She Forgets novel
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.
I moved to an apartment near the company, living a daily routine between two points, trying to ease the emptiness in my heart with busyness.
I thought this calm would last until the day we received our marriage certificate, but I hadn't anticipated that fate had long laid a trap in the shadows.
In the third week of the cooling-off period, Vivian, a friend of Wendy Scott, called anxiously: "Yale Shawn, please go see Wendy. She looks very pale and keeps forgetting things. I'm a little worried."
Vivian is one of the few who knows of my silent, long-held love for Wendy Scott.
After much hesitation, I finally bought some stomach-nourishing supplements and drove to her home.
As I reached the doorstep, about to knock, I saw her hurriedly leaving, clutching a thermos flask, her face pale and her steps unsteady.
Drawn by an inexplicable impulse, I followed her quietly, watching as she hailed a taxi and gave the city center hospital as her destination; my heart slowly sank.
The moment she stepped into the obstetrics and gynecology clinic, a ridiculous thought crossed my mindcould she be pregnant?
But since we filed for divorce, we have been living apart; this thought left me restless, yet I still sat on the corridor bench waiting for her.
Half an hour later, just as I was about to get up, I saw Shirley pushing a baby stroller approaching.
Shirley, the florist I had known for many years and who knew about my divorce from Wendy Scott, smiled and greeted me, "Yale Shawn? What are you doing here?"
Before I could answer, I saw Wendy Scott clutching the laboratory report as she emerged from the examination room, her face even paler than before.
Her gaze settled on me, Shirley, and the baby stroller; her body froze instantly, lips trembling: "Yale Shawn... is this your child?"
Shirley quickly explained, "Wendy, this is my sister's child. I'm just helping look after the baby for a while!"
But Wendy no longer listened; tears welled up as she gripped the laboratory report tightly and turned to run, her steps faltering as she nearly collided with the nurse.
"Wendy!" I tried to follow her, but Shirley pulled me back. "Let her calm down first."
I watched her receding figure, feeling restless inside, convinced she was simply being unreasonable.
During the cooling-off period, such "unreasonable" outbursts became increasingly frequent.
I went to retrieve the suit I had left at her place, and she suddenly asked, "Where is Minnie? Has she run downstairs to play again?"
Minnie was our cat; she died of kidney failure six months ago, and we buried her together.
I said patiently, "Wendy Scott, Minnie has passed away; we buried her together."
She gazed at me blankly, her eyes filled with confusion: "Oh, I forgot... I'm sorry."
Her expression unsettled my heart, but whenever I remembered that her heart belonged to someone else, that feeling turned to vexation.
Once, I ran into her downstairs in the apartment complex; she was carrying freshly bought groceries and instinctively called out, "Husband, are you home from work?"
I frowned, my voice cold: "Wendy Scott, we are divorced. Don't forget that."
Her face flushed instantly; she hurriedly said, "Sorry," and quickly entered the hallway, nearly dropping the groceries.
She would forget to turn off the faucet, mistake salt for sugar in her cooking, and be unable to find her usual sheet music in the Music Store.
After too many times, I gradually lost my patience.
When she once again asked about Minnie, I rebuked her, "Cant you be clear-headed? Since you've decided on a divorce, don't keep doing things to make me confused!"
She said nothing in reply; her eyes reddened. Clutching the edge of her clothes, she turned and walked into the hallway, her frail silhouette breaking my heart.
But at that time, I was blinded by selfishness and grievance, not thinking much, only feeling she was deliberately entangling me.
Not long after, I received an invitation to the opening of Shirley's new caf, adorned with a promotional photo of us together.
On the day of the opening, I went to help greet the guests, not expecting Wendy to arrive.
She stood at the door, clad in a black trench coat, her expression cold, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on Shirley and me.
The guests around us fell silent, their eyes all steadily fixed upon us.
"Yale Shawn," she approached me step by step, her tone tinged with mockery, "just divorced and already so eager to open a shop with a new loveryou truly are shameless."
Shirley quickly explained, "Wendy, the store is mine; Yale Shawn is only here to help!"
Wendy Scott smiled faintly, though there was no humor in her eyes. "The last time at the hospital, you, him, and that childwas that also a misunderstanding?"
Her attitude infuriated me, and I raised my voice, "Wendy Scott, we are already over. Can you please stop making a scene here?"
Her body stiffened suddenly, and the light in her eyes slowly dimmed.
"Making a scene?" She repeated softly, then turned and left without looking back.
Watching her solitary figure disappear, I felt an inexplicable unease, but it was soon drowned out by the guests' murmurs and Shirley's comforting words.
At that time, I did not realize that those so-called "unreasonable quarrels" were cries for help from her body, and yet, I was the one who missed them.
On the day the divorce cooling-off period ended, the sky hung heavy with gloom.
We returned once more to the Civil Affairs Bureau, where the clerk routinely asked, "Are you sure you want to proceed with the divorce? Would you like to reconsider?"
I glanced at Wendy Scott; she kept her head bowed, her long hair veiling her face, with only the knuckles of the hand clutching her bag strap paling white.
"Yes, we are sure." We replied in unison.
As I signed, my hand trembled slightly; the scratch of the pen across the paper felt like cleaving through our ten years of shared memories.
Wendy Scott signed swiftly, her handwriting neat yet imbued with a quiet resolve.
At the moment I received the divorce certificate, a light rain began to fall, its fine droplets cold and piercing against my skin.
She did not open an umbrella, allowing the rain to soak her hair and clothes, turning away without once looking back.
Clutching the green divorce certificate in my hand, my heart felt hollow; I longed to call out to her, to offer her my umbrella, but in the end, I held back.
I watched her figure recede into the rain, growing ever more distant until she vanished around the street corner, and only then did I slowly open my umbrella and depart.
I thought our story ended there.
Half a month later, Shirley called me, "Yale Shawn, come to my shop quickly; I found Wendy's file folder."
My heart skipped a beat as I drove straight to the flower shop.
The dark blue folder bore the City Center Hospital's logo. With trembling hands, I opened it to find a stack of laboratory reports.
The top page bore Wendy Scott's name, with a diagnosis: "Rare genetic mutation (SPG7 type), accompanied by progressive memory decline, possibly progressing to brainstem atrophy in later stages," dated a week before I filed for divorce.
There was also a pregnancy test report below, showing four weeks of pregnancythe date precisely the day before our chance encounter at the hospital.
My mind went utterly blank in an instant, and the laboratory report in my hand felt unbearably heavy, as if suffocating me.
It turned out that her visit to the obstetrics department that day was to confirm the pregnancy; that her forgetfulness was a symptom of her condition; that her calm agreement to the divorce was because she feared becoming a burden to me.
I recalled her cold gaze at the caf, her figure leaving in the rain, her pale fingertips as she signed the papers; my heart felt as though gripped tightly by an invisible hand, aching so fiercely I could hardly stand.
Regret flooded over me like a rising tide; I finally realized that my so-called 'tiredness' and 'substitute' were nothing but selfish excuses.
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