It was one of those oppressive Nanjing afternoons where the heat wasn't just palpable—it was oppressive, thick and damp like a wet towel draped over your face.
Lin Wan sat on the cool tile floor of her south-facing apartment, her back against the couch, trying to draw whatever relief the ground had to offer. She was dressed in a grayish-white T-shirt, worn thin from countless washes, her hair twisted into a haphazard bun that had long since given up on staying neat.
Sweat clung to her forehead, sticking strands of bangs in place like forgotten afterthoughts.
Her phone lay face-up on her knee.
The last message from Chen Zhe still lingered there, blinking silently in the dim light:
Chen Zhe: I might have to stay in Shenzhen for a while.
Lin Wan: Oh.
Chen Zhe: You can reach me if you need anything.
Lin Wan: Mm.
That was all. No "I'll miss you." No "take care." Not even a period.
She flipped the phone over, screen-down, as if burying it. She didn't blame him for leaving. She just wasn't used to the silence.
She got up, padded to the kitchen, and poured water from the kettle into a glass—half hot, half cold, the way she liked it—and passed the living room mirror.
Didn't look. She knew what she'd see: tired eyes, the kind that had stared at ceilings too many nights in a row.
At 3:07 p.m., she found herself back on the couch, phone in hand again.
His WeChat profile. No new posts. No stories. Just the same old photo from two summers ago—him squinting into the sun at Xuanwu Lake, one hand shielding his face, the other holding a half-eaten ice cream cone. She remembered that day. She'd teased him for eating a rainbow popsicle like a kid.
He'd licked it slowly, defiantly, and said, "Joy doesn't expire."
Now he was gone. Or almost gone.
She went to the balcony.
Below, Old Wang from the corner store slumped in a plastic chair, snoring lightly, his belly rising and falling under a sweat-stained tank top. A ceiling fan above him spun lazily, more for show than function.
"Old Wang!" she shouted. "Ice-cold beer!"
He didn't open his eyes. "Three fifty. Come down."
"Seriously? It was three last week!"
"Blame the heat," he mumbled. "Everything's melting."
She rolled her eyes and slipped on her flip-flops.
Inside the store, the AC was cranked high. She shivered as she stepped in. Old Wang cracked one eye open.
"You're gonna freeze your uterus one day," he said.
"It's not a freezer compartment," she shot back. "And even if it were, I'd still want beer."
He chuckled, took her QR scan, handed over the bottle. "You're trouble, you know that?"
"Only when I'm sober."
Back on the stairs, she nearly bumped into Su Qing from across the hall.
Su Qing in a forest-green slip dress, heels clicking like a metronome, a designer bag dangling from her wrist. Her cheeks were flushed—wine, not heat.
"Out drinking again?" Su Qing asked, smiling.
"Only because you left all the good fumes behind," Lin Wan said, nodding at her flushed face.
Su Qing laughed, leaning against the wall. "Client dinner. Baijiu. Three rounds. I'm half-dead."
She studied Lin Wan for a moment. "You're alone a lot, aren't you?"
"Yeah," Lin Wan said, shrugging. "But loneliness is quieter than pretending."
Su Qing didn't smile this time. "You and Chen Zhe… it's over?"
Lin Wan froze. "Who said that?"
"The whole building knows.
The day he left, you stood on your balcony and smoked for half an hour. Didn't move. Didn't blink."
Lin Wan didn't remember that. But she believed it.
"He really liked you," Su Qing said softly.
"He still left," Lin Wan said, and smiled—thin, dry. "Liking someone doesn't pay the rent."
Su Qing looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. "Sometimes," she said, "the people who wear the most expensive clothes are the coldest inside."
Then she walked up, heels tapping like a heartbeat fading.
Lin Wan watched her go. For the first time, she wondered if Su Qing ever came home to a full fridge and an empty bed.
Back inside, she cracked the beer open, sat on the couch, and scrolled. Her phone buzzed.
Xiao Wen: Dinner tonight? Usual spot. Hot pot.
Xiao Wen: Just the three of us—me, you, Li Xiang.
Xiao Wen: He says he's got a new story.
Lin Wan typed:
Lin Wan: AC's broken. I'm basically sweating through the floor.
