The Year We Waited for the Fireworks

On the last working day before Chinese New Year, Shanghai felt like it was holding its breath. Offices emptied early. Elevators filled with suitcases instead of laptops. Even the air seemed lighter, as if the city itself was preparing to be left behind.

Chen Yu stayed.

She always did.

The café on Wuyuan Road was quiet by afternoon. Only one table was occupied, a man reading a paperback while his tea went cold. Chen Yu wiped the counter slowly, listening to the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic. Red paper cuttings clung to the windows. Someone had taped a crooked “福” upside down on the door.

Her mother had called that morning.

“Come home,” she said, like she said every year. “The house feels too big without you.”

Chen Yu promised she would think about it. She did not say what she never said out loud. That the quiet suited her. That after her divorce, the idea of reunion dinners and questions felt heavier than loneliness.

The bell above the door rang.

He came in with a rush of cold air, cheeks pink, scarf half undone. Chen Yu recognized him instantly, even though she had not seen him in nearly ten years.

“Sorry,” he said, shaking snow from his coat. “Are you still open?”

She stared.

“Zhou Liang?” she said.

He looked up. His eyes widened. “Chen Yu?”

They stood there, frozen in the middle of the café, until both of them laughed at the same time. It felt strange and familiar, like picking up a song you once knew by heart.

“I thought you were in Canada,” she said.

“I was,” he replied. “Came back last year.”

He sat at the counter, still smiling, like he was afraid she might disappear if he looked away. Chen Yu poured him hot tea without asking. She remembered how he took it. No sugar.

They had been neighbors once, in a narrow lane filled with bicycles and hanging laundry. As kids, they shared popsicles in summer and roasted sweet potatoes in winter. He left first, then she did. Life scattered them in different directions.

“I walk past here sometimes,” Zhou Liang said. “I never imagined you owned it.”

“It was my aunt’s,” Chen Yu said. “She retired. I stayed.”

Outside, a delivery truck drove by, blasting a New Year song. Zhou Liang tapped the counter lightly.

“Are you going home for the holiday?” he asked.

She shook her head. “You?”

He hesitated. “I was supposed to. But my ticket’s for after the Lantern Festival.”

She nodded, understanding more than she said.

They talked until the sky darkened. About work. About mistakes. About the strange relief of getting older and caring less about explaining yourself. When Chen Yu locked the door, Zhou Liang walked her home, their shoulders brushing occasionally.

Before they parted, he said, “Can I come by again?”

She smiled. “We’re open every day.”

Chinese New Year arrived quietly for them. No loud family dinners. No long-distance trains. Just the café, warm and glowing against the winter gray.

On New Year’s Eve, Zhou Liang brought dumplings from a nearby shop. They ate behind the counter, legs dangling off stools. At midnight, firecrackers popped in the distance, muted by the buildings.

“Happy New Year,” he said.

“Happy New Year,” she replied.

The next days settled into a gentle routine. He came every morning. Sometimes he brought oranges. Sometimes just himself. He helped her hang lanterns. He fixed a loose shelf without being asked. When business slowed, they talked.

One afternoon, snow fell, soft and steady. The street turned white. Zhou Liang stood by the window.

“Do you remember,” he said, “the year we waited all night for fireworks that never came?”

Chen Yu laughed. “Your father said the city canceled them.”

“And we didn’t believe him.”

“So we stayed on the roof until we froze.”

He looked at her. “I liked that night.”

She did too, though she had never said it.

On the fifth day of the New Year, Chen Yu’s mother called again.

“You sound different,” her mother said. “Are you happy?”

Chen Yu glanced across the café. Zhou Liang was adjusting a lantern, standing on tiptoe.

“Yes,” she said, surprised at how true it felt.

The Lantern Festival arrived with clear skies. The city organized a small celebration by the river. Zhou Liang and Chen Yu walked there together, hands brushing but not yet holding.

Lanterns floated on the water, carrying wishes written in careful ink. Children ran past them, laughing.

Zhou Liang stopped. “I should tell you something.”

She waited.

“When I left,” he said, “I thought leaving was the same as moving forward. But some things don’t move unless you choose them.”

Her heart beat faster. “What are you choosing now?”

He took her hand, gently, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Staying,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”

Chen Yu looked at the river, at the lanterns rising one by one. She thought of years spent alone, convincing herself it was enough. She thought of warmth returning slowly, unexpectedly.

“Stay,” she said.

Fireworks burst above them, bright and sudden. The reflections danced across the water, across their faces.

Zhou Liang squeezed her hand. “We waited a long time,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied, leaning into him as the night bloomed with light. “But we’re right on time.”