing him sitting there. A brief silence stretched, as if the air itself had slowed.
Days piled up. They chose to live separately. Chen Tao rented an apartment down another street; home responsibilities gradually fell to his wife. The children went to school. The apartment became quiet, with only the echo of walls and the rustle of curtains stirred by wind. Chen Tao recalled those Washington days: Li Ming's figure, her slow steps, the light along the river—images quietly etched into his mind.
Years of separation stretched their lives along parallel lines. Chen Tao returned home less often. Each time, his wife only nodded. After their child went to college, a quarrel erupted over trivial matters. Their child voiced grievances with sharp, detached words. Looking into his son's eyes, Chen Tao saw confusion, apology, and a touch of hostility—an emotion so cold it tightened his chest, severing warmth in an instant.
Ultimately, they divorced. In the empty apartment, listening to wind stir leaves outside, the heart felt heavy with dust—yet also a kind of relief. Some relationships had been drawn to a close, certain emotions could only remain in memory, slowly settling.
Late at night, the streets of Paris were quiet. Chen Tao sat by the window, fingers tracing the tabletop, recalling the early summer light and serenity along the river in Washington. He closed his eyes, breathing steady, yet the warmth lingered in his chest—a past he could neither take with him nor let go, carefully kept in the deepest shadows of memory.