Xiao Wen: Exactly why you need to come! The place has real AC.
Lin Wan: …Fine.
She stood, opened the wardrobe, and stared. Nothing felt right. Eventually, she pulled out loose denim shorts and an oversized black hoodie. Makeup? No. Not even face wash. She wiped her face with a damp towel and called it a day.
By 6:30, she arrived at "Spicy to Death," the hole-in-the-wall hot pot joint that had survived eight years on flavor and loyalty.
Xiao Wen was already there, in a neon pink dress, hair bleached to a sun-kissed ash blonde, looking like she'd just escaped a music festival.
"You made it!" she waved. "Li Xiang's on his way. Said traffic."
Lin Wan slid into the booth, ordered an iced sour plum drink. "How've you been?"
"Me?" Xiao Wen shrugged. "I've been on seven dates. All disasters. Last week's guy said he was a 'spiritual guide.' Asked if I wanted to 'vibrate at the same frequency.'"
"And?"
"I asked how much the vibration cost. He said, 'Love is priceless.'" She rolled her eyes. "I said, 'Then go love yourself, pal. I only deal in yuan.'"
Lin Wan laughed—really laughed, the kind that shakes your ribs.
The door jingled. Li Xiang stumbled in, shirt rumpled, tie loose around his neck, hair like he'd lost a fight with a wind tunnel.
"Sorry, sorry," he plopped down. "Boss gave a 'visionary keynote'—translation: layoffs are coming."
"And you?"
"I pitched a three-page PowerPoint on 'AI-driven content synergy ecosystems.' They thought I was smart. I survived." He grinned. "Bullshit saved my ass."
Lin Wan looked at him—really looked. This was the guy who used to recite Latin poetry under the campus willow tree, who wrote sonnets about train stations and the smell of rain. Now he sold jargon for ad agencies.
"Do you still write poetry?" she asked.
He paused, stirred his tea. "Sometimes. But I don't post it. When I do, only my mom likes it."
"Well, at least your mom supports you."
"She wants me to take the civil service exam," he said, laughing bitterly. "Says poetry won't get me a pension."
The hot pot arrived—red oil bubbling, chili flakes swirling like tiny storms. They dipped beef, tripe, duck blood. Lin Wan watched a slice of ribeye curl and turn gray in the broth.
"Alright," Xiao Wen nudged Li Xiang. "Your turn. What's this 'new story'?"
Li Xiang took a swig of beer. "Last weekend, I joined this 'urban wandering' thing. Random people, walk through the city, talk about life."
"Sounds like a dating scam," Lin Wan said.
"Basically. But the guide was this woman—Zhou Ran, early thirties, makes documentaries.
She took us through three old neighborhoods, told us stories about every building. Said Nanjing's bricks are held together by forgotten love."
Xiao Wen raised an eyebrow. "Poetic."
"But get this," Li Xiang lowered his voice. "She took us to an abandoned cinema.
Said her ex proposed there ten years ago. She said no. And she's regretted it every day since."
Lin Wan stopped eating. "Then what?"
"She started crying. Right there, in the middle of the broken seats, staring at the blank screen. We all just… stood there. No one moved."
"Didn't anyone comfort her?" Xiao Wen asked.
"One guy handed her a tissue. She waved it away. Said, 'Let me finish. This is part of the ritual.'"
Lin Wan stared into the pot. "I wish I had a ritual."
"For what?" Li Xiang asked.
"For… ending things. Like printing out all my chats with Chen Zhe and burning them.
Or cutting up the scarf he gave me and tossing the pieces into the Qinhuai River."
"Why don't you?" Xiao Wen asked.
"Because I can't find the scarf," Lin Wan said quietly. "
"Probably buried under expired face masks and broken hair ties in some drawer."
Silence settled over the table.
Then Li Xiang said, "Hey. I passed your building yesterday. His car's still there."
Lin Wan looked up sharply. "No. He moved to Shenzhen."
"I saw it. License plate ends in 520. He told us it meant 'I love you,' remember?"
Her fingers tightened around her glass. 520. She remembered. He'd said it like a joke. But it wasn't.
"He's... back?" Her voice wavered.
"I don't know. But the car's there." Li Xiang shrugged. "Maybe he came back for paperwork."
