A Blind Date with My Ex

The phone screen was glowing, the last message frozen on his words: "Let's call it quits." I stared at the line of text, as if time itself had frozen. My finger hovered over the screen for a long time, wanting to reply, yet unable to type even a single punctuation mark. The rain outside drizzled softly, raindrops tapping against the glass with a "pat pat" sound, as if silently weeping for me. I stood up and began gathering the things he had left behind at my place. His gray coat was still in the wardrobe. I reached out and touched the fabric—it was the same style I had once helped him choose. On the desk lay his usual black fountain pen, the cap still warm from the touch of his fingers. I opened the drawer, and a box of unfinished stomach medicine fell out—he had often complained of stomach pain. I had consulted the pharmacist at length, selecting the medicine with the fewest side effects, thinking I could keep it ready for him at any time. But now, all these things have become superfluous. I packed them into cardboard boxes one by one, and each time I placed an item inside, it was as if my heart was pricked by a dull, aching needle. When I reached the stomach medicine, I couldn't help but pause, recalling how he used to suffer from stomach pains and I would hand him the medicine with warm water. He would smile and say, "It's so good to have you here."