Chapter 4

The next day, Jonathan brought those seventeen books to my office building.

The receptionist called me, her tone slightly teasing.

"Ms. Lynn, there's a handsome guy downstairs holding a huge stack of books, waiting for you. Says he's your ex-boyfriend."

"Security says he's been waiting for over three hours."

My hand tightened slightly around the phone.

"Tell him I'm not here."

I didn't go down.

Through the office window, I could see that tiny figure downstairs.

He was wearing the gray coat I'd bought him, standing tall and straight, very noticeable in the crowd.

He just stood there stubbornly, holding that heavy pile of books in his arms, like a pilgrim at a shrine.

I pulled down the blinds without any expression.

That evening, I got a message from Jonathan.

It was a photo.

The photo showed a page from a wedding planning book, under dim yellow light.

In the blank space on the page, there were a few lines of faint pencil writing.

The handwriting was familiar—it was mine.

"If it's in June, a lawn wedding would be too hot. Change it to evening."

"He looks good in a white suit, but he says white makes him look like a groomsman. Need to discuss."

"What should the vows say? Haven't figured it out yet."

"Whatever, he's busy anyway. The wedding will probably be next year."

The pencil marks were so faded they were barely visible—I'd written them three years ago, casually, in a bookstore.

I'd completely forgotten about it.

But he, like an archaeologist, had unearthed these forgotten details, piece by piece.

He'd photographed the last line of messy small writing at the bottom.

"It's okay, I can wait."

Through the screen, I could almost see that next to that line, there was a new water stain.

Round, small, spreading over the old pencil marks.

Right after, he sent a second message.

No apology, no explanation, and no "I love you."

Just "So you did write that you'd wait for me."

My heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand, the pain making it hard to breathe.

Yes, I wrote it.

Three years ago, on that warm afternoon, I was full of joy, thinking we had a future.

I thought my waiting would eventually make him turn around.

Three years ago, he didn't know I'd written it.

Three years later, he found out.

And I no longer wanted to wait.

I replied.

"Yes, I wrote it."

Over there, he was typing for a long time.

It showed "typing..."

Then disappeared.

Appeared again.

Disappeared again.

Finally, he sent one sentence.

"So now, are you still waiting?"

I didn't reply.

That chat window never showed "typing..." again.

It's not that I won't wait anymore.

It's that I've already waited.

I finished waiting.

My waiting expired.

And he's only just now asking.