I Fell for My Best Friend and It Nearly Cost Me Everything

Would You Date a Good Friend?

Zhou Ye first found Cheng Cheng annoying at 3 a.m. She sent him a blurry photo of his back on the balcony, cigarette in hand. He wrote: “Delete it.” She wrote: “No.” Next morning she printed it and taped it beside his monitor. He tore it down, folded it, and put it in the bottom drawer. The drawer already held her hair tie, old movie stubs, and a sticky note: “Remember to eat breakfast.”

Seven years of friendship. College classmates, then roommates. Two bedrooms, one living room. He took the main room. She took the small one. He wrote backend code. She shot photos. He counted calories. She ate by mood. They fought about unpaid utilities. They fought about her missing lens cap, which he had put away. Most days they acted like an old couple. She knew his stomach needed congee simmered forty minutes. He knew she feared the dark, so the living room light stayed on.

The fever came on a Tuesday. He took leave. He never took leave. The day before a launch, he was still fixing bugs. That morning he told his manager: family matter. He made congee. He sorted pills into morning, noon, and night. She burned at 39 degrees and called for her mother. He wiped her forehead. She caught his wrist. “Don’t go.” He said, “I won’t.” He had never said that before. He used to say, “I’ll call you a car.” The congee cooled. He reheated it. It cooled again. He ate it. She woke to find him slumped by the bed, his hand on her blanket. Birds started outside. He opened his eyes. “Pills on the left. Water’s warm.”

His project failed in October. He said nothing. His module broke. The company lost money. He was demoted. Cheng Cheng found him on the balcony at midnight, ashtray full. She didn’t ask. Next day she dragged him out. “Come shoot with me.” He went. She drove to the sea. Winter wind. She handed him a camera. “You shoot.” He said, “I don’t know how.” She said, “Press the shutter.” He shot the sea. Then her back. Then her profile. She never looked at the lens. “Do you know why I photograph you?” He said, “No.” She said, “Because you never look at me.” He froze. She took the camera back. “Let’s get noodles.” In the shop she added an egg to his bowl. He ate without thanking her.

Rain flooded the kitchen pipe. The landlord ignored it. They fixed it themselves. He turned the wrench. She handed him tape. Water sprayed. They got soaked. She laughed. He laughed. “Chengzi, pass the pliers.” She stopped. He always called her Cheng Cheng. She gave him the pliers. He said, “Chengzi.” She said, “What.” He said, “Nothing.” The pipe held. They sat on the wet floor with takeout. She fell asleep on his shoulder. He didn’t move. He listened to her breathe. He remembered college, the library, her asleep, his jacket over her. Back then he felt nothing. Now he felt something. He didn’t say it.

Movie night. Sofa. She leaned close. He lowered his head. Her eyes were bright. His breath slowed. He touched her hair. She didn’t pull away. He moved closer. Her phone rang. Her ex. She answered on the balcony. He sat with his hand still in the air. She came back. “I’m going out.” He said, “Okay.” She left. He finished the movie. He couldn’t remember the ending. He threw away the popcorn. Her Coke sat half full. He drank a sip. Sweet. He frowned. He never drank Coke.

She came home at dawn. He sat in the dark living room. “What are we doing?” She said, “What do you mean?” He said, “You know.” She said, “Zhou Ye, don’t push me.” He said, “I’m not pushing. I want to know.” She said, “I don’t know.” He said, “You don’t know, or you won’t say?” She said, “You always need everything certain.” He said, “If I’m not certain, I can’t move.” She said, “Then don’t move.” He stood. The chair fell. He left it. “Cheng Cheng, I’m thirty. I won’t guess anymore.” She said, “Then stop guessing.” Her door closed softly. The pothos leaves drooped. He reached out, then pulled back. Next day she moved out. The second bedroom was empty. A key and a lens cap sat on the table. He gripped the key until his palm sweated. He called. No answer. He texted: “You forgot something.” She wrote: “Throw it away.” He didn’t. He put the lens cap with the hair tie, stubs, and sticky note.

A month later he found a photography book she left. A memory card fell out. He plugged it in. Photos of him: cafeteria, library, track. Him after work: balcony, computer, sofa. The last one was him fixing the pipe in the rain, soaked, wrench in hand, a smile at his mouth. The date was that night. He clicked through. The final image was an empty chair. Their living room. Two chairs, one empty. He shut the computer. He sat in the dark. He didn’t cry. He made congee. He filled two bowls. He set one across from him. He ate his. The other went cold. He poured it out. He washed the bowls. He moved the pothos to the balcony. He forgot to water it. Leaves turned yellow. He passed it every day. He didn’t water it. He feared that watering it meant admitting she was not coming back.

Cheng Cheng was in another city. She stayed with a friend. She shot by day, edited by night. She photographed empty chairs: parks, cafes, subway platforms. She didn’t send them. She changed her number. She didn’t tell him. She thought of him sometimes. His congee. The pills. The word “Chengzi.” She took apart her old camera, his birthday gift. A part had been replaced. Inside, two words were engraved: “Don’t run.” She held the part for a long time. She didn’t cry. She put it back. She took a photo of her hand holding the camera, rain outside the window. She didn’t send it.

Zhou Ye signed up for a photography class. Wednesday nights. He shot badly. The teacher said his composition was rigid. He shot clouds, trees, cats. He saved the files. He didn’t send them. He changed jobs. No overtime. He cooked. He learned congee. He stopped counting calories. He watered the pothos. Leaves turned green. He bought two new chairs. He sat in one and looked at the other. Three months later he went to the old noodle shop. He ordered noodles, no cilantro. He sat by the window. He ate half. The door opened. Cheng Cheng walked in. Thinner. She saw him. She stopped. He looked up. “Eaten?” She said, “No.” He called the owner for another bowl, no cilantro. She sat. She put the old camera on the table. He glanced at it. “Fixed?” She said, “It wasn’t broken.” He said, “Good.” They ate. The TV played news. The owner counted receipts. A bike passed outside. He pushed his bowl away. “See you tomorrow.” She said, “See you tomorrow.” She didn’t leave. He didn’t leave. They sat. The pothos was on the balcony. The new chairs were in the living room. The memory card was in the drawer. The sticky note was on the fridge. The rain had stopped.