Twenty-One
After deciding to break up, we agreed to part amicably with one last trip to climb Mount Tai.
I don't like mountain climbing. Then again, I don't think any chubby shut-in does. But Chloe loved it. Her fitness-instructor physique came from an active lifestyle—sometimes after our late-night snacks, she'd call me while running laps around West Lake and excitedly send me a screenshot of her route tracing out a "C❤Z."
Women. So childish.
But it was bittersweet. All those years we'd worked toward a shared future, and our very last trip turned out to be celebrating our breakup.
When the train pulled into Tai'an, Chloe was already waiting on the platform, head tilted. White T-shirt, ultra-short shorts, light makeup—simple attire amplified by her stunning figure into something effortlessly youthful, drawing stares from everyone.
I'd imagined countless scenarios for our reunion—awkward like strangers or cozy like an old married couple. As it turned out, we were somewhere in between. The dignity of our breakup held.
Or so I thought. I'd oversimplified things. Women are women.
As night fell, we wandered aimlessly through the darkened streets. At first it was fine—small talk, a few jokes that made her giggle. But as the conversation wore on, I ran out of material. After all, we were breaking up; my mood wasn't great. She started talking about everything she'd endured—her first relationship in college with a foreign man who turned out to be married with children; the emotional toll of her PhD advisor's constant gaslighting that she'd faced alone because of my obtuseness and avoidance.
She said she knew she shouldn't have hidden the overseas offer from me, but the opportunity came once. She wanted a bigger world, and she genuinely wanted to bring me along.
"I didn't expect you to refuse. We've had no money all these years, and what we needed most was a chance to get better. I always thought that no matter what—whether you were sick or anything else—I'd find a way to take you with me." She looked back at me in the dark, eyes glistening.
I didn't dare meet her gaze. I just said it was getting late—we should rest for an early start.
At dawn, we caught a rickshaw to the mountain trailhead. Mountain mist hung in the air, the scent of fresh soil on the breeze. The driver only charged two yuan for the ride to the base.
I held Chloe's soft hand as we trudched upward. She'd say, "Come on, Chubby Zhou, keep walking," and I'd say, "Yes, dear."
She still smiled. Her cascading black hair occasionally brushed my face. She didn't object to my calling her "dear."
I couldn't tell if she was humoring me or if she still had feelings for me.
On the trail, we passed drenched, exhausted middle-aged hikers trudging downhill like bears waking from hibernation. I asked how far to the top.
"Five or six hours," they'd say between ragged breaths. My heart sank a little each time.
My only real climbing experience was one trip up Huangshan in high school. Years of sedentary overtime at a Beijing ad agency with zero exercise meant my calves were already starting to cramp.
But Chloe encouraged me, walking ahead, glancing back.
"Come on! The view's beautiful here. Chubby Zhou, let me take your picture."
"Don't stop! There's a big platform just ahead. We can rest there."
She was a biology PhD—usually quiet and concise. Even when I told her about my mom's thyroid nodules, she'd just explain the chemistry—this was the inevitable progression of untreated hyperthyroidism, don't worry too much, as long as it's not cancer.
But today, Chloe was unusually tender. Every word carried a smile, every expression luminous.
I'd only seen her like that during our first month together.
Around noon, we finally reached the mountainside. I was completely drained, on the verge of collapse, tempted to reach for my lunar meteorite.
Chloe saw through me and smacked my hand away.
"We're climbing a mountain, not fighting monsters. No transforming..."
I gave up, sheepishly.
Then I glanced left and saw a tourist bus winding up the mountain road via switchbacks.
My composure shattered. "Wait—you did the itinerary! Why didn't you tell me there's a bus to the mountainside?"
She hedged: "I wanted us to experience the whole mountain! I didn't realize your stamina was this bad."
I couldn't argue. There was a rest area on the platform. I told her to rest while I hit the bathroom.
Just then, my editor messaged: "Marcus, your new book launched today—why only three chapters?"
Me: "I don't have that many stockpiled..."
Editor: "Figure it out. Bad launch numbers means no recommendations later."
Me: "Understood..."
After the bathroom, I couldn't find her at the rest area. I texted her the situation and caught the next bus back down to Tai'an.
The mountain cell service was spotty—Chloe never replied. I wondered if she was angry, then figured—hey, we're breaking up anyway.
I found an internet café and started writing. The launch numbers were decent, but everyone else had dropped seven or eight chapters and nearly ten alliance lords. Nothing for it—I had to grind.
I wrote until the sky went dark at two in the afternoon.
A tremendous thunderclap shattered my concentration. I looked outside—torrential rain.
Mount Tai's trails are steep, many without railings or lights. My first thought was panic—how would she get down? I borrowed an umbrella and tried to head up.
But the moment I stepped outside, I realized this was bad. Water was already up to my calves.
Our next stop was Qingdao, so both suitcases were in storage at the bus station. But looking over, I saw an inland lake of floating luggage.
I waded through to find our suitcases, hauled them to shore, and took shelter under a KFC awning on higher ground.
The road up was impassable. The sky was terrifyingly dark, lightning splitting the air. Drenched tourists trickled down the mountain. Visibility was dropping. I had no idea if she could make it down safely.
After about an hour, Chloe appeared—soaked to the bone, sharing a rain poncho with three other tourists that could barely cover her head. When she saw me, she stuffed the poncho into her backpack, said goodbye to her companions, and looked at me with open disappointment.
"How could you leave without a word? It was so dangerous coming down alone. What if I'd slipped?"
"I had an emergency—it wasn't by choice. And I didn't expect this rain."
"Forget it. I'm going abroad soon. Nothing about me concerns you anymore, right? Nothing."
"I really didn't mean to. I'm sorry..."
The same abrupt silence as the night before. Our next stop was Qingdao, but I didn't think this dynamic could survive the rest of the trip.
Suddenly, as if remembering something, she checked her phone. "Let's change our Qingdao tickets. There's a hard sleeper at 1 a.m."
I was confused—one moment she was angry, now she wasn't? And also annoyed: "We agreed on 8 p.m. Why change to 1 a.m.?"
She hedged again: "I forgot to buy your ticket. I only got one for myself."
I stood in the current of time. Her words, like a spell, unlocked my memory.
She didn't buy me a ticket to Qingdao because she thought only one person would need to go.
She planned the route and checked the weather. She knew about the afternoon thunderstorm—that's why she brought a rain poncho.