I Died. Then I Saw Everything. The day I died, my boyfriend brought his first love home. They kissed shamelessly on the sofa I bought, ate the special savory dumplings I’d made, and played on the gaming console I’d given him. One day, his first love, Celeste, asked curiously, “Where’s Anya?” Dorian’s voice was calm, “She got into an argument with me a few days ago, then applied for a business trip.” Oh, he still didn’t know I was dead. On Dorian’s birthday, I was in a car accident on my way back, and I died on the spot. My soul floated above, wanting to see Dorian one last time. Just then, I saw Dorian bring his first love, Celeste, back to *our* home. In the dim light, Celeste’s fair face was flushed, as if she were deeply drunk, clinging to Dorian, her body limp against his. “Dorian, Dorian…” He steadily held her waist, brushed away her messy hair, and patiently responded to her every call. Dorian, usually so distant, reserved that tenderness only for her. Seeing this, even though I was prepared, my heart still ached. Ever since Dorian found out about Celeste’s divorce, he’d been distracted, coming home less and less, growing colder towards me. I’d found out that Celeste’s ex-husband’s company had gone bankrupt, and he’d fled with the money. Celeste only discovered she was pregnant after the divorce, and debt collectors hounded her daily, scaring her into multiple near-miscarriages. Dorian had been with her at the hospital all these days. I argued with Dorian because he wanted to bring Celeste home to care for her. “Celeste’s parents once helped me out. I can’t not help her.” My eyes were red, “Is that the only reason?” Dorian was silent for a moment, then suddenly extinguished his cigarette. “I promised I’d marry you.” “Anya, what exactly are you so insecure about?” What was I insecure about? Dorian knew, deep down, but he pretended not to. That night, I suddenly lost control, and for the first time, I suggested we break up. Dorian’s face grew darker. Without a word, he carried me into the bathroom, turning on the shower. “Do you know what you just said?” I trembled, hugging myself, his tall shadow looming over me. He ripped off my shirt buttons, almost punishingly biting my lips. “Anya, never talk about breaking up with me.” Cold water poured over my head, his hot breath grazed my neck, and his face blurred before my eyes. “Celeste is only staying for a while. Once the police find her ex-husband, I’ll send her back.” He whispered close to my ear, “There’s really no future for her and me.” I gasped for breath, struggling, closing my eyes and threatening, “To get me to agree, I’d have to be dead.” And then, I really died. Dorian really brought Celeste back.
I watched Dorian place the drunken Celeste on the sofa and wipe her face with a hot towel. “…You’re pregnant. You shouldn’t drink so much.” He spoke in a low voice, yet his tone was gentle, just like he used to scold her for not paying attention in class. Celeste didn’t seem to hear, muttering about a headache. Dorian chuckled softly, helping her up, his long fingers pressing gently on her forehead, from her brow to her temples, then behind her ears. It was a tender scene, and my heart tightened, as if it had stopped for a few seconds, then furiously started beating again. For a moment, I was lost in thought. Back when we’d just graduated college, Dorian’s grandmother passed away. And Celeste’s parents, due to Dorian’s family background, refused to let them be together, forcing Celeste into an arranged marriage. During those six gloomy months, I stayed by Dorian’s side, helping him through it all, little by little. Six months later, he accepted my confession. Later, he decided to start his own business and often went out for drinks. I would clean him up, cook him hangover soup, and take care of him all night long. The next day, my eyes would be dark, looking utterly exhausted. Dorian would gaze at me for a long time, sigh, and then have me lay my head on his lap, massaging my temples. I was a little overwhelmed, yet the gentle pressure was so comforting that I started acting playfully. “Dorian, you’re not allowed to massage anyone else’s head, okay?” As soon as I said it, I regretted it. Just as I was about to backtrack, I heard Dorian chuckle softly above me: “Okay.” He said, “Okay.” But. Of course, Celeste wasn’t “anyone else.” I was just a sudden exception for Dorian, while she was, and always had been, his preference.
