The next morning, I left for Xinjiang.
No farewell.
No final message.
At six thirty, my parents accompanied me to the airport.
My mother kept adjusting my scarf even though it was already perfectly in place.
My father carried my suitcase in silence.
Only when the boarding announcement sounded did he finally say:
—Jingjing, if you’re tired, come home.
I smiled.
—Dad, I’m going to work, not to war.
His eyes reddened slightly.
—To parents, anywhere their daughter suffers is far away.
I hugged them both.
Then I turned off my personal phone.
At 8:10 a.m., the plane took off.
At almost exactly the same time, Zhou Zhe arrived at our apartment.
He was carrying a paper bag from my favorite breakfast shop.
Apparently, Lin Dao’s tests at the private hospital had shown nothing serious.
So after spending another night comforting her, he finally remembered me.
He opened the door.
—Jingjing?
Silence.
He walked into the bedroom.
My clothes were gone.
So were my medical books.
The jewelry box was empty.
The framed photograph of us on the bedside table had disappeared.
Only one thing remained.
The plane ticket to Yunnan that he had bought for me.
Still untouched.
Beside it lay the cancellation confirmation for our wedding.
Zhou Zhe stood motionless.
Then he called the wedding company.
The employee answered politely:
—Mr. Zhou, Miss Song cancelled the ceremony three days ago.
—Three days ago?
His voice changed.
—Yes.
—She also cancelled all fifty banquet tables.
Zhou Zhe immediately called me.
My phone was off.
He called my best friend.
She laughed the moment she heard his voice.
—Now you remember Jingjing?
—Where is she?
—Didn’t you send her to Yunnan?
Silence.
My friend continued coldly:
—Go look for her there.
Then she hung up.
By noon, Zhou Zhe had called my parents.
My father answered.
—Uncle Song, where is Jingjing?
—Working.
—Where?
—Somewhere she doesn’t need to wait for you.
Zhou Zhe’s breathing became heavy.
—We had a misunderstanding.
My father laughed.
—You postponed your marriage registration to accompany another woman.
—Then you used the engagement as a threat because my daughter refused to prescribe medicine irresponsibly.
—Which part was misunderstood?
Zhou Zhe had no answer.
Only that evening did he learn the truth from the hospital.
The department head told him:
—Dr. Song joined the Xinjiang medical support team.
Zhou Zhe went completely still.
—For how long?
—The assignment is initially one year.
—One year?
The department head looked at him strangely.
—Didn’t you know?
Of course he didn’t.
Because while I was arranging to leave, he had been peeling shrimp for Lin Dao.
The first month in Xinjiang was exhausting.
The hospital was smaller than the one in the city.
Equipment was limited.
Patients often traveled hours for specialist consultations.
My first week alone contained more emergencies than I had handled during several months back home.
But I was busy.
And being busy saved me.
There was no time to check Lin Dao’s social media.
No time to wonder whether Zhou Zhe missed me.
No time to replay seven years of memories.
At night, I was too tired to dream.
Three months later, our team successfully treated a complicated cardiac patient who had been waiting years for surgery.
The hospital posted a photograph.
I was standing in the middle of the medical team wearing a white coat.
Tired.
Thin.
Smiling.
That photograph eventually reached Zhou Zhe.
He sent me a message from another number.
“Jingjing, I found you.”
I read it.
Then blocked that number too.
Meanwhile, things between him and Lin Dao began to change.
Without me standing between them, there was no longer anyone for Lin Dao to compete against.
Her emergencies became more frequent.
Headaches.
Insomnia.
Chest discomfort.
Arguments with coworkers.
Every time something happened, she called Zhou Zhe.
At first, he went.
Then work suffered.
He missed an important medical conference because she said she couldn’t sleep.
He cancelled a family dinner because she had fought with a friend.
Finally, one night, he refused to come.
Lin Dao immediately posted:
“People change once they stop needing you.”
Zhou Zhe stared at that sentence for a long time.
Perhaps he finally understood how familiar it sounded.
Six months after I left, he came to Xinjiang.
I found him waiting outside the hospital.
His coat was covered in dust from the wind.
For the first time since I had known him, Zhou Zhe looked uncertain.
—Jingjing.
I stopped.
—Why are you here?
—I came to bring you home.
I almost smiled.
—My home is wherever I decide to live.
His expression tightened.
—Lin Dao and I have nothing between us.
—That’s no longer important.
—I was wrong.
I remained silent.
He stepped closer.
—I thought you would always understand me.
That sentence finally made me laugh.
—Exactly.
He froze.
I continued:
—You didn’t love that I understood you.
—You loved that my understanding meant you never had to change.
His eyes reddened.
—We were together seven years.
—Yes.
—Our wedding was already prepared.
—Also yes.
—Can you really throw away seven years because I accompanied her a few times?
I looked at him calmly.
—No.
—I left because every time Lin Dao called, you made me the person who had to wait.
—The marriage registration could wait.
—The wedding could wait.
—My feelings could wait.
—My dignity could wait.
I paused.
—You were the only person who never had to wait for anything.
He lowered his head.
Then whispered:
—If I had gone with you that night instead of staying with her—
—You didn’t.
The answer was simple.
Cruel only because it was true.
He remained outside the hospital for almost an hour.
I never went back.
A year later, my Xinjiang assignment ended.
But instead of returning to my old department, I accepted a position in a national cardiovascular outreach program.
It meant traveling frequently.
Teaching younger doctors.
Developing regional surgical teams.
The career I almost gave up for a wedding became much larger than I had imagined.
Zhou Zhe and I never married.
Lin Dao eventually left the city after marrying someone else.
When my best friend told me, she added:
—Can you believe it? Zhou Zhe sacrificed your wedding for her, and she didn’t even choose him.
I smiled.
—She didn’t owe him that.
My friend stared at me.
I continued:
—The problem was never whether Lin Dao loved Zhou Zhe.
—The problem was that Zhou Zhe repeatedly chose her over me.
That was the lesson I carried with me.
The night before we were supposed to register our marriage, Zhou Zhe handed me the family book and told me to wait again.
He thought he was postponing our future for a few days.
He never imagined that while he drove toward Lin Dao, I would take that same family book home and close the door on our seven-year relationship.
He had given me a ticket to Yunnan so I could quietly disappear until he had time for me again.
Instead—
I went to Xinjiang and built a life that no longer required him to come back.
