Chapter 2

I haven't accepted his friend request, and I haven't rejected it either.

Just like our relationship—stuck in limbo.

He still clears my shopping cart on his own, and refuses to change the delivery address.

Even though we're living separately now, every time he places an order, he stubbornly chooses "the old place."

The home we shared for five years—now he's the only one left there.

Packages pile up at his door like little mountains.

I go pick them up once a week when he's at work.

I don't want to see him, and I don't want to make this trip.

But my neighbor Jasmine Bennett called me, "Rowan, what's going on with you and Jonathan? The packages at his door are piling up like a mountain, and the property management has asked about it several times! I was worried someone might take them, so I moved them to my place. When can you come get them?"

I held the phone, a tangle of emotions welling up inside me.

Once Jasmine ran into me, and she grabbed my hand, asking enthusiastically, "Rowan, did you and Jonathan get back together?"

I forced out a smile that was more painful than tears.

"No, Jasmine. He just hasn't learned how to ship to a new address yet."

Jasmine gave me that "I get it" look, patted the back of my hand, and said it's normal for young people to fight, you'll make up soon.

I didn't explain further.

That day, I picked up the last batch of packages from Jasmine's place.

She ran after me and stuffed two oranges in my pocket.

"Jonathan came by last week," she lowered her voice, "after 1 AM, stood at your door for two hours."

I froze.

"I thought he'd forgotten his keys and told him to knock, but he refused."

"He just stood there, didn't smoke, didn't look at his phone, then left."

Jasmine sighed, "That guy, why can't he just say what's on his mind?"

I put the oranges in my pocket.

They were cold, the chill spreading from my fingertips all the way to my heart.

Jonathan.

You could have come to my office, you could have come to my new apartment.

You had countless ways to find me.

But you chose to stand at midnight in front of a door you couldn't open.

Are you afraid of bothering me?

Or are you afraid that if I opened the door, we'd have nothing to say?

I remember three years ago, I had just graduated, my salary was tiny, barely anything left after paying rent.

I had put a small rice cooker in my cart, looked at it for three months, and couldn't bring myself to buy it.

One day, Jonathan happened to see it.

He didn't say anything, just paid for it without a word.

The day the rice cooker arrived, I was so happy I spun around hugging him.

I thought that was the beginning of love, his clumsy way of being thoughtful.

Later, I understood—he was just used to solving everything with payment.

Including expressing love.

But he didn't know that what I wanted was never a paid-for rice cooker.

What I wanted was for him to notice my struggle during those three months of hesitation, and say to me, "Don't worry, I'm here."

What I wanted was for him to understand my unspoken silences.

Not to block all my words with a cold payment receipt.

He thought he gave me everything, but didn't know that nothing he gave was what I wanted.

I still use that rice cooker.

Making porridge, soup, and stewing meat.

The paint on the button edges has worn off in spots.

The inner pot coating has a few scratches.

But I can't bear to replace it.

Every time I stew meat, steam pushes open the lid, making that distinctive sound.

I think of that afternoon.

He handed me the package and said, "Open it and see."

I opened it and froze.

He turned his face away, his ear tips turning red.

"Don't know if it's good. If it's not good, I'll exchange it."

That was the first time he bought me something.

And the first time, he didn't speak in statements.

I felt like he was starting to care about my answer.

Later, he bought too many things.

Shopping carts, wish lists, payments, gifts.

He stopped asking "is it good," stopped waiting for my answer.

He thought successful payment meant love delivered.

He forgot that love needs to be signed for.

And I hadn't signed for anything in a long time.