The silence in the apartment was not merely an absence of sound, but a presence—a dense, almost tangible entity that pressed against Su Suo's eardrums and amplified the ticking of the wall clock into something unnervingly percussive, like a slow, deliberate drumbeat echoing inside the hollow of his skull. Beyond the double-paned windows, the city hummed with its own muted rhythms: the distant murmur of traffic, the occasional rise and fall of voices from the street below, the shimmer of neon signs painting the night in streaks of electric color. Yet inside, the quiet was a weight, a deliberate stillness that settled on his chest and demanded attention. Su Suo listened, almost compulsively, as though any shift in the air, any faint disturbance, might signal the beginning—or the end—of the evening he had so painstakingly prepared.
The open-plan kitchen flowed seamlessly into the living area, a space defined by clean lines and muted tones, every object placed with intention. For hours, Su Suo had moved through it with the focused grace of a ritualist. He had sliced vegetables into paper-thin rounds, seasoned meats with a careful hand, arranged each component of the five-course meal on bone-white china. The table, a slab of polished oak, now held the fruits of his labor—dishes that were not merely food, but edible memories, each one a quiet homage to a moment shared, a flavor cherished, a history preserved. Steam rose in delicate tendrils from seared salmon glazed with honey and soy, from rosemary-roasted root vegetables, from a red wine reduction simmered to velvety perfection. The air itself seemed thickened with scent—garlic, thyme, the faint sweetness of caramelized shallots.
He lit the scented candles last, their flames trembling behind glass cylinders, casting soft, wavering shadows that climbed the walls and pooled in the corners of the room. From the vintage turntable in the corner, a jazz record began to spin, its languid melody spilling into the silence. It was an album Li Hongyang had once claimed to adore—a collection of late-night ballads full of longing and restraint. Su Suo had played it so many times the grooves were nearly worn smooth, yet tonight the music felt different. Each note seemed weighted with anticipation, the saxophone's mournful cry a counterpoint to the tightness in his own throat. It was the sound of waiting, of hope stretched thin.
The clock on the wall showed half past seven. Dinner had been ready for hours. He had already reheated the plates twice, adjusting their positions on the table, tasting a spoonful of sauce to ensure it hadn't dulled, running a finger along the rim of a wine glass to check for dust. Everything was in its place—the cutlery aligned with geometric precision, the linen napkins folded into sharp-edged rectangles, the crystal catching and fracturing the candlelight into tiny rainbows. Five years of wedding anniversaries had honed this ritual to an art. Each detail was a bulwark against disorder, a testament to a love he believed was worth preserving.
Outside, the sky deepened from violet to black. Lights flickered on in the windows of neighboring towers, each illuminated square a vignette of anonymous lives. Su Suo stood by the window, his reflection a pale ghost superimposed over the cityscape. He watched a couple arguing on a balcony across the way, a man walking a dog along the wet pavement, a party starting several floors down—ordinary scenes of continuity that only emphasized the suspended reality of his own apartment. In his mind, he rehearsed Li Hongyang's return: the sound of the key in the lock, the shuffle of shoes being removed, the warmth of an embrace. But as the minutes accumulated, each one heavier than the last, he could feel the fine thread of his hope fraying.
Memory intruded, vivid and unbidden. He recalled mornings bathed in soft, gold light, the two of them moving around each other in the same kitchen, hands brushing as they passed the sugar, the quiet companionship of shared coffee. He remembered Li Hongyang's laughter—a low, rich sound that seemed to start deep in his chest—the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was genuinely amused, the weight of his arm around Su Suo's shoulders after a long day. These images, once a source of comfort, now felt like sharp-edged artifacts. They pressed against the present moment, highlighting the absence, deepening the quiet ache that had taken root behind his sternum.
Then, a sound—the metallic scrape of a key turning in the lock. It was so sudden, so definitive, that Su Suo's heart gave a single, hard knock against his ribs. The door swung inward, and Li Hongyang stepped across the threshold. He carried the night with him—in the weary slope of his shoulders, in the slight stiffness of his gait. A faint, sharp odor of alcohol clung to his clothes, but beneath it, something else: a cool, woody fragrance, crisp and unfamiliar, like walking into a forest after rain. It was a scent that did not belong in this apartment, with its warm tones of beeswax and simmering food.
