Chapter 6.2

As he read each word, Xin Zhihuan’s vision blurred with tears, quietly welling up like the coldest winter fog in his eyes.

She had sworn never to cry again. He hadn’t understood her melancholy then, but now he did.

How many such notes were there? How many times had she held back her tears, writing down her painful thoughts?

He opened each music box in her collection, finding a note in each one. Each music box represented a cold, lonely night she had endured.

He gradually understood that these music boxes were her way of coping with her fragility. Whenever she felt sad, she would buy herself a music box, listen to its gentle melody, and record her feelings.

She had come through it all, so strong and yet so heartbreaking.

He carefully put away each music box that held such deep meaning for her. The last one, which appeared the smallest and most modest, held her wedding ring inside.

He looked at the ring, imagining she had quietly removed it and sealed it in the music box the day he flew to America.

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It was Zhihuan!

Suddenly alert, she pieced together the scattered fragments of her memory. She remembered now. She had argued with Jiajun outside the restaurant, seemed to have fainted, and Zhihuan had saved her.

He had carried her to the car, taken her to the hospital, and then brought her back home and into the bedroom.

It was him.

But where was he now? Why was there no sign of him?

Qi Feifei, feeling unsettled, shakily got out of bed. Although her fever had subsided, her body still felt weak and dizzy. She held her forehead and slowly walked towards the living room.

In the open kitchen, a figure was bustling around. Suddenly, there was a crisp sound.

“Shit!” came the man’s low curse.

Zhihuan?

Qi Feifei was slightly surprised. She walked to the bar and saw his back facing her. He bent down to pick up a spatula, turned on the faucet to rinse it off, and then stirred a pot of congee on the electric stove.

“How did it burn again? How is that possible?” He scooped up a ladle of scorched rice from the bottom, muttering incredulously. “I was watching the heat the whole time.”

“Did you add too little water?” she asked softly.

Xin Zhihuan froze at her words, then turned around in astonishment. “Feifei, you’re awake? Why are you out of bed? Can you walk?” He hurriedly walked towards her, holding her shoulders and inspecting her all over, as if checking for injuries.

She couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m fine, okay? I just had a cold and fever, it’s not like I hurt myself.”

“Oh, right.” He realized, feeling his reaction was ridiculous, and awkwardly scratched his temple. “How are you? Has your fever gone down? Let me take your temperature.”

He went to her bedroom, found an ear thermometer, and took her temperature.

He checked the number, frowning. “Thirty-seven point one degrees, it seems you still have a slight fever.”

“I’m much better already.” She smiled, feeling a sweet warmth in her heart seeing his worried expression. “What are you doing? Cooking congee?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “I heard that people who are sick recover their strength faster if they drink congee with scallions.”

So he was making congee for her? She bit her lip, trying to suppress an inexplicable wave of emotion.

“But I don’t know what’s going on, it keeps burning. This is the third pot.” He admitted sheepishly.

He had tried cooking for her three times without getting frustrated?

She was even more touched, her eyes welling up slightly. “Why are you giving yourself so much trouble? You never used to cook, did you learn to cook in America?”

“No way. I always ate out, or had a part-time housekeeper prepare meals at home.”

So, his rare venture into cooking was just for her. How could she not be utterly moved?

Qi Feifei gave Xin Zhihuan a sidelong glance, almost feeling a bit resentful. Resentful that he would use such an almost childlike gesture of goodwill to stir her heart.

“Let me take a look.” She came to the stove and looked at the pot of congee. “You added too little water. This congee is a bit dry, no wonder it burns easily.”

“What should I do then?”

“Nothing, just eat it like this.”

“What?” He was taken aback. “It’s burnt, how can we eat it?”

“The top layer is still fine!” she said softly, scooping out two bowls and sprinkling them with the scallions he had prepared. Seeing the messily chopped scallions, she couldn’t help but laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, puzzled.

“Nothing.” She quickly stifled her laughter, but the smile still lingered on her lips. “I just think your chopped scallions have an… artistic, irregular aesthetic.”

