Let bygones be bygones

The rain gradually subsided, and a faint glimmer of light even appeared on the horizon. I picked up my bag to leave, and just as I reached the glass curtain at the door, my wrist was suddenly grabbed. Liam 's palm was warm, with calluses from years of holding a pen; the touch was so familiar that it made me feel physically nauseous.

"Where do you live? I'll take you there." His voice was urgent, a stark contrast to his calm demeanor just moments before.

I jerked my hand back as if I'd touched a scorching hot iron. I took two steps back to create distance, and the cuff of my trench coat slipped down, revealing crisscrossing scars on my forearm—scars I'd inflicted with shards of porcelain while I was in the mental hospital. The rain soaked my skin, making the scars appear a pale pink, particularly striking.

Liam 's gaze froze on the scars, his face paled, and his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but I spoke first. My tone was as calm as if I were stating something unrelated to myself: "No need, Mr. Liam , I'm afraid your wife will misunderstand."

I deliberately emphasized the words "your wife," watching his face turn from white to pale, then to pale, and finally to a look of utter disarray. I used to love seeing him lose his composure for me, but now, I just found it laughable.

As she turned and stepped into the gradually stopping rain, Liam 's voice came from behind her, broken and fragmented by the wind: " Clara , about what happened back then..."

I didn't look back, and I didn't stop walking. What does it matter what happened back then? Can he give me back the child I lost? Can he erase those days and nights I spent in the mental hospital? Can he make up for all the love I've exhausted?

No. So there's no point in saying more.

The brown sugar bun in my arms was soaked and mushy from the rain, sticking to the plastic bag. I walked to the trash can and tossed it in casually—like throwing away the rotten, stinking past that was connected to Liam .

The wind lifted my sleeve, and the cool breeze made the scars itch slightly. I looked down at them and suddenly remembered that today was not only the seventh anniversary of our divorce, but also the third year since I completely stopped taking medication. The doctor said I was recovering very well, and those delusions caused by my paranoia and despair had never recurred.

It turns out that letting go of someone can be so peaceful. It's not hysterical forgetting, nor is it lingering resentment. It's just that when you mention their name again, your heart doesn't even skip a beat. It's like talking about a complete stranger.

The rain had completely stopped, and sunlight pierced through the clouds, casting dappled shadows on the ground. I pulled down my sleeve to cover the scar and walked towards the steamed bun shop on the street corner. The aroma of steam wafting from the shop was warm and comforting.

Lila, who was wiping the table , saw me and immediately gave me a big smile, her ponytail swaying back and forth: " Clara , you've finally come! I was cleaning the warehouse just now and found a dusty box with your name on it. See if you still want it. If not, I'll throw it away to make room for the pasta machine."

It was a dark brown wooden box, its edges worn and covered in a thick layer of dust. I wiped it with my sleeve, revealing three large, elegant characters: "A Gift for Clara ".

Liam 's handwriting. Even after all these years, it remains as flamboyant as ever.

Lila leaned closer, her eyes wide with surprise. "Wow, this handwriting is so beautiful! Which handsome guy sent it to you? The packaging is so exquisite; it's clear he put a lot of thought into it." She reached out to check the signature on the side of the box, and after seeing the two words, she suddenly exclaimed "Wow!" her voice trembling. " Liam Foster ? Is that the legendary genius PhD who won the International Physics Prize at the age of thirty? The one who discovered a new asteroid and made headlines ?!"

She grabbed my arm, her face full of disbelief: " Clara , who are you? How do you know such a big shot?!"

I found a chair and sat down, my fingertips tracing the wood grain of the box as I slowly unfastened the clasp. Inside, there was a blue and white checkered cloth that I had embroidered myself years ago, on which lay a notebook and a long-faded silver bookmark.

“We don’t know each other,” I said, picking up the bookmark, the cool touch sending a shiver down my spine. “I’m his ex-wife.”

I paused, then added, "It's that ex-wife he sent to a mental hospital back then, who was called crazy by his family and regarded as a disgrace to his life."

Lila 's mouth gaped open in an "O" shape, unable to close for a long time. The steam from the steamed bun shop blurred her expression. After a while, she cautiously asked, " Clara , what...what exactly happened back then?"

I looked at the notebook in the box— Liam 's old lab notes, with "For my Clara " written on the title page. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a soft glow on the handwriting.

I smiled, my fingertips gently tracing the familiar handwriting, and said, "When I met Liam , he wasn't some legendary genius yet. Back then, he was dirt poor, unable to even afford a hot meal..."