"Sorry I'm late," Li Hongyang said, his voice rough, stripped of inflection. The apology was a formality, empty of regret. He allowed Su Suo to approach for a hug—a brief, brittle contact that was over before it began—then moved past him toward the bathroom. "Company events," he added, tossing the explanation over his shoulder like a bone to a dog. "They're exhausting."
Su Suo's hands were still extended, hovering in the space where Li Hongyang had been. Slowly, he lowered them, taking the coat his husband had shrugged off. As he hung it in the closet, his fingers brushed against the collar of the white dress shirt beneath. And there it was—a smudge, faint but unmistakable, a blush of red against the stark cotton. A lipstick stain, applied with careless intimacy. For a moment, Su Suo's mind refused to process the image. Then the understanding descended, a cold, heavy weight that settled in his gut and seemed to pull his entire body downward.
He did not speak. He did not cry out. Words felt like stones in his mouth, too heavy to dislodge. Instead, he turned and walked back to the dining table, his movements mechanical, precise. He began to clear the untouched plates, stacking them with quiet efficiency. He carried the salmon, now cool and glazed with congealed fat, to the kitchen island. He emptied the wine glasses—one still full, the other barely touched—down the sink. Each action was a small, controlled gesture, a way of imposing order on the chaos unfolding inside him.
The jazz record played on, the piano notes falling like soft rain. The music, once a thread connecting him to happier times, now felt like an elegy. The candle flames shuddered in a draft, making the shadows leap and twist. The apartment, so carefully arranged, so full of loving intention, now felt like a stage after the audience had left. The city beyond the glass continued its indifferent pulsation, its lights blurring into streaks as Su Suo's vision swam.
He sat down finally, alone at the grand table, and stared at the empty spaces where the plates had been. The food was put away, the candles burned lower. He thought of their first anniversary, when Li Hongyang had surprised him with a trip to the coast, the salt wind tangling their hair. He thought of the small, stupid arguments over misplaced keys and unwashed dishes, fights that always ended in laughter and reconciliation. He thought of the quiet evenings spent reading on the sofa, their legs tangled together, a silence so comfortable it felt like a second language. All of it was now refracted through the lens of this new, chilling clarity—the foreign scent, the red mark, the hollow apology.
The hours bled into one another. He did not go to the bedroom. He remained at the table, a sentinel in his own home, while the night deepened around him. He turned the memories over in his mind, examining them for cracks he might have missed, for signs of a divergence he had been too blind or too trusting to see. Had there been a new distance in Li Hongyang's laughter lately? A hesitation in his touch? Or had the betrayal been as sudden and silent as a door closing in a distant part of the house?
He considered the anatomy of a fracture—how a single hairline crack, if left unattended, could spread until the entire structure was compromised. Love, he thought, was not a fortress, but a delicate ecosystem, vulnerable to the slightest change in climate. Trust, once broken, left a residue no amount of care could fully erase.
Yet, there was no outburst, no dramatic confrontation. His grief was a private, disciplined thing. It was in the exact angle of the knife resting on the clean countertop, in the precise fold of the dishcloth, in the steady rhythm of his breathing. He moved through the aftermath with a quiet dignity, each gesture a silent argument against the disintegration of the world he had built.
As the first grey light of dawn began to dilute the darkness outside, the jazz record reached its end. The needle lifted with a soft click, returning the apartment to its original, profound silence. The candles guttered out, one by one, leaving behind the scent of smoke and cold wax. Su Suo remained in his chair, watching the room slowly define itself in the pale morning light. The shadows retreated, revealing the clean lines of the furniture, the empty table, the pristine order of it all.
He wondered if the coming day would bring a conversation, an explanation, or merely a continuation of the silence. He wondered if a crack could ever truly be mended, or if the broken pieces would always, from certain angles, catch the light. For now, there was only the quiet, the lingering scent of a stranger's perfume, and the steady, resolute ache in his chest—a silent testament to a love that had, perhaps, already passed into memory. He was the keeper of that memory now, the guardian of a story that had reached its quiet, devastating end. And so he sat, motionless but unbroken, waiting for the morning to decide what came next.