Love Across Mountains and Seas

That evening, I worked overtime at the office. At six o'clock sharp, I received a photo from Emily. It was a picture of her with Bill in a restaurant. I was surprised. She had never dared to tell me about these encounters before. It was always after much probing that she would reluctantly confess everything.

I was on the verge of madness, especially during the worst period when I developed anxiety. Only sleeping pills could help me sleep at night. Hearing the name Bill would make my heart tremble, and uncontrollable cold sweats would break out. I felt like Bill was my nemesis and my devil.

But this time, I had never felt such calm, almost as if I was looking at a regular friend having dinner with her friend. "Alright, I'm working overtime now."

No more messages came from the other side. In the photo, Bill looked haggard. He might really have broken up, but this fleeting internal turmoil lasted only a few minutes before I refocused on my work.

I realized that I no longer cared about Emily. I didn't care about her mood, whether she had eaten or slept well, where she was, who she was chatting with, what they were talking about, whether she had added any new suitors on Twitter, whether Bill had contacted her, what should I prepare for dinner tonight, what dessert to buy, and what beer, beverages, or fruits to put in the fridge?

My god! I realized that I had been spending my days on these meaningless issues.

That night, Emily did not come home.

In the past, I would have gone crazy, called her phone non-stop and asked her friends. If I couldn't find her, I would have called the police and spent a sleepless night.

Once, she didn't come home all night, and I was like an ant on a hot pan.

It felt like a TikTok trend a while back, where someone offered a reward to help find his girlfriend's hotel.

I called the police.

They found her at her friend's house.

When we returned home, we had a fierce argument, and in my frustration, I overturned a table she had insisted on buying for over eight thousand dollars.

That cold war lasted half a month.

I was the one who apologized first.

At that time, she looked at me indifferently, "This time you flipped the table. Next time will your fist be on my body?"

I knelt on the floor, swearing over and over again.

I loved her to the marrow. I would go crazy without her. I slapped my own face repeatedly. I desperately explained. I said for you, I would jump off a building. I would never lay a finger on you.

Back then, I was terrifying. Because of this, Emily confessed that she had thought about leaving me several times. She said I loved her too much, that I was not mentally right. She was afraid I might kill her. I faced it with a bitter smile. Yes, I was really stupid. We are all adults. Who needs to see this drama? It never happened again.

That night, Emily didn't come home. I didn't call her and I didn't report to the police. I just washed up, played with my phone, and slept, a long-missed sleep. It was very solid and very peaceful without those torturous thoughts or the anxiety of closeness. Even my sexual energy towards women was gone. I realized how tiring my past life had been.

The next day we went to work as usual. We met around eight in the morning. Emily took the initiative to explain, "Last night I drank too much with Bill. I slept at my friend Cindy Miller's house." Cindy and Bill were close for a while in college. They both stayed in this city afterward, and Cindy had introduced Bill to rent a house in the same neighborhood. So Cindy and Bill lived in the same complex. I nodded, "Oh, got it.'' Then there was silence. It lasted three or four minutes, a deathly silence. Emily nodded, "Hmm!'' At some point, we had nothing to say to each other.

Just leaving the neighborhood, I received a Twitter message from Bill. It was a photo. In the photo, Emily was lying on a bed. From the angle of the photo, Emily and Bill had slept together!