She’s twelve years older than me.
Chen Yan, twenty-eight, architect.
Su Wan, forty, fashion designer.
Twelve years ago, I saw her for the first time. It was winter. She wore a black sweater and a red coat.
Ten years ago, we were together. We split up two years later.
After that, I got married, had two children, and got divorced. She also got married and had a daughter. Her daughter was born with a heart condition, and she, too, got divorced.
We didn’t keep in touch for ten years, but we both knew what was happening in each other’s lives.
Ten years later, an art gallery opened, and my work was on display. She stood in front of it.
A black sweater and a red coat. Exactly the same as twelve years ago.
This time, she messaged me first:
“Hey, the one who draws. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”
This is a story about meeting again.
Two people who have been through marriage, two people with children, two people who have lived earnestly through their own lives, choose each other again at forty and twenty-eight.
It isn’t youthful passion. It’s the heaviest decision adults make.
It’s not “I waited for you for ten years.” It’s “We both lived those ten years seriously, then realized it was still you.”
Quietly.
But what we have is nobody else’s business.
