Pain Before Love: Breaking Stones for Love
That day at the company retreat, I was forced to perform a stone-breaking stunt. My partner was the cute boy I had a crush on.
That day, he hammered me straight into the hospital.
Why does my love life look nothing like anyone else's???
Before going on stage, Chloe was still asking me: Why don't you just bail? It wasn't even your thing to begin with.
I waved it off: I'm not scared.
Chloe was telling the truth — my company, a small outfit that made knockoff games like "LegendCrush" and "Hero Legends," was all about chasing thrills. This time at the company retreat, they did some program lottery.
The lucky winner drawn for the stone-breaking stunt was originally Chloe.
I went to argue on her behalf, citing everything from "safety first" to Nietzsche's free will. The other side wouldn't budge. Finally, I lost my temper and blurted out: I'll take her place, how about that?!
"Sure."
...?
Could you at least try to reject me first?
But then I thought of Chloe, on the verge of tears. Mess with me, I can take it. Mess with my girl? Not happening.
So yours truly bit the bullet and went for it.
What's worse — I only found out at the last minute.
My partner on stage was the intern who'd started just a week ago.
Ian. Early twenties. Fresh-faced, with a smile like clear skies. Soft-spoken, sweet to all the office ladies — the exact type of boy who hits every single one of my aesthetic checkboxes.
If I were still in school, I'd definitely be the one chasing him.
I guess this is the curse of being an older single woman — the most intimate moment I'll have with a younger guy is him swinging a hammer at my chest.
Right before going on stage, my legs were shaking.
"It's okay, Jessie," Ian suddenly said to me.
"Huh?"
"So here's the thing — with the stone pressing on your chest, it creates a force-distribution surface," he explained, gesturing as he went.
"The stone has a large mass, so the acceleration is low. That means it won't form heavy concentrated pressure."
"And your sternum is actually a shock-absorption structure. Structurally speaking..." Ian kept giving me this whole science lecture.
What the...
Is this just a guy thing?
Forging ahead on the noble path of rigorous science education???
You could demonstrate "No one understands structural mechanics better than me" a million times...
I'm still terrified out of my mind, okay!?
"But..." Ian finally stopped his lecture.
"Just to be safe, I practiced on my dad a bunch of times."
"The last few times, he said it felt like getting a massage."
He grinned mischievously: "Don't worry, Jessie. Just pretend I'm giving you a massage."
Wearing a sailor costume, I went on stage, utterly mortified.
It was the boss's sick sense of humor — he said the company retreat was all about letting loose, and he specifically assigned these outfits.
Ian didn't fare much better, forced into a tight shirt that made his abs faintly visible through the fabric.
Looking back now, I still want to curse someone out.
The sailor costume they gave me had an absurdly short skirt.
Ian kept reassuring me, "It'll be over soon," "Don't worry, I'll be careful"...
While my brain was screaming, "AHHHH I CAN'T FLASH EVERYONE, I'M GONNA DIE!!!"
I lay across two benches, a stone on my chest, one hand constantly tugging at my skirt.
Suddenly, a coworker struck a gong — "BANG!"
I startled, Ian called out "Here it comes!" and a hammer came swinging down fast.
I...
Instinctively...
Raised my hand to block it.
...What the hell am I blocking?!
In a flash, the stone lost its balance and slid off my chest.
I barely got halfway through shouting "What the—" before the full force of the hammer hit me square in the chest. Only my two raised hands reached toward the disco ball overhead.
That was the winter of 2015. I'll remember it until the day I die.
The company next door — damn them — didn't even cancel their holiday party.
They watched in high spirits as a knockoff Sailor Moon, face contorted, foam at the mouth, got hauled into an ambulance.
When I woke up in the hospital, I figured out two things.
One: I couldn't stay at this garbage company.
Two: Men will only ever leave me battered and bruised.
Ian was a Marvel fan. His messaging app handle: Thor.
After that debacle, he earned a new nickname: Thor the Hammer of Death.
Of course, this disaster wasn't really Ian's fault.
When I first became the Chosen One of the Stone-Breaking Stunt, I was anxious day and night.
My search history was all stuff like:
"If the stone wins, does it count as a workplace injury?" "How to self-rescue from a fracture" "How much do work injury lawyers charge"...
Back then, Ian secretly messaged me:
"Jessie, it's really okay if you don't do this. I'll try to get you out of it."
