I didn’t go.

At eleven that night, Gu Huai Zhou was still waiting at the apartment we had once planned to share after marriage.

At midnight, he called again.

At one in the morning, he sent:

【Enough. Come home.】

I looked at the message for a long time.

Then I replied:

【That is no longer my home.】

Three dots appeared immediately.

【You married Lu Jing Yan because you were angry with me?】

I typed:

【No. I stopped marrying you because I finally stopped being angry.】

He did not understand.

For seven years, every argument between us had ended the same way.

I complained.

He became impatient.

I cried.

He disappeared.

Then I went back.

In Gu Huai Zhou’s world, my anger had never been dangerous.

Because it always expired.

What he had never prepared for was indifference.

The next morning, someone hammered on Lu Jing Yan’s door at six thirty.

Jing Yan looked at me over his coffee.

“Your former boyfriend.”

“How do you know?”

“He knocks like he wants the door court-martialed.”

Despite everything, I laughed.

Jing Yan opened the door.

Huai Zhou stood outside in uniform, his face dark from an entire sleepless night.

He looked past Jing Yan.

His eyes landed on me.

“Come out.”

I remained seated.

“No.”

His jaw tightened.

“I need to speak to you privately.”

Jing Yan stepped aside.

“She decides.”

Huai Zhou looked at him as if those two words were an insult.

“This has nothing to do with you.”

Jing Yan glanced at the marriage certificate on the table.

“It has a little to do with me.”

“Lu Jing Yan!”

“Lower your voice.”

The colder Jing Yan became, the angrier Huai Zhou looked.

I stood.

“Stop.”

Both men went quiet.

I walked toward Huai Zhou.

He immediately reached for my wrist.

I stepped back before he touched me.

His hand froze.

That tiny movement seemed to hurt him more than anything else.

“You really married him?”

“Yes.”

“Yesterday morning you were supposed to marry me.”

I looked at him.

“Yesterday morning you were supposed to be there.”

His face changed.

“Yi Ning’s son—”

“Wanted to ride a Ferris wheel.”

Silence.

“I saw the photograph.”

He looked away.

I continued:

“You told me it was an urgent mission.”

“The boy had been upset.”

“So you lied.”

“I was going to explain later.”

“That is the problem, Huai Zhou.”

I smiled faintly.

“There was always going to be a later.”

A later registration date.

A later apology.

A later promise.

A later life.

He lowered his voice.

“We were together seven years.”

“Yes.”

“And you threw it away in forty minutes?”

“No.”

I shook my head.

“You threw it away nine times.”

He went completely still.

Then his eyes shifted toward Jing Yan.

“This is because of him.”

“No.”

“If he hadn’t appeared yesterday—”

“I still would not have waited for you a tenth time.”

That was the sentence he could not answer.

Just then another car stopped outside.

Wen Yi Ning got out.

Of course she came.

She rushed toward us with red eyes.

“Sister, please don’t misunderstand what happened yesterday.”

I almost admired her timing.

“I don’t.”

She froze.

“I know exactly what happened.”

“The child was upset,” she explained quickly. “Brother Gu only accompanied us because—”

I interrupted.

“Yi Ning, I’m not divorcing Huai Zhou because of you.”

Her expression faltered.

“We were never married.”

Then I looked at Huai Zhou.

“And I am not blaming another woman for decisions made by a thirty-year-old man.”

Huai Zhou’s face tightened.

Yi Ning immediately said:

“I never asked him to miss your registration.”

Huai Zhou turned toward her.

Something flickered in his eyes.

Because technically, she was right.

She had called.

She had complained.

She had told him her son wanted him there.

But every time—

he had chosen to go.

Yi Ning lowered her voice.

“I thought marriage registration really wasn’t important to you. You always said she would understand.”

I watched Huai Zhou’s expression collapse.

There it was.

For years, he had made my patience sound limitless.

So limitless that even other people had learned to schedule their lives on top of mine.

I said:

“She did understand.”

Everyone looked at me.

I corrected myself.

“I understood.”

“I understood that anything could be more important than me as long as you believed I would still be waiting afterward.”

Huai Zhou whispered:

“I can change.”

I believed he meant it.

That did not mean I owed him the opportunity.

“I hope you do.”

His eyes lifted.

“But not for me.”

I went inside.

For several weeks, people assumed my marriage to Jing Yan would collapse.

Military acquaintances whispered that I had acted impulsively.

Huai Zhou’s friends kept waiting for an announcement that the certificate had been a joke.