“You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?” He squinted in displeasure. Did she think he was a three-year-old who couldn’t understand her teasing? “Thanks for the compliment, ‘Mrs.'” He emphasized the word “Mrs.”

She froze at his words, looking up at him.

He noticed her meaningful gaze and sensed her thoughts, suddenly feeling a bit uneasy. He slightly turned his face away. “Did I say something wrong? At least nominally, you’re still a married woman, my wife, Xin Zhihuan’s wife.” By the end of his sentence, his voice had turned strangely hoarse.

Was he feeling guilty? Qi Feifei carried the bowl of congee to the dining table and took out some simple pickles from the fridge. After a moment of thought, she also took out two eggs.

“Just having pickles is boring. Let’s have some fried eggs too.”

“I’ll do it.” He quickly grabbed the eggs. “You’re the patient, just sit at the table and wait.”

“Do you know how to fry eggs?” she asked skeptically.

“It’s just two eggs. Don’t underestimate me, okay?” He gave her a resentful look.

She laughed, shrugged, and said, “Well then, I’ll leave it to you.” She leisurely sat at the dining table, waiting to be served.

It took him over ten minutes, and he went back to the fridge twice for more eggs before finally serving two fried eggs with slightly broken edges.

But they looked much better than she had expected.

She picked up her chopsticks and deliberately scrutinized the eggs in front of him. “The shape is not bad. At least it looks like an egg, and it’s only slightly burnt.”

He stood by the table, hands at his sides, like an obedient student receiving a teacher’s critique. Hearing her teasing, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Do you always have to criticize everything?”

“Who dares to criticize? Sir, I’m complimenting you,” she defended herself.

Annoyed, he pulled out a chair and sat down heavily across from her. “This ‘Mrs.’—”

He called her that again. She froze in her movements.

He noticed her reaction. “You don’t like me calling you that?”

She remained silent.

He gazed at her quietly for a long time, then spoke hoarsely. “Fang Jiajun proposed to you, right?”

She was startled, her voice changing pitch. “How did you know?”

He looked at her pale face, feeling a bit desolate. “I overheard your conversation. He kept asking for your answer. Did you… refuse him?”

She turned her gaze away, seemingly lost in thought. After a while, she spoke softly, “I didn’t agree.”

What does “didn’t agree” mean? Xin Zhihuan frowned deeply. “Do you mean you told him you need more time to think?”

She didn’t answer.

“Is that it, Feifei?” he pressed.

“…”

“Why not just agree to him? I remember you told me you wanted to settle down with him, which is why you asked me to finalize our divorce. Isn’t that right? Have you changed your mind?”

“That was because…”

“Because of what?”

“Because we haven’t divorced yet!” She suddenly looked up, glaring at him angrily. “As you just said, we’re still married. How do you expect me to accept another man’s proposal?”

He was speechless.

Is that it? So it was him holding her back, preventing her from pursuing her own happiness.

Xin Zhihuan lowered his gaze, his fists clenched under the table, recalling the emotional diary entries he had found in her music boxes.

She actually longed for companionship. Although she stubbornly claimed she could be happy alone, he knew she wanted a partner, tired of countless lonely nights.

Would Fang Jiajun be the right partner for her?

Should he let her go gracefully?

The divorce papers had been signed long ago. The first day he returned to Taiwan from the U.S., he had a lawyer draft the papers, and he had signed them.

He could set her free at any time, but… but… he just couldn’t let go!

He took a deep breath, deeply, deeply suppressing all his selfishness. “You don’t need to worry. I actually prepared everything a long time ago. We can do it today—”

“What day is it today?” She suddenly interrupted him.

“What?” He was taken aback.

“Is it the ninth?” Qi Feifei looked as if she had just remembered something, her expression panicked. “Oh no, how could I forget?” She quickly stood up.

“What’s going on?” he asked, bewildered. “What’s so important about the ninth?”

She looked back at him sorrowfully—

“Today is my mother’s death anniversary.”