The Change (That Wasn't Expected)

That night, after parting ways with Lu Jiu, Wei Chen returned to his penthouse in the heart of the city, a far cry from his family's imposing mansion. The dim lighting in the high-rise apartment seemed to reflect the quiet loneliness he felt, and the only sound breaking the heavy silence was the click of the digital lock as he stepped inside.

As he entered, he placed his phone on the kitchen counter, moving through the space with practiced ease. His eyes, however, held a deeper weight, like someone searching for answers that were always just beyond reach.

He lifted his shirt sleeve to his nose, inhaling the faint scent of smoke clinging to the fabric. It was the lingering trace of grilled pork, nothing he'd particularly enjoy, but not unpleasant either. Just a reminder of the time that had passed, and something he couldn't shake.

His phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen. Shen Shen.

For a long moment, he just stared at the name. Then, with a quiet exhale, he answered.

"Hello," his voice was emotionless.

"I just wanted to remind you about tomorrow. Don't forget to come over for dinner. My parents want to meet you,"

Shen Shen's voice came through, sounding rehearsed, devoid of warmth. It felt more like a scheduled appointment than a conversation between lovers.

"I remember" 

Wei Chen answered briefly, his gaze drifting out the large glass window toward the city below. The lights of the buildings twinkled, stretching far into the horizon. His thoughts wandered far from the conversation, and even her voice seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the glow of a memory, Chuan Jie restaurant. The warm lights, the aroma, the comfort.

"Good. Don't be late," Shen Shen continued, her tone rigid, more like a business deal than a casual conversation between two people who were supposed to be in love.

Wei Chen remained silent for a moment, his mind elsewhere. 

"If there's anything else, just text me," Wei Chen said.

"Okay, that's all then," she said, and the line clicked off.

He stood, staring at the phone in his hand, His mind lingered on the call, his thoughts not quite settling, as though the conversation had just stirred something he couldn't put into words. With a sigh, he looked up at the city lights.

He turned away from the window and switched off the living room lights before walking toward his bedroom. But the bed was no comfort tonight. His mind refused to quiet, thoughts of the soup from Chuan Jie swirling endlessly in his head, a taste he couldn't forget, a feeling he couldn't place.

***

Unable to sleep, Wei Chen got up, irritation gnawing at him. He walked back to the kitchen, flicking on the lights.

In the kitchen, he started to prepare the soup for the first time. He washed his hands, his movements automatic, picking up the pre-blanched pork ribs and placing them into the pot. He added dried shiitake mushrooms, sliced ginger, Chinese dates, and green onions, each step a quiet attempt to recreate something he couldn't even fully explain.

As the pork ribs softened, he added Chinese cabbage, seasoning the broth with soy sauce, salt, and a hint of sugar. The sound of boiling water filled the air, rhythmically.

He picked up a spoon and tasted the first sip, his lips barely touching the liquid before he knew, it wasn't right. The taste didn't match. A bitter frustration sank deep in his chest. He set the spoon down gently by the sink, then grabbed the soy sauce bottle again, adding a few more drops. He tried once more.

The second sip. The third…

Still, it wasn't that taste, the rich, comforting flavor of the soup from Chuan Jie that had stayed with him. Every time he tried to recreate it, it slipped further from his grasp, like something he was chasing in a dream.

It wasn't just about the food. It was something else, something he couldn't articulate. Something that tugged at him, unanswered.

He leaned back against the counter, staring at the pot, his mind whirling.

"If I'm going to figure this out… I need to do something," he muttered to himself.

He looked down at the pot, the warmth from the kitchen lights illuminating his furrowed brow, his confusion, his growing sense of longing.