Chapter 3
985words
I also lost contact with him, for a very, very long time.
I was busy dealing with final exams, busy immersing myself in the lab to complete the professor's project, busy writing those papers that seemed endless. I filled every inch of my life with frantic busyness, trying to escape that lost, dimmed version of myself wandering in darkness.
Until several years later, when I was about to graduate with my master's degree, my senior dragged me to a bar.
"Do you know who that super handsome guy is at the next table?"
"I heard he's a big shot in the tech industry. Right after graduation his annual salary is already this much." The girl made a gesture with her hand, and a chorus of gasps rose from those around her.
I followed her gaze toward the adjacent table.
Julian sat right in the center of that group of handsome men and beautiful women, like the focal point of a painting. He had changed, shedding the awkwardness of his college years and gaining a mature sharpness, but that casual sense of superiority hadn't diminished one bit.
"I'm going to ask for his contact information." A bold girl stood up and eagerly walked toward the neighboring table.
About ten minutes later, she returned with a dejected look.
"Couldn't get it, huh?" Someone teased her.
"This big shot was famously hard to pursue even at their school."
I stood up, making an excuse to go to the bathroom. Splashing cold water on my face, I looked at that unfamiliar, tired face in the mirror and took a deep breath.
When I came out after washing my hands, I bumped into a warm chest.
It was Julian. He was standing right at the bathroom doorway, as if deliberately intercepting me. He wore a black turtleneck wool sweater that outlined his broad, upright figure. The exposed section of his neck was fair and clean, exuding a kind of ascetic sensuality. In the crook of his arm, he was carrying my camel-colored coat.
He asked: "What did I do to offend you?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing, yet you blocked me?" His pitch-black eyes stared straight at me, that gaze easily igniting years of suppressed irritation in the depths of my heart.
"Give me back my coat."
He shifted to the side, blocking my path. "No."
At the doorway of the bar's back alley, the bitter cold wind blew with fine snowflakes that felt like icy blades scraping against the face. He asked me again:
"Is that guy sitting next to you your boyfriend?"
"Is that who you learned from, coming to a bar in the middle of the night?"
Seeing that I remained silent, he gave a cold snort.
"I don't mean anything else," he added, though his tone suggested otherwise, "I'm simply advising you to be careful about who you choose, he doesn't look like a good person."
I raised my head, my direct gaze falling upon his face.
In that moment I suddenly understood that some things cannot be overcome through abstinence alone.
Only by truly having something can one completely quell that sense of dissatisfaction.
"Are you angry?" My tone was calm and unruffled.
He laughed, with a hint of mockery in his smile: "Why would I be angry—"
"Julian," I interrupted him, "do you want to come home with me?"
He froze. His entire body stiffened as if he hadn't understood the meaning of this simple sentence.
"If not, that's fine," I said, "someone else will do."
I turned to leave, but he grabbed my wrist. The burning heat from his palm, through my skin, instantly ignited me.
On that night of the first snow in November, he and I began that secret relationship unknown to others.
Actually, I just wanted to know what that forever arrogant face would look like when lost in desire and passion.
So this is how it looks.
Even in bed, he clings to his pride, teasing me maliciously, whispering breathlessly in my ear:
"Would anyone else do, hmm?"
No, they wouldn't. Only you.
I always turn my face away, trying hard not to cry.
Month after month. We're like accomplices sinking into an addiction, each more addicted than the other.
I feel like I'm beyond saving. In some moments, I actually feel that perhaps he likes me too.
So, when he's holding the hair dryer, his large hand running through my wet hair, asking in an almost tender voice: "Do you like me?"
I can't help but speak up. I want to say:
"Let's end this kind of relationship—"
And then, truly be together.
But before I could finish, he let go of my hand.
The roar of the hair dryer came to an abrupt halt, and the bathroom became so quiet that only the sound of water dripping from the ends of my hair could be heard. He stared at me for a long time, so long that I almost couldn't breathe.
Then, he leaned against the bathroom doorframe and smiled softly, a smile like a knife dipped in ice.
"It's better to end it early," he said, "Don't put a label on this thing. Honestly, all of this is starting to get boring."
Wet, cold hair clung to my back, alternating between hot and cold. I felt a bone-chilling coldness spreading from my spine all the way to my heart.
Looking at my pale face, he added, in a tone as flat as if stating a fact: "This isn't a romantic relationship, Clara. We don't even need to 'break up,' you know that, right?"
Yes, I knew. That was the moment I truly wanted to retreat. All these years, by his side, how ordinary I was - I knew it better than anyone.
But, I don't want to shortchange my ordinary self anymore.
