During her weekend cleaning, Lin Zhou pulled a dusty box out from under her bed. She knew what was inside: Shen Che's "leftovers." When he "went abroad" three years ago, he couldn't take many things with him, so he had left them here.
She opened the box, and a familiar, faint minty scent wafted out—the smell of Shen Che's favorite laundry detergent.
Inside was a neatly folded white shirt, the one he wore for his graduation defense. She remembered that day. He stood on the stage, confident, poised, and radiant, the most dazzling person in the room.
Beneath the shirt was a thick sketchbook. Shen Che loved to draw. Although he wasn't a professional, he was very good at it. Lin Zhou opened it. It was filled with drawings of her. Her reading, her daydreaming, her laughing, her angry… next to each sketch, the date and his mood were noted in his neat handwriting.
May 20th. Zhou Zhou was mad today because I forgot our anniversary, but she's so cute even when she's pouting.
October 1st. Went to the seaside with Zhou Zhou. She said she hoped we could be like the ocean, together forever.
Lin Zhou's fingertips traced the drawings, her eyes welling up. These sketches were the truest testament to their love. A person's love cannot be hidden; it spills out from their eyes, from the tip of their pen, from every little detail. She couldn't believe that a man who had loved her like this could simply fall out of love.
At the very bottom of the box was the old wooden guitar. The very one he had used to play Zhou for her countless times. She took it out and gently plucked a string. It made a dull twang, like a sigh from a distant past.
She sat on the floor, holding the guitar, leaning against the bed, and just stayed there quietly for the whole afternoon.
She carefully put everything back in the box, except for the sketchbook. She placed it by her pillow.
That night, the coughing started upstairs again, more violent than ever, as if trying to tear the silent night sky apart. Lin Zhou lay in bed, listening to the sound. For the first time, she felt no annoyance, only a strange, heart-wrenching worry.
This "Mr. Ghost," she thought, must be very sick. It must be hard, carrying it all alone. Just like her, carrying a love with no response was also very hard.
In that moment, she suddenly felt that she and her neighbor, whom she had never properly met, shared a sliver of a common ailment.