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."

The rain gradually subsided, and a faint glimmer of light even appeared on the horizon. I picked up my bag to leave, and just as I reached the glass curtain at the door, my wrist was suddenly grabbed. Liam 's palm was warm, with calluses from years of holding a pen; the touch was so familiar that it made me feel physically nauseous.

"Where do you live? I'll take you there." His voice was urgent, a stark contrast to his calm demeanor just moments before.

I jerked my hand back as if I'd touched a scorching hot iron. I took two steps back to create distance, and the cuff of my trench coat slipped down, revealing crisscrossing scars on my forearm—scars I'd inflicted with shards of porcelain while I was in the mental hospital. The rain soaked my skin, making the scars appear a pale pink, particularly striking.

Liam 's gaze froze on the scars, his face paled, and his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but I spoke first. My tone was as calm as if I were stating something unrelated to myself: "No need, Mr. Liam , I'm afraid your wife will misunderstand."

I deliberately emphasized the words "your wife," watching his face turn from white to pale, then to pale, and finally to a look of utter disarray. I used to love seeing him lose his composure for me, but now, I just found it laughable.

As she turned and stepped into the gradually stopping rain, Liam 's voice came from behind her, broken and fragmented by the wind: " Clara , about what happened back then..."

I didn't look back, and I didn't stop walking. What does it matter what happened back then? Can he give me back the child I lost? Can he erase those days and nights I spent in the mental hospital? Can he make up for all the love I've exhausted?

No. So there's no point in saying more.

The brown sugar bun in my arms was soaked and mushy from the rain, sticking to the plastic bag. I walked to the trash can and tossed it in casually—like throwing away the rotten, stinking past that was connected to Liam .

The wind lifted my sleeve, and the cool breeze made the scars itch slightly. I looked down at them and suddenly remembered that today was not only the seventh anniversary of our divorce, but also the third year since I completely stopped taking medication. The doctor said I was recovering very well, and those delusions caused by my paranoia and despair had never recurred.

It turns out that letting go of someone can be so peaceful. It's not hysterical forgetting, nor is it lingering resentment. It's just that when you mention their name again, your heart doesn't even skip a beat. It's like talking about a complete stranger.

The rain had completely stopped, and sunlight pierced through the clouds, casting dappled shadows on the ground. I pulled down my sleeve to cover the scar and walked towards the steamed bun shop on the street corner. The aroma of steam wafting from the shop was warm and comforting.

Lila, who was wiping the table , saw me and immediately gave me a big smile, her ponytail swaying back and forth: " Clara , you've finally come! I was cleaning the warehouse just now and found a dusty box with your name on it. See if you still want it. If not, I'll throw it away to make room for the pasta machine."

It was a dark brown wooden box, its edges worn and covered in a thick layer of dust. I wiped it with my sleeve, revealing three large, elegant characters: "A Gift for Clara ".

Liam 's handwriting. Even after all these years, it remains as flamboyant as ever.

Lila leaned closer, her eyes wide with surprise. "Wow, this handwriting is so beautiful! Which handsome guy sent it to you? The packaging is so exquisite; it's clear he put a lot of thought into it." She reached out to check the signature on the side of the box, and after seeing the two words, she suddenly exclaimed "Wow!" her voice trembling. " Liam Foster ? Is that the legendary genius PhD who won the International Physics Prize at the age of thirty? The one who discovered a new asteroid and made headlines ?!"

She grabbed my arm, her face full of disbelief: " Clara , who are you? How do you know such a big shot?!"

I found a chair and sat down, my fingertips tracing the wood grain of the box as I slowly unfastened the clasp. Inside, there was a blue and white checkered cloth that I had embroidered myself years ago, on which lay a notebook and a long-faded silver bookmark.

“We don’t know each other,” I said, picking up the bookmark, the cool touch sending a shiver down my spine. “I’m his ex-wife.”

I paused, then added, "It's that ex-wife he sent to a mental hospital back then, who was called crazy by his family and regarded as a disgrace to his life."

Lila 's mouth gaped open in an "O" shape, unable to close for a long time. The steam from the steamed bun shop blurred her expression. After a while, she cautiously asked, " Clara , what...what exactly happened back then?"

I looked at the notebook in the box— Liam 's old lab notes, with "For my Clara " written on the title page. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a soft glow on the handwriting.

