See You Tomorrow: A Love Story About a Man Who Controlled Everything and a Woman Who Ran

The rain had turned the city into an overexposed negative.

Lin came in soaked. White coat, dripping hair, umbrella with two broken ribs. Lu was gluing a plastic ginkgo leaf onto the model. He said, “Don’t step on the wires.” She looked down, stepped back. Water pooled on the floor.

No outsiders in the model room. No water. His rule. He threw her a towel. She caught it, dried her hair, said nothing. He went back to the ginkgo. Tweezers. One leaf at a time. She stood by the door, towel on her shoulder, looking at the drawings. She reached for the small building. He said, “Don’t touch.” She pulled her hand back. “Are all designers this particular?” He didn’t answer.

She left her umbrella. He put it in the stand. White tape on the handle. “Lin Zhao.” He never labeled people. The drawings in his cabinet had numbers only. He didn’t text her.

Three days later, she found a box of stomach medicine on the locker room door handle. No name. Note inside: “Before meals.” She looked down the hall. Empty. She folded the note and put it behind her ID badge. That night, an old man came in after drinking pesticide. She pumped his stomach until dawn. The medicine stayed in her pocket.

Lu had heard from a colleague. He bought the medicine. Hung it on the handle. Left. He didn’t knock. If she asked why he came, he wouldn’t know what to say.

The second time, Lu had a fever. Lin called. He hung up. She called again. He answered, hoarse. She said, “Open the door.” He opened it in his pajamas, leaned against the wall. She touched his forehead. He turned away. She went in. Boiled water. Made porridge. Washed the dishes in the sink. The faucet leaked. She crouched, unscrewed it, replaced the washer. Grease on her hands. He handed her a towel. She wiped them. Porridge in a bowl on the table. He sat on the sofa. Watched her move around the kitchen. She left a note: “Medicine in the left drawer. Don’t turn the faucet too hard.” He tucked it into his drawing album. He had never left notes. His WeChat messages were only periods.

The third time, supermarket. She pushed the cart. He walked beside her. She crouched to tie her shoe. He stopped. She stood up, put a pothos in the cart. He said, “I don’t keep plants.” She said, “It doesn’t need you to keep it. It keeps you.” He pushed the cart to checkout. The pothos went on his windowsill. He watered it every morning. A little. Water seeped from the bottom and left a ring. He wiped it with a rag.

They ate together. She came off night shift. He made noodles. He drew. She read medical journals beside him. She chewed pen caps. He took the cap out of her mouth, swapped in another pen. She looked up. He kept drawing. She slid the pen into her ID badge.

That night he walked her home. The stairwell light was broken. She dug out her keys. The keychain rattled. He stood behind her. The light went out. He stepped forward, hand on the wall beside her. She looked up. He looked down. Her breath hit his chin. Disinfectant in her hair. She closed her eyes. He leaned in.

The phone rang.

Emergency. She answered. Her face changed. She ran. Keys fell. He picked them up. She looked back from the stairwell entrance. “Keep them for me.” He stood in the dark. The keychain pressed into his palm. The light went out again.

He put the keys in the entryway. Added a label: “Lin Zhao.” He looked at them when he left. He didn’t call. If she was busy, she’d say so. If she wasn’t, she’d say something else. He left his phone face down.

Winter. The studio. His partner took the project money and ran. Four figures left. He didn’t tell Lin. Sold the car. Paid the employees. Drew as usual. Made noodles as usual. Watered the pothos as usual. His cheekbones stuck out. Lin asked what was wrong. “Busy project.” “You haven’t drawn lately.” “Changing the plan.”

She had finished her third night shift in a row. He waited downstairs. She came out with red eyes. He said, “Transfer departments.” “No.” “The ER is too dangerous.” “I like it.” “Move in with me. I’ll take care of you.” “I don’t need taking care of.” “You do.” “I’m doing this for your own good.”

She looked at him. “You’re just like my father.”

He grabbed her wrist. She pulled back. He let go. She stepped away. “You always decide everything and never ask me.” “You decided I should transfer. You decided I should move in. You decided I should be taken care of.” “I just don’t want anything to happen to you.” “You’re not afraid something will happen to me. You’re afraid I’ll leave you.”

He stood there. She turned and went upstairs. The door closed. The stairwell light came on and went off. He didn’t follow. He didn’t know how to ask.

She moved out. He stood by the door while she packed. She pulled her suitcase out. He stepped aside. Elevator doors closed. He went back inside. Sat on the sofa. TV on, muted. Someone laughing. He changed the channel.

Yogurt in the fridge. Expired. He didn’t throw it away. Her hair in the bathroom drain. He picked it up, threw it in the trash, then put it on the sink. Her toothbrush. Trash. Then back in the cup. The cup had a cat on it.

The pothos grew a leaf. He watered it every morning. Wiped the ring. Drew. Made a wrong line. Eraser shavings piled up. He swept them into his palm. Dumped them. Slept on the sofa. Phone lit up. Not her. He put it face down.

Lin heard from a colleague. He sold the car. She didn’t ask. Before, she would disappear. Three cities. Two majors. No explanations. Her father chose her high school, her university, her job. She fled to the ER. No one there decided her next second.

She went to his studio. The guard knew her. She went up. He wasn’t there. A colleague said the partner ran off. Lu sold the car. Didn’t tell anyone. Private jobs. Drawing until dawn.

She stood downstairs. Wind in her face. Phone out. Phone back. She used to run. This time she didn’t.

She went to his apartment. Knocked. He opened the door. Old sweater. Pencil in hand. He saw her. Said nothing. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I was afraid you’d run.” “I’m not running now.”

He stepped aside. She went in. The pothos on the windowsill. Her cup on the table. Toothbrush in the cup. She glanced. Said nothing. He stood behind her. “You sold the car?” “Yes.” “Why didn’t you say?” “If I told you, you’d think I was tying you down.” “If you don’t tell me, I still think you’re tying me down.”

Silence. The pencil turned once. “I won’t decide for you. Tell me what I should do.”

She looked at him. He had never asked before. Before, he finished the drawings and had her sign. She walked to the entryway. Keys. Label. She picked them up, held them tight. “First, give me back my keys.” “They’re already yours.” “I know.” She put them in her bag. At the door, she looked back. “See you tomorrow.”

He nodded. She left. The door closed. He went back to the model room. A dry towel lay by the door. The rain had stopped. A new leaf on the pothos. He filled a cup with water. Water seeped from the bottom. A ring on the table. He wiped it away.