Lin Wan didn't speak. Her chest felt tight, like someone had pressed a weight on her sternum.
Xiao Wen sensed it. "Hey, did you hear? Old Zhang's bookstore is closing."
"Which one?"
"'Between the Words,' near Gulou. Rent doubled. He says he can't keep up."
"Damn it," Lin Wan muttered. "That was our spot. I skipped my first class to read Conversations with Friends there with you two."
"And you underlined, 'Love isn't the thing that connects people. It's the thing that shows how far apart they are,'" Xiao Wen said, smiling.
"I still believe that," Lin Wan said.
The broth cooled. A film of grease formed on the surface. No one reached for more.
Li Xiang cleared his throat. "What if... we go there? Now. Spend his last night with him."
Xiao Wen checked her watch. "Eight o'clock. Yeah. Let's go."
They left the restaurant. The night air was softer now, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine and distant traffic. On the subway, they huddled in a corner. Xiao Wen leaned on Lin Wan's shoulder, humming "Long Time No See" by Eason Chan. Li Xiang scrolled his phone.
"I looked up Zhou Ran," he said suddenly. "She posted today. A photo of that abandoned cinema. Caption: 'Some words, when spoken too late, can never be heard.'"
Lin Wan didn't respond. She stared at her reflection in the dark window—blurry, distant, like someone she used to know.
The bookstore was tucked in a narrow alley, the sign dark, the door ajar. Inside, Old Zhang sat behind the counter, reading a book under a yellow lamp, silver hair catching the light.
"Oh," he looked up. "You came."
"We came to say goodbye," Xiao Wen said.
He waved a hand. "Don't make it sad. I'm not dying. Just retiring."
He stood, pulled three books from the shelf. "Last gifts."
For Lin Wan: Conversations with Friends.
For Xiao Wen: Beautiful World, Where Are You.
For Li Xiang: Normal People.
"How'd you know we loved Rooney?" Li Xiang asked.
"You borrowed all her books in college," Old Zhang said, smiling. "And you wrote in them. Lin Wan, you wrote in Normal People, page 89: 'Why doesn't he just tell her he loves her?'"
Lin Wan flushed. "I was young."
"And now?"
"Now..." she paused. "I still wouldn't say it."
Old Zhang didn't press. He made jasmine tea, light and fragrant. They sat on the worn sofa, talking—about college, about jobs, about the people they'd loved and lost, the words they'd swallowed.
At 11 p.m., Old Zhang said, "Time to close."
They stood, hugged. Lin Wan reached the door, then turned.
"Can I borrow your phone? Landline?"
Old Zhang handed it over.
She dialed the number—so familiar it felt like muscle memory.
It rang three times.
Then: "Hello?" His voice. Rough. Tired.
"It's me," she said.
"...Lin Wan?"
"Your car. It's still in Nanjing."
Silence. Then: "Yeah. I didn't go. The project collapsed. Shenzhen pulled out."
"Oh." She stared at the floor. "Where are you staying?"
"Hotel. For now."
Another silence.
"I went to Old Zhang's tonight," she said. "He's closing."
"I know. I was here yesterday."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I was afraid you'd think I came back for you."
Lin Wan laughed—soft, aching. "Are you?"
"I don't know," he said quietly. "I just know... the day I left, you were on the balcony, smoking. I didn't look up. I was scared that if I did, I wouldn't be able to leave."
Her eyes burned.
"Lin Wan," he said, after a pause. "I never... deleted you."
"Neither did I," she whispered.
"Can we... meet tomorrow? Just coffee. We don't even have to talk."
"Okay," she said.
She hung up. Old Zhang looked at her. "Well?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. But at least... we can see each other."
Outside, the night was cool. Xiao Wen linked arms with her. "So? What happened?"
"He wants to meet," Lin Wan said.
"Will you go?"
"I will." She looked up. For once, Nanjing's sky showed stars. "But I won't promise what I'll say."
Li Xiang smiled. "Sometimes, showing up is the answer."
They walked down the alley, their shadows stretched long by the streetlights. Lin Wan exhaled, slow and deep.
The air conditioner was broken.
But the heart, it turned out, still knew how to beat.
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