I smiled, my fingertips gently tracing the familiar handwriting, and said, "When I met Liam , he wasn't some legendary genius yet. Back then, he was dirt poor, unable to even afford a hot meal..."

The words "problem child" were the most prominent label the neighbors used to attach to Liam . While his parents were fighting outside the Civil Affairs Bureau, their hair disheveled, he would squat in the corner, clutching half a hard, dry bun, his eyes as empty as a frozen lake. No one wanted to play with him. On his way home from school, mischievous boys would throw stones at him and call him an "unwanted bastard." He wouldn't dodge or talk back; he would just clutch the bun tighter until his knuckles turned white.

The winters in Harbin are so cold they can freeze your breath into frost, and that year was especially cold. When I came home from school, I saw him huddled in the stairwell of our apartment building, wearing only a faded long-sleeved shirt, his teeth chattering from the cold, and his lips cracked and bleeding. When he saw me, he instinctively shrank into the shadows, like a frightened little animal.

"Aren't you cold?" I handed him the hand warmer I'd just bought for me from my pocket; its pink casing still held my warmth. He hesitated for a moment, then carefully took it. The instant his fingertips touched the hand warmer, he flinched—his hands were freezing, like ice.

That day I brought him home. Jane's mom was stewing ribs in the kitchen. She didn't even frown at the smell of the stale ribs on him; instead, she found his dad's old cotton-padded jacket and dressed him in it, then ladled out a full bowl of hot soup: "Drink up, warm yourself up." His dad, while playing math games with him, discovered his talent—he solved that Olympiad math problem that even high school students struggled with, after staring at the scratch paper for ten minutes, using a completely new method.

From that day on, Liam 's life seemed to take off. When he won the National Mathematical Olympiad at the age of ten, he stood on the podium, holding the trophy and waving vigorously at me in the audience, his eyes shining brighter than a spotlight. When he was admitted to Tsinghua University without taking the entrance exam at the age of fourteen, he came to my house with a backpack to share the good news, picked me up and spun me around three times, and said loudly, " Clara , I'll protect you from now on." When he was sixteen, his published paper shocked the physics community, and invitations from major universities piled up, but he used his first prize money to buy me a white dress that I had been eyeing for a long time.

The parents who had tossed him around like a football back then suddenly reappeared, crying and shouting that they wanted to take him back. Standing in front of the Civil Affairs Bureau, facing the impeccably made-up but greedy-eyed couple, he said only one sentence: "When I was eight years old, I spent a freezing night in the stairwell, and neither of you came to see me. Now that I've made something of myself, don't you think it's too late to try and take me away?"

He turned and went back to my house. He knelt down in front of my father with a thud and kowtowed three times, his forehead turning red. "Dad, Mom, I know better than anyone who is good to me and who truly loves me. From now on, you are my real parents, and Clara is my real sister—no, the one I'm going to marry. I will definitely be filial to you and take good care of her. I will never leave her in this lifetime."

Back then, he truly ingrained the phrase "never leave" into his very being. When I was recommended for admission to Tsinghua University, he argued with the admissions office, saying, " Clara's grades are poor, but she is the most important person in my life. If you don't admit her, I will give up my recommendation." Later, when I stayed on to teach at the university, he pleaded with me to get me a relaxed family member position in the administration office. He would take a detour to pick me up every day on my way to and from work, and he always had a soft pad on the back of his bicycle so I wouldn't feel uncomfortable. I was always worried that I wasn't good enough for him, and I would secretly cry at night. He would hold me in his arms and say over and over again, " Clara , without you, I wouldn't be who I am today. No matter how high I fly, the string is always in your hands."

He has always been stubborn in his work. When doing scientific research, he can spend three days and three nights in the lab, and he will not give up on a theory he has identified with, even if the whole world questions it. When he was pursuing me, he waited for me downstairs every day, rain or shine, until I nodded and agreed. But I never thought that this stubbornness would eventually be used to change his mind and cheat on me.

"Cheating?" Lila dropped the rag in her hand onto the table with a "thud," her eyes wide as saucers. " Clara , you two grew up together! He broke ties with his own parents for you, saying he would take care of you for the rest of his life. How could he cheat on you? Who is that other woman? Is she one of those rich second-generation girls who drives luxury cars and is exceptionally beautiful? Or one of those scheming women in TV dramas who pretend to be weak?"