Last year, I dated a girl who had just divorced. I was born in 1995, she in 2001. After dating for over a month, we started living together. We lived together for about six or seven months.

I spent about thirty to forty thousand on her. Honestly, I don’t think I wasted that money; after all, those months were quite comfortable. She’s good-looking, can cook, and keeps her home tidy.
The turning point was in the seventh month, when she started coming home late frequently, changing her excuse from “hanging out with friends” to “company overtime.”
The number of times she placed her phone screen face down went from two or three times a week to every day. I didn’t ask, I just lit her favorite scented candle in the ashtray, the flickering flame dancing.
That day was December 18th, I remember clearly because I needed to pay next season’s rent, 4,500 yuan.
I transferred it to her, and she didn’t accept it. She came back at eleven that night, smelling of a strange hotpot, not the one we usually go to.
“I’ve transferred the rent to you,” I said.
She responded with “mm,” then went into the bathroom, the water running for forty minutes.
When she came out, her hair was dripping wet, sitting on the edge of the bed drying her hair, her back to me.
“My mom’s sick, might have to go back for a while,” she said quickly, like reciting lines.
I glanced at the bedside table; her skincare products were two bottles short.
“How long?”
“Not sure, maybe… not coming back,” she finally turned around, her eyes on the floor.
“You can live here alone, or cancel the lease. I don’t want my deposit anymore.”
I didn’t say anything, walked to the kitchen, washed the dishes she hadn’t cleaned after lunch one by one, dried them, and put them in the sterilizer.
Pressed the switch, the sterilizer emitted a low hum, the red light on. It needed 59 minutes.
The water was cold, stinging a bit when I rinsed my hands.
She started packing her luggage, a 28-inch suitcase, packed full.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching her fold and refold the coat I gave her from the wardrobe, finally tucking it into the bottom.
The sound of her zipping up the suitcase was especially loud in the quiet night.
“That money…” she suddenly spoke softly.
“What money?” I asked.
“The three or four thousand you spent. I… I don’t have it now.”
I went back to the living room, took an old notebook from the drawer, flipped to the middle page, and handed it to her.
There were no sweet words, only a few lines of numbers:
September 7th, her dad was hospitalized, I transferred 8,000;
October 23rd, she said she wanted to learn baking, bought an oven and ingredients for 3,700;
November, her phone broke, I paid in installments to replace it, down payment 2,200…
All sorts of expenses, with a total written in pencil at the bottom: 32,800.
She looked at the notebook, her fingers turning white from gripping it.
“Do you remember this?”
“Just keeping track, for myself,” I took the notebook back, closed it.
“I don’t plan to ask for it.”
Those months, she cooked the meals, cleaned the floors, I came home from overtime to hot soup.
32,800 divided by 210 days, averaging 156 yuan a day.
Even hiring a nanny wouldn’t be enough.
Her suitcase wheels rolled over the floor, reaching the door.
She looked back at me, her eyes complicated, finally said nothing, and opened the door to leave.
The hallway motion-activated light flickered on and off.
I closed the door, locked it.
Back in the kitchen, the sterilizer’s red light was still on, showing 23 minutes remaining.
I opened the fridge, still had her half-bag of dumplings, chive and egg filling.
I disliked the smell, but she loved them.
I counted—23 dumplings.
Boiled water, dropped in the dumplings, watched them float and sink in the boiling water.
After eating the dumplings, the sterilizer beeped, the green light turned on.
I opened the cabinet, hot steam and the scent of porcelain hit me.
The bowls were very hot; I took them out with my bare hands, placed them back in the cabinet one by one.
The burning pain in my fingertips was clear and real.
Later, I heard she went back shortly after, and remarried her ex-husband.
Friends cursed and scolded on my behalf, I just extinguished the cigarette in that already burned-down scented candle.
I never mentioned that thirty to forty thousand again.
It was like those hot meals, clean shirts, and a light shining late at night—consumed, and fulfilled its purpose.
People can’t count the days, not the money—only the days.
When the days are over, they’re truly over.
What’s left is your own.