Problem was, Chloe had already treated me to noodles for three days straight. If I bailed, was I really going to kick the act back to Chloe?
She'd think we were hilarious.
So, could we get the whole thing canceled?
"I'll try."
Not only did he fail, Ian got assigned as the hammer-wielder, staring at me wide-eyed.
Ian did have some gentlemanly instincts. He offered a few more times:
"Let's switch. I'll lie down, you swing the hammer."
Sweet gesture, but I refused every time with "I want to challenge myself."
It really wasn't about sparing the poor kid. Honestly, with his delicate skin and my aim being so bad I miss when cracking walnuts...
I was terrified I'd smack him right in the skull, little bro!
Can't afford the damages!
"I just want to challenge myself, alright?"
I, the challenge enthusiast, spent two weeks hospitalized that winter.
I can't say there were zero perks.
Ian felt incredibly guilty. To make amends, he volunteered as my "personal nurse."
I had fractured ribs and couldn't move around easily.
Every day, following doctor's orders, he prepared soft, easy-to-chew meals for me.
But! I couldn't even put on makeup! Between my injuries and the haggard face, I looked ancient!
"Jessie, careful, it's hot." He fed me at my bedside.
My bones had taken a hit, my teeth were loose, and I could only nibble slowly with pursed lips.
This was basically him waiting on some old granny in a hospital bed.
The ward was filled with the spirit of filial piety.
Ian had this way of sitting by my bed, peeling fruit with serious concentration, then offering me each piece like it was a gift from the gods.
Every time he passed me a slice, he'd say, "Here, Jessie," with this earnest look in his eyes.
I'd take it and mumble, "Thanks," feeling like a withered prune being waited on by a flower boy.
Then one afternoon, he brought in a thermos and, without a word, poured me a bowl of congee.
"Your guest room's been smelling of this all morning," I said. "Did you make it?"
He looked slightly sheepish. "My housekeeper made extras. I figured you might want some."
"Your housekeeper?" I raised an eyebrow. "Who has a housekeeper at your age?"
"My mom insists." He shrugged. "She worries I can't cook. So someone comes by every other day."
The congee was admittedly amazing. Perfect consistency, just the right amount of ginger.
"You're spoiling me," I said between bites.
"Just making sure you don't waste away before you can get back to your exciting life of being terrified of stones."
I almost choked on my congee laughing.
Over the next few days, Ian became a fixture in my hospital life.
He showed up every morning, sometimes before I even woke, with breakfast already laid out on the tray.
He'd help me adjust my pillows, refill my water, and remind the nurses when my medication was due.
The nurses, of course, were beside themselves.
"Is that your boyfriend?" one of them whispered to me, wide-eyed.
"He's an intern at my company," I said.
"Sure," she said, giving me a look that said she didn't believe me for a second.
I had to admit — having someone bring you porridge and peel your oranges every day wasn't the worst thing in the world.
But I also had to admit that lying in a hospital bed, unable to wash my hair properly, wearing the same faded sleep clothes, was not exactly how I'd imagined our quality time going.
One evening, after Ian had gone home, Chloe called me.
"How's the patient?" she asked.
"Fractured. Bored. Looking like a zombie."
"Is Nurse Ian still being attentive?"
"Very funny."
"I'm serious. That boy has been checking in on you like clockwork. Every day, Jessie. Who does that for a coworker?"
"A very guilty coworker who hammered someone's chest?"
"You know that's not why."
I fell silent.
Because I did know. Somewhere deep down, past all the denial and the "he's just being nice" and the "he probably feels responsible" — I knew.
"Let me know when you're discharged," Chloe said. "We're going out to celebrate."
"For what?"
"For you surviving the world's worst company retreat."
I laughed, and it hurt my ribs, but I laughed anyway.
The day I was discharged, Ian came to pick me up.
He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans, holding a paper bag with my medication.
"Ready to go?" he asked.
"More than ready."
He insisted on carrying my bag and walking me all the way to the taxi, one hand hovering near my elbow like I might collapse at any moment.
"You know I fractured ribs, not my legs, right?"
"I know. I'm just being cautious."
"In other words, being you."
He smiled at that, just a small quirk of his lips, and helped me into the cab.
In the taxi, I looked at him sideways.
"Ian."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For everything."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know. But I want to."
He didn't say anything. Just looked out the window, and I noticed the tips of his ears had gone slightly pink.