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墨書 Inktalez
But such days were ultimately shattered mercilessly by reality.
Jiang Yan's almost obsessive love for art made it impossible for him to spare any energy to deal with the trivialities of everyday life.
Rent, utilities, living expenses—these concrete and cold issues wrapped around us like an invisible chain, gradually suffocating us.
His works always struggled to gain market recognition; each exhibition garnered applause but failed to yield any meaningful returns.
One night, I finally couldn't hold back any longer.
“Jiang Yan, we can't go on like this.” My voice trembled slightly, but I tried to remain calm. “Can you please find a stable job first, solve our basic living problems, and then pursue your dreams?”
He suddenly stopped his brush on the palette and looked up at me.
His brow furrowed slightly, his tone calm yet laced with a piercing stubbornness. “Art is my life. If I do meaningless things just for money, what's the difference between that and being a walking corpse?”
His gaze was so resolute that it momentarily left me speechless, but the emotions swelling in my chest only grew heavier.
“But if we can't even maintain a basic living, how can we talk about art?” I couldn't help but raise my voice. “Dreams are important, but we can't let them destroy our lives!”
He scoffed and placed the palette down on the table. “Destroy our lives? You mean I should give up my dreams and become a mundane, boring person, right?”
"That's not it!" I hurriedly explained, "I hope we can find a balance! Not giving up on our dreams, but also not being pushed to the brink by life."
But his expression showed no sign of softening; he stubbornly shook his head. "Xiao Yan, if you can't support me, then what future do we have?"
His words pierced through my chest like a knife, making it hard for me to breathe.
"So," I asked hoarsely, "in your eyes, I'm just the one holding you back, right?"
He seemed to want to explain but ultimately just sighed, turning away and slamming the door behind him.
The sound of the door closing echoed in the empty room, cold and harsh like the winter wind.
Late at night, I sat alone on the sofa, staring at the unfinished oil painting on the table—the woman in the painting hung her head low, her eyes filled with melancholy and struggle, and that woman was me.
Tears blurred my vision as I reached for the pendant around my neck; it felt cold and heavy, like the weight pressing down on my heart.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed outside the door. I held my breath, uncertain whether to expect anything.
On the night I broke up with Jiang Yan, I curled up on the narrow sofa of my rental apartment, with only the dim light casting a patchy shadow. The pendant lay quietly in my palm, its cold touch reminding me that its owner no longer belonged to me.
Jiang Yan's words still echoed in my mind: "If you can't support me, then what future do we have?"
His voice was not loud, yet it pierced through my chest like a sharp needle, leaving an unhealable wound.
I placed the Pendant into the drawer, my fingers gently turning the lock, as if that could confine the pain within.
But it was like the tide; it receded for a moment, only to surge back again swiftly.
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