The day my ex-girlfriend treated me like an ATM, I didn't cry.
She spent the down payment I'd saved for five years, told me, "You can't give me the life I want," and drove off in someone else's Porsche.
I didn't hate her. I just opened my phone and registered an anonymous account.
I named it "Diary of a Prisoner in the City."
The first post read: "Marriage is the riskiest gamble of all, and you're never the one running the house."
I never expected it to go viral.
Even less did I expect it to attract a girl with a cat avatar.
She said I didn't understand love. I said she didn't understand reality.
She argued with me for three months, and then one day she suddenly said:
"I can't refute any of what you've said. But I can prove to you that not every relationship is a transaction."
I thought she was just another self-righteous know-it-all who wanted to lecture me.
Until the first time she treated me to dinner, the first time she showed up at my door when I was sick, and the first time she spent three hours sulking because a female coworker sat next to me.
I asked if she was jealous.
She said, "No. A little. A lot."
Then she unsent the message and said, "You didn't see that. Go to sleep."
I stared at the screen and smiled for a long time.
She doesn't know that I write about her in my diary every day.
I write about how clingy she is, how she acts cute, how she pushes food into my bowl and pretends it wasn't on purpose.
In the final entry, I wrote just one sentence:
"I started this account to record my disappointment with love.
Now it records just one person.
Thank you, Su Nian."