It never came.

What surprised everyone most was that Jing Yan never behaved as if marrying me meant he had won some competition.

On our first night under the same roof, he showed me the spare bedroom.

“You can stay here.”

I stared at him.

“We’re married.”

“I’m aware.”

He handed me the key.

“You also met your husband properly about four hours ago.”

I laughed.

Then he became serious.

“If six months from now you decide yesterday was a terrible decision, tell me.”

“You would agree to separate?”

“I would prefer you stay because you want the marriage.”

“Not because a certificate traps you.”

That sentence stayed with me.

Gu Huai Zhou had postponed marrying me nine times because he assumed I would always remain available.

Lu Jing Yan married me once and immediately made it clear I was still free to choose.

So we started strangely.

Breakfast.

Work.

Occasional arguments about whose turn it was to buy groceries.

Long conversations after late shifts.

He learned that I hated coriander.

I learned that Colonel Lu, terrifying commander of an entire tactical medical unit, could not keep a houseplant alive for more than three weeks.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing like the seven years I had spent constantly wondering whether Gu loved me enough.

With Jing Yan, I gradually discovered that peace could feel unfamiliar when you had mistaken anxiety for love for too long.

Three months later, Huai Zhou asked to meet me.

I agreed.

He looked thinner.

“Yi Ning is transferring.”

I nodded.

“That’s between you two.”

“We fought.”

Again, I said nothing.

Finally he laughed bitterly.

“She told me something.”

“What?”

“She said she never thought you would actually leave.”

I looked at him.

Huai Zhou continued:

“She said whenever she called, I came.”

“And because you always forgave me, she assumed there was no real consequence.”

He rubbed his forehead.

“I was furious with her.”

“Then I realized I had taught her that.”

That was the first time I saw Huai Zhou take responsibility without hiding behind Yi Ning.

He looked at me.

“I’m sorry.”

“For lying yesterday.”

“For all nine times.”

“For making you sit inside that registration office like your time mattered less than mine.”

I nodded.

“Thank you.”

Hope appeared in his eyes.

Then he noticed my wedding ring.

It disappeared.

“Do you love him?”

I thought about it.

“I’m learning him.”

Huai Zhou frowned.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the most honest one I have.”

I had spent seven years declaring that Gu Huai Zhou was the love of my life while begging him to show up.

I was no longer interested in grand declarations.

Jing Yan showed up.

Again.

And again.

That turned out to matter more.

A year after the day I changed husbands at the registry office, Jing Yan placed an envelope beside my breakfast.

Inside was an appointment confirmation.

For the same registration office.

I looked at him.

“We’re already married.”

“I know.”

“Then what is this?”

He looked almost uncomfortable.

“The clerk who registered us last year mentioned they take anniversary photographs for couples.”

I stared at him.

Colonel Lu Jing Yan cleared his throat.

“I thought perhaps we could return under less chaotic circumstances.”

I laughed.

“You made a reservation?”

“Yes.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Probably.”

Then he asked:

“Do you want to go?”

There it was again.

A choice.

I reached for the envelope.

“Yes.”

That afternoon, as we walked out of the building, I saw someone across the street.

Gu Huai Zhou.

He had probably been visiting the military hospital nearby.

For a moment, none of us moved.

Then he walked over.

His gaze fell on the building.

“Anniversary?”

I nodded.

“One year.”

He gave a small smile.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

He looked at Jing Yan.

For once there was no hostility.

Then Huai Zhou turned back to me.

“If I had arrived ten minutes earlier that day…”

I shook my head.

“No.”

He stopped.

“It was never about ten minutes.”

I looked back at the building where I had waited for him nine separate times.

“You had seven years.”

Huai Zhou lowered his eyes.

Then he nodded.

“I know.”

He walked away.

I watched him for only a moment.

Then Jing Yan asked:

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

We left together.

Gu Huai Zhou once told everyone that marriage was only a piece of paper.

Maybe that was why he believed it could always happen tomorrow.

What he never understood was that the paper had not been the important part.

Being chosen was.

Being respected was.

Showing up was.

There was never a tenth appointment with Gu Huai Zhou.

Not because Lu Jing Yan stole me from him.

Not because I wanted revenge.

And not because seven years could disappear in forty minutes.

There was no tenth time because after nine empty chairs beside me, I finally understood something simple:

A person who truly plans to build a life with you should not need endless chances merely to arrive.

And the day I stopped waiting for Gu Huai Zhou—

was the day my life finally started moving again.