Suddenly, I felt like I should leave this place. I couldn’t even stand watching Dorian massage Celeste. What if they rekindled their old flame one day? What if they hugged? Kissed? What if… The thought alone sent a searing pain through my chest, like ants crawling up my spine, making me restless. I frantically ran towards the door. But the moment I touched it, a sudden, tearing pain shot through me, even worse than the car crash, worse than being smashed to pieces after falling from a cliff. I couldn’t even scream. My body was yanked back. After several attempts, my face was ashen white, drenched in cold sweat, and I finally realized something— I couldn’t leave this house. Or rather, I couldn’t leave Dorian. Instantly, all my strength left me. I numbly continued to watch the two of them. Dorian had finished massaging Celeste and was about to leave when a hand hooked around his neck. Celeste opened her eyes. Their eyes met. “Dorian, do you still like me?” Celeste asked directly. Dorian stared into her eyes. “I hate you.” Celeste’s face paled. His palm rested on her cheek, his thumb tracing her skin inch by inch, as if with a sigh, “But I’ve also never forgotten you.” I curled my lips mockingly. A smile bloomed across Celeste’s face, lighting up her eyes. Then, as if she suddenly thought of something, her gaze flickered, “What about Anya? She’s been with you for five years. What do you feel for her?” Dorian paused, parting his lips, but said nothing. The atmosphere suddenly fell silent. Celeste’s expression subtly shifted, her eyes scrutinizing him. The next second, she tilted her neck slightly and kissed the corner of his lips. Dorian’s body stiffened noticeably, but only for a moment. He quickly took control, his large hand scooping her waist to pull her onto his lap, his fingers clasping the back of her head, deepening the kiss. A wave of nausea instantly rushed to my head. I clamped my hand over my mouth, afraid my churning stomach would rise into my chest. “Dorian, he’s already abandoned me. Don’t you abandon me. I don’t want to be alone.” Celeste gasped for breath, pleading against his lips. “I know you only feel gratitude and guilt for her; the one you truly love is me…” Celeste’s kiss moved to his collarbone, pausing slightly, then her hand reached for the buttons of his shirt— Dorian suddenly pressed down on her hand. “No.” His voice was cold and deep, his eyes equally frigid. A chill emanated from him, spreading outwards, making even my soul, which felt no temperature, shiver. Celeste stared at him blankly, as if she hadn’t expected to be rejected. “Is it because of Anya that—” I stared at him blankly too, my heart pounding uncontrollably and wildly. Dorian was silent for a while, then lowered his eyes, his expression unreadable. “Celeste, I have a girlfriend right now.” “This isn’t good for you.” Celeste understood, and the corners of her lips curled up slightly. “I’ll wait for you.” I understood too, and laughed mockingly. Dorian meant that as long as we hadn’t broken up, he and Celeste wouldn’t cross any substantial lines. This wasn’t about his character, nor was it out of respect for me, his official girlfriend. He just didn’t want Celeste to bear any stain or moral condemnation. He cherished and protected her so much. Laughing, large tears began to fall.
After tucking Celeste into bed, Dorian went to the balcony to smoke alone. He stood tall and refined, his body almost merging with the night, only the glow of his cigarette tip shining faintly. His face was almost expressionless, his thumb repeatedly rubbing the cigarette, which meant he was extremely agitated. I was forced to hover less than two meters away from him, watching him coldly. He and the woman he loved had already confessed their feelings for each other; I didn’t know why he was still agitated. Oh, right, we hadn’t broken up yet. Perhaps it was because of what happened earlier, unfulfilled desire. I thought. Suddenly, his phone chimed. Dorian almost immediately opened his phone, his deep, dark eyes fixed on the screen. The next second, a hint of disappointment flickered in his eyes. My curiosity piqued. I floated behind him, shamelessly peeking at his screen. What I saw made me freeze— Dorian had opened his SnapChat chat with *me*. Since that big argument, we hadn’t contacted each other. The last chat message was from me: “Comrade Dorian’s birthday is in seven days! What gift do you want?” Perhaps he was too busy with work that day, or perhaps he was taking care of Celeste at the hospital, but he hadn’t replied. Now, Dorian’s fingers unconsciously scrolled up and down, refreshing SnapChat, as if doing so would make a message appear from the other side. I wasn’t sure how to react. In a daze, Dorian had already sent a SnapChat message. Dorian: “It’s eleven-thirty.” In an instant, I understood his reminder. It was 11:30 PM. His birthday was almost over. I, his girlfriend, who hadn’t missed his birthday for five years, who always cooked him longevity noodles and vegetable potstickers, hadn’t even wished him a happy birthday this year. But I wouldn’t anymore. Never again. Because I was already dead.
Dorian stood on the balcony for a full thirty minutes. When he returned to the living room, shrouded in a chilling aura, his face was already grim. He stared at his phone screen for two more seconds, then irritably tossed it onto the sofa. His long strides carried him to the fridge, where he pulled out a bag of the vegetable potstickers I had made last time but hadn’t eaten, specially freezing them. He thawed the potstickers with a blank expression, cooked them, then sat at the dining table, head bowed, eating them slowly and deliberately, one by one. The hazy grey smoke curled around his brow bone, making him appear even more distant and cold. Watching him quietly eat the potstickers, a thought suddenly popped into my head. Dorian… he probably cared about me a little. I was surprised, then it dawned on me. Actually, strictly speaking, today wasn’t Dorian’s real birthday. Dorian’s actual birthday was a week ago. But five years ago, on that very day, Dorian’s grandmother passed away, and Celeste also left him. From then on, Dorian didn’t want to celebrate his birthday. It was my idea to move his birthday back a week. And it was always me, relentlessly enthusiastic, who would arrange his birthday celebrations. I was an orphan. At the orphanage, my birthday was the happiest day of the year. I just wanted him to be a little happier too. The first time I celebrated his birthday, I secretly spent months learning a game he loved to play. I planned to stay up all night playing with him, but I fell asleep on his lap at 2 AM. When I woke up, Dorian was above me, arms crossed, his usually stoic eyes curved in a half-smile, “All-nighter, huh?” The second time, I cooked a huge dinner table, cutting several of my fingers, and only the longevity noodles and vegetable potstickers were edible. Dorian ate everything, though, and even he, usually so quiet, praised the potstickers several times. I was always one to seize an opportunity, so I puffed out my chest, “Your heart isn’t good, and these potstickers are my special recipe, packed with ingredients that are good for your heart, so I studied really hard to get the perfect shape and taste.” Dorian looked at me for a long time then. “Anya, why are you so good to me?” I smiled, “Because I like you! I really, really like you.” Before I could confess more, Dorian cupped my jaw and leaned in to kiss me. Dorian always hid his emotions, but that was the first time I felt such an overt, intense emotion from him. Then we tumbled into bed. That night, we were both so clumsy, exploring each other. But later, he seemed to become a natural, his hands gripping my waist, his deep, dark eyes reflecting my tear-stained face. He was silent but fierce, late into the night. But it turns out, my stubborn persistence worked. The third and fourth times I celebrated his birthday, Dorian just went along with it. It made me think that five years of devoted care and constant companionship must have left some mark on his heart.
