In the second month of our relationship, Mr. X gave me a deep blue, hard-covered notebook. He solemnly opened the first page, revealing black handwriting: “Five-Year Plan (201X-201Y).” My heart skipped a beat when I saw my name clearly written under the “Family Goals” section, followed by a small note: “Marry in 201X, have children in 201Y.” “Look,” he tapped the paper with his finger, his eyes sparkling like the fragmented light of Shenzhen Bay in the afternoon, “the project initiation document has been signed, and we will proceed according to the timeline, absolutely secure!” His tone was as confident as if he were presenting a business plan.
Our most common dating spot was Shenzhen Bay. Whether in the early morning light or the dusk, that winding coastline seemed to serve as the backdrop for our relationship. However, he always walked as if he were chasing something, his steps large and hurried. I often had to jog to keep up, breathless as I chased his figure, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore barely masking the pounding in my chest.
What truly chilled my heart was his habitual “disappearance” in crowds. One day in the bustling Dongmen Old Street, I was excitedly pointing at a dress in a shop window when he suddenly stopped and tapped my arm: “Wait a moment, I ran into an old classmate.” I stood there like a lamppost amidst the crowd. Ten minutes, twenty minutes passed… When I finally turned back, following the sound, I saw him leaning against a street corner, a cigarette between his fingers, laughing and chatting with a stranger, completely forgetting my existence. I hurried over and gently tugged at his sleeve. He waved his hand dismissively, as if brushing off dust, his gaze still glued to the other man’s face: “You go ahead and look around, I’ll be done soon.”
At that moment, the shop window reflected my figure, a stark contrast to the young couple inside selecting rings. A wave of immense disappointment and grievance washed over me, blurring my vision—I hated this light and airy promise and being taken for granted.
On the subway ride home, an argument was inevitable. “How could you leave me alone in that place?” I clenched my fists, my voice trembling. “That was one of my closest senior classmates from college! Connecting with him will open many doors for my promotion,” he said, his brow furrowed, his tone one of undeniable calculation. “And what about me?” I threw those three words, filled with all my grievances and insecurities, at him. The air suddenly thickened. After a long pause, he sighed heavily, his voice dropping: “Can’t you understand? Everything I do is for our ‘five years’ together!”
Similar scenes played out repeatedly: encountering clients on the street, I became the backdrop; weekend trips we had planned were easily canceled by a phone call from his boss. Promises were like beautiful soap bubbles, dazzling yet fleeting, leaving only sticky emptiness after they burst.
However, I was ultimately soft-hearted. Especially on that stormy night, the long-suppressed anxiety finally broke free. “I’m a terrible homemaker,” I curled up on the sofa, my voice muffled in my knees, “I can’t tell scallions from garlic, I don’t understand the rice cooker settings, I can’t even cook a decent meal…” In the darkness, he suddenly hugged me tightly, as if trying to embed me into his body. His chin rested on the top of my head, his voice low and damp: “Silly… what does that matter? I will learn! I will do it! I will give you security…” I suddenly felt a warm wetness on my shoulder—he was crying.
That rainy night, his promises nearly drowned me: he said he would build a stable nest, would protect my fragility for a lifetime, and would create a warm and bright home. I leaned against his solid chest, listening to those burning vows, those arguments and grievances, as if they could truly be washed away by tears. I was too naive then, never probing the emptiness behind his words—he said, “There will be a way in the future,” but never elaborated on what changes each of us should make.
Later, I shared these thoughts with my mother. She was silent for a long time on the phone, finally letting out a low sigh: “Child… relationships are a difficult problem; others can’t show you the way, you ultimately have to figure it out yourself.” After hanging up, I looked at my reflection in the mirror, suddenly feeling trapped in a maze built by Mr. X, with the exit in sight, yet always being pulled back by him, returning to the starting point time and again. When mutual friends posted their bright red marriage certificates on social media, Mr. X handed me his phone, his tone like a project manager chasing a deadline: “Look, even they are speeding up; shouldn’t we press the fast-forward button on our five-year plan?”
Arguments swirled like a storm, escalating, and at times, the words “break up” nearly slipped out. But his tears acted like a binding spell, those promises filled with regret and “I love you” were like ropes, each time pulling me back to his side, making me believe once more in that misty “future.”
(To be continued, this article is purely original fiction)