Let bygones be bygones

From Liam , I bumped into him at the flower shop on the street corner, which was covered in ivy.

The downpour came suddenly and unexpectedly. Clutching the brown sugar buns I had just bought, I frantically ran into the store, my hair and the hem of my trench coat already soaked. Liam stood behind the counter, wearing a well-tailored dark gray suit with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the wristwatch on his wrist that I had scrimped and saved to buy for him—the dial was gleaming, clearly meticulously maintained, unlike the plastic digital watch on my wrist, whose cover was cracked.

The sales assistant next to him was smiling as she wrapped the bouquet. The pale purple irises looked especially gentle against the backdrop. " Mr. Liam has excellent taste. Irises symbolize protection, making them a perfect gift for a pregnant woman."

Liam 's fingertips gently brushed across the petals, a movement I had never seen before so tender. Hearing the sound, he turned to look, and the instant his gaze lingered on my face, a barely perceptible look of surprise flashed across his eyes, which had once been brimming with starlight, only to be replaced by polite distance.

The air seemed frozen by the rain; even the wind chimes forgot to sway. He spoke first, his voice lower than seven years ago, yet still carrying the inherent coldness: " Clara ?"

I clutched the steamed bun in my arms tightly; the packaging bag was wrinkled and stuck to my palm from the rain. " Mr. Liam ," I replied politely, even pausing deliberately to emphasize the unfamiliar form of address.

He seemed surprised by my reaction, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly. Before, my eyes would light up whenever I saw him, like a moth drawn to light, even my voice carrying a sweet, cloying tone when I called his name. Now, I can't even be bothered with unnecessary pleasantries.

"How have you been these past few years?" he asked, his tone as if he were inquiring about a long-lost colleague. The sales assistant tactfully stepped aside, leaving only the patter of rain against the glass in the store.

"Everything is fine." I forced a standard social smile. "I have a stable job and live nearby. It's great."

That's half true and half false. I have a stable job as a cashier at a steamed bun shop, and I live in a small room that's been added to the top floor of a building. It leaks in the summer and lets in drafts in the winter, but it's definitely much better than the me who cried until dawn in an empty villa seven years ago.

Liam 's gaze swept over my trench coat, over my mud-splattered canvas shoes, and finally landed on the steamed bun in my arms. His Adam's apple bobbed. "You used to... never eat from roadside stalls."

I scoffed inwardly. Before, I was Mrs. Liam , the woman worthy of a genius physics graduate student. He said street food stalls were unhygienic, so I didn't set foot in a food street for three years. But later, when he slammed the divorce papers in my face, I was eating a cold steamed bun in the pouring rain, too exhausted even to cry.

"People change," I said casually.

He suddenly took a half step forward, and in that instant, I caught a faint scent of cedar on him—not the cheap laundry detergent I used to buy him, but the scent of a high-end cologne, perfectly matching his current status. “ Clara , you’re really different now.” His eyes held an emotion I couldn’t decipher. “Before, when you looked at me, your eyes were full of light.”

I looked up at him, rain streaming down the eaves, weaving a curtain of water behind him and blurring his silhouette. “ Mr. Liam, you’re mistaken,” I smiled, my eyes calm and undisturbed. “That light has long since died out.”

Just then, the shop owner came out carrying another bundle of wrapped irises, breaking the tense atmosphere: " Mr. Liam , the other bouquet you ordered is also wrapped. I really envy your wife, she thinks of you even on rainy days. My wife back then, she was too lazy to even pour me a cup of hot water during her pregnancy."

Liam took the flowers, but his fingers unconsciously curled up. When he turned to look at me, his tone carried a barely perceptible urge to explain: " Vanessa is pregnant with twins, and her emotions are particularly unstable. The doctor said that looking at things she likes can help."

Twins. I silently murmured an "oh" to myself. Seven years ago, I was also pregnant with one. When my baby was two months old, he was working all night in the lab, and I had a high fever, so I went to the hospital alone and slipped and fell on the way. After I came out of the emergency room, I called him more than thirty times before he finally answered, his tone impatient: " Clara, can you stop being unreasonable? I'm busy working on my results. Can you afford to compensate me for delaying you?"

Lying on the cold hospital bed, tears streaming down my face, I asked him, " Liam , our child is gone, aren't you sad at all?"

He was silent for a few seconds, then said, "There will be more in the future, so don't bother me with this kind of thing again."

Memories are like a fine needle, gently pricking me; it doesn't hurt, just leaves a slight numbness. I pulled myself out of my thoughts and politely complimented Liam , "Mrs. Liam is truly blessed; Mr. Liam is so considerate."