I Couldn't Promise Her a Future, So She Left

She left without taking much, except for the calendar we bought together.

It was the first day of the new year. She rolled up the calendar, placed it in her bag, and didn't ask if I wanted to keep a page as a memento. She didn't say "take care" or "goodbye."

She simply said, "I don't want to flip through the calendar alone anymore."

This was my fourth failed relationship.

I'm twenty-nine.

Honestly, I can't quite recall why we got together in the first place.

We reconnected at a class reunion, both laughing and saying, "You've changed, but somehow, you haven't."

We added each other on WeChat, started chatting the next day, and a month later, we were together.

She was the type who had everything planned.

Savings spreadsheets, workout schedules, a three-year career plan.

Even our trips were color-coded: fast-paced, moderate, and leisurely routes.

She said she appreciated my "stability," that I wasn't the kind of guy who made her feel insecure.

I smiled without responding.

I knew I wasn't stable; I just didn't have the energy to fluctuate.

Six months into our relationship, she brought up "buying a house."

She wasn't pressuring me to purchase one; she just asked if I'd ever thought about "settling down in the city."

I said I hadn't. She was silent for about ten seconds before softly saying, "Are you always this vague about the future?"

I replied, "It's not vagueness; I genuinely can't see it."

Growing up, I never thought about what the future would look like.

My mom was the kind who never informed me of plans in advance.

She'd forget to sign my permission slips for school trips, and when it came time to choose a high school, she told me to copy our neighbor's choices.

Meals at home had no schedule; we cooked whenever we felt hungry.

I got used to taking things one step at a time and learned not to "hope too much."

Because when you have hope, disappointment hits harder.

I didn't want to be disappointed again.

The night before she left, we didn't argue, nor did anything significant happen.

She just said, "I've realized I'm the only one thinking about our future."

As she applied hand cream, she softly added, "Like next year, whether we should buy a house, or if you want kids."

"When I'm the only one pondering these things, it feels especially cold."

I didn't know how to respond.

I said, "We've only been together for six months; talking about this feels too soon."

She laughed, "I'm not asking you to decide right now; I just want to know if you've ever thought about it."

I was silent. I had thought about it. But every time the word "future" crossed my mind, I felt a knot in my chest.

It wasn't that I didn't want it; I was just scared.

Scared of making promises, fearing that once spoken, they'd be broken.

Scared that if I agreed to "we can," we'd drift apart six months later.

Scared that I'd think "there's still time," only to find out there wasn't.

After she left, I went grocery shopping alone and saw a sign that read "Spring Festival Specials."

That's when I realized the new year had truly begun.

Families were discussing travel plans, how to buy a house, and when their kids would start kindergarten.

Meanwhile, I stood in front of the freezer, debating whether to buy a pack of eight or sixteen dumplings.

Because I didn't know whether to plan for one or two people.

That night, I returned home and opened my laptop. The "mortgage calculator" webpage was still open.

I hovered over the "X" button, hesitated for a second, then opened a new tab and searched: "How to make a rented apartment feel more like home?"

This time, I didn't close it immediately.

People often say that when someone starts fearing the future, it means they've truly grown up.

I'm not sure if that's true.

But I do know that after my fourth heartbreak, I began contemplating things I never dared to before.

Like, if one day, I muster the courage to tell someone, "I want to build a life with you,"

Will that be the day I finally write my future on a calendar?

Not a calendar someone else gave me, not the one she took.

But one I picked out myself, flipping to the first page and writing:

"Starting today, I'm willing to try believing in tomorrow."