A “clink” brought my wandering thoughts back. Dorian seemed to be lost in thought too, not even noticing the spoon that had fallen to the floor. I instinctively leaned down to pick it up, but my non-corporeal hand passed right through the spoon. I froze for a moment. Then the spoon was picked up by another hand. “What are you eating?” Celeste’s soft voice filled the room. I spread my palms, looking at these hands that were growing fainter, almost unable to solidify, then looked at Celeste’s long, fair hands. Suddenly, I felt a pang of insecurity. My hands used to be beautiful before I died. Now I could cook a full meal, effortlessly complete games, but now I couldn’t even touch anything. “What flavor are these dumplings? They smell so strange.” Celeste picked up another spoon and slowly stirred the dumplings in Dorian’s bowl. Dorian’s brow furrowed slightly, but he still replied, “Vegetable.” Celeste nodded indifferently, then looked up at Dorian, “Why did Anya say today was your birthday?” Dorian flinched. Celeste smiled candidly, “Your phone was on the sofa just now, I glanced at your chat history.” Then she added, “I can’t believe your lock screen password hasn’t changed, 0802, the day we first met.” Dorian looked down, and I couldn’t see the expression in his eyes. My heart still twisted slightly. I used to playfully ask Dorian to change his lock screen password to the day we got together, but he always refused. It was because of her, after all. “Hurry, answer my question. Why did Anya say today was your birthday?” I stared coldly at Celeste. Dorian had promised me that this was a secret between just me and him, that he wouldn’t tell anyone— “A lot of bad things happened on that day five years ago, so she suggested postponing my birthday by a week, finding ways to celebrate it for me.” His familiar voice was as low and calm as ever. I bit down hard on my tongue, a bitter, metallic taste welling up and spreading through my mouth. Suddenly, I wanted to laugh, at myself. Celeste was silent for a moment. “She really was good to you.” “These dumplings are hers too? Made specifically for your birthday?” “Yes.” “You rushed me to sleep just to eat these? To keep a promise with her?” Dorian didn’t answer. Silence settled. Celeste quickly scooped up a dumpling, then suddenly said, “I want to eat it.” “No!” I screamed, a desperate, raw sound. No one heard me. I reached out to grab her spoon. I couldn’t touch it. Dorian’s gaze darkened. He grabbed her wrist, warning softly, “Celeste.” Celeste stared into his eyes, repeating each word, “I want to eat it.” “Dorian, from now on, I’ll be with you for every one of your birthdays.” She was forcing him to choose. Dorian’s jawline tightened, a flicker of struggle in his dark eyes. After what felt like an eternity, he slowly released Celeste’s hand. Celeste ate the dumpling, as she wished. I watched, numb, tears endlessly spilling from my eyes. It felt like knives carving into my heart, tearing flesh, bleeding profusely. This wasn’t just about dumplings. This wasn’t just about dumplings. These past few days, I’d hovered in the corner, watching them indifferently, feeling as though all emotion had left me. But I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination, after that incident, Dorian’s attitude towards Celeste seemed much colder. Aside from playing games together, he had no other intimate gestures with Celeste, even deliberately avoiding her touch. One day, Celeste suddenly asked, “I always forgot to ask, where’s Anya?” Dorian paused, his voice calm, “She got into an argument with me a few days ago, then applied for a business trip.” Celeste laughed, “So many days without contact, maybe she already wanted to break up with you.” Dorian’s eyes darkened, utterly certain: “Impossible.” As he spoke, he instinctively pulled out his phone, looking at his chat with me. A rare hint of unease and anxiety appeared between his brows. Oh, he still didn’t know I was dead. I suddenly became curious about his reaction when he did find out. The next day, Dorian received a package from me. —It was the engagement ring he’d given me. A month ago, Dorian and I were at a restaurant. Halfway through the meal, the man sitting opposite me suddenly stood up, pulled out a ring without warning, and knelt on one knee.
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