She Forgets

My name is Yale Shawn. The year I met Wendy Scott, I was twenty and she was nineteen. She stood beneath the camphor tree on the university campus, wearing a white dress faded from many washes, clutching a worn sheet of music. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, falling on the strands of her hair like a delicate gilded edge. By then, Wendy was already accompanied by Jim Wade — a senior at the law school, always in perfectly pressed white shirts, gently carrying her instrument case, his fingers occasionally brushing the back of her hand. I could only stand far outside the basketball court fence, watching them walk side by side along the ginkgo path, swallowing my greetings, concealing my heart's stirrings in the silence of every passing brush. Once, when she picked up the sheet music, her fingertips accidentally brushed mine. Like a startled fawn, she withdrew her hand, said "Thank you," and hurried to catch up with Jim Wade. That warm touch lingered in my heart for ten years, becoming fragments I revisited in countless quiet nights. This silent, unrequited love has been hidden away for ten years. Over those ten years, I watched her transform from an undergraduate into a piano teacher, witnessed her engagement to Jim Wade, their choice of a music store, and even helped them move their newly purchased piano. Every time I helped, I smiled and said, "It's not a big deal," but inside, it felt as if I were pierced by countless tiny needles, aching silently. At thirty, Jim Wade died in a car accident. I rushed back overnight from another city, only to find the music store shrouded in darkness, its lights left unlit for three whole days and nights. Each morning at five, I would prepare the millet porridge she liked, pour it into a Thermos Flask, and leave it by the door with a note that read, "Drink it while it's warm." In the evenings, I sat on the bench diagonally opposite the music store, staring into the darkness beyond the window, only leaving after ten o'clock when she finally turned off the lights. Once, during a heavy downpour, I stood beneath the eaves with an umbrella, watching her open the door and take up the Thermos Flask; her figure through the curtain of rain appeared particularly fragile. This silent companionship endured for another five years. In the winter when I was thirty-five, the snow fell heavily. I waited for her at the entrance of the music store. She wrapped in a thick scarf, her eyes bloodshot: "Yale Shawn, have you liked me for a long time?" I stood frozen, snowflakes settling on my eyelashes, cold and biting, yet nothing as piercing as her words. I nodded, my voice hoarse: "Yes, ever since the first time I saw you beneath the camphor tree at twenty." She remained silent for a long while, snowflakes gathering on the tips of her hair, then softly said, "Then let us marry." At the wedding, she wore a pure white gown, her eyes reddened, her fingertips trembling slightly as the rings were exchanged. I knew the tears in her eyes were for Jim Wade, the one who lingered in her youth, forever holding the most precious place in her heart. Day by day, I helped her manage the Music Store's accounts, cooked her favorite dishes when we returned home, and remembered her cycle. In her Music Store hung a black-and-white photo of Jim Wade, placed in the most prominent spot; I would occasionally dust the frame gently when she was away. But I increasingly felt, with growing clarity, that I would always be the second choice in her life. When she was sick with a fever, she called out 'Jim.' She played on the piano the songs that Jim Wade loved before he passed. Even in the silence after our quarrels, her eyes seemed to be looking at someone else. On her fortieth birthday, I reserved her favorite Western restaurant and, beneath the flickering candlelight, said, “Wendy Scott, let's divorce.” Her hand holding the knife and fork froze mid-air, her gaze calm and deep like still water: “Have you made up your mind?” I nodded, my throat constricting: “I'm tired. I no longer want to be anyone's substitute, nor live forever in the shadow of another.” She said nothing, lowering her head as she cut the steak: "Alright, we'll go to book the divorce registration tomorrow." I watched her force a calm expression, an inexplicable ache stirring in my heart, yet I steeled myself and did not look back. The next day, she arrived punctually at the door of the Civil Affairs Bureau, wearing a gray coat, her hair tied into a ponytail, her unadorned face looking somewhat haggard. We filled out the forms together, the whole process hauntingly silent, save for the rustling of pen tips gliding over paper. After returning home, I called a moving company to pack up my things; she sat on the sofa, gently stroking a photograph of herself with Jim Wade. While packing clothes, I found a gift box at the bottom of the wardrobe, containing a fountain pen I had long admired — a birthday gift she had prepared for me, but which, due to our divorce, was never given. My heart was caught in a mix of emotions: relief, emptiness, and a faint, unacknowledged wistfulness. On the day I moved, the sky hung heavy and gray; she stood by the window, hands clasped, her silhouette so slight it seemed as if she might drift away like a leaf. I took my suitcase to the door, glanced back at her once, and finally said only, "Take care," before gently closing the door. I knew she was hurting inside, but proud as she was, she would never easily reveal a trace of it. The divorce cooling-off period began. Though we were only three streets apart, there was no contact between us anymore.