The Ex-Girlfriend

The air conditioner in the café was freezing. Chen Guohao was wearing his only shirt without holes, sitting by the window, his palms completely sweaty.

Zhuang Yating was fifteen minutes late. He stared at the bank balance screenshot on his phone: 955,000,000—so many zeros. He counted them every day just to make sure it wasn’t a dream.

When she walked in, he almost didn’t recognize her. She’d cut her hair short, dyed it chestnut brown, and was wearing a white dress. She looked more… ordinary than before. Not ugly—just the kind of person you’d glance at twice on the street and then forget.

“Why here?” she asked as she sat down, tossing her bag onto the chair next to her, her tone like she was talking to a client she barely knew. “There’s a Starbucks right downstairs from my building.”

“The coffee’s better here,” Chen Guohao said. Truth was, he’d just picked a random place off Google Maps—four stars.

A server came over. Zhuang Yating ordered a latte. Chen Guohao said, “Same.” Once the server was gone, he pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and slid it to the middle of the table.

“Look at this.”

Zhuang Yating glanced down. Her expression shifted from confusion to shock, then to something he couldn’t quite name—the look someone gets when they see someone else win the lottery, not congratulations first, but a calculation of how they’re connected.

“Is this real?” Her voice dropped.

“After taxes, 955 million.” Chen Guohao leaned back, trying to look like a rich guy. “I just picked it up this morning.”

She didn’t say anything. She just stared at the string of numbers for a long time. Watching her face, Chen Guohao felt that itchy spot inside him that had been bugging him for ages finally get scratched—he could finally make someone regret it.

“How much does your husband make a month?” he asked.

“…Why?”

“I’m asking. How much does he make a month?”

Zhuang Yating didn’t answer, but her face told him everything—probably thirty or forty thousand, pretty much the same number she’d thrown at him back when she said he didn’t make enough.

Chen Guohao leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I can make him disappear.”

“What do you mean?”

“Disappear. Isn’t he a salesman at XX Company? I can send someone to their office to ‘talk,’ get him fired. Or even worse—”

“Chen Guohao.” She cut him off. “What do you actually want?”

What did he want? He’d thought about that a lot. Ever since he claimed the prize, he’d been wondering what to do with the money. Buy a house? Too boring. Buy a car? He didn’t even have a driver’s license. Go abroad? He didn’t even know what a passport looked like.

The only thing he wanted was to make everyone who looked down on him regret it.

And Zhuang Yating was the first.

“Come back,” he said. “Divorce him. Come back to me. I’ll take care of you.”

He thought he’d feel amazing saying that. Like some alpha CEO in a movie, throwing a check on the table and saying, “You’re mine.” But when he actually said it, his voice trembled a little, and he realized he couldn’t look her in the eye.

Zhuang Yating didn’t answer right away. She picked up her latte, took a sip, then set it down, looking at him with an expression he’d never seen before—not touched, not regretful, not even disgusted. It was… calculating.

“How much are you giving me?” she asked.

“What?”

“You want me back. There has to be a number, right?” Her tone was calm, like she was negotiating a business deal. “You’ve got nine hundred million now. How much are you planning to give me?”

Chen Guohao froze. This wasn’t the script he’d written. He thought she’d cry, say she was sorry for leaving him, get on her knees and beg for forgiveness. But no. She was negotiating the price.

“…One million,” he blurted out, and immediately regretted it—he should’ve said ten million, to make himself look generous.

Zhuang Yating laughed. Not mocking—it was the kind of laugh that said, “Yeah, that’s still you.”

“Chen Guohao, you know what? Your biggest problem isn’t being broke. It’s that you never know what’s going on.” She grabbed her bag and stood up. “You think money can buy me back? You’re wrong. I left you back then not because you were poor. I left because you were pathetic.”

She turned to leave. Chen Guohao panicked, reached out, and grabbed her wrist.

“Wait—”

“Let go.”

“I’ll transfer you the money.” He pulled out his phone and opened the banking app. “One million. Right now. You don’t even have to come back. Just… just think of it as compensation.”

Zhuang Yating stopped and looked back at him. Her eyes were complicated—half pity, half contempt. But she didn’t walk away.

She sat back down.

Chen Guohao opened the banking app in front of her. He fumbled with it, hit the wrong buttons a few times, finally typed in the amount—but the screen flashed red: “Daily transfer limit for non-designated accounts: NT$50,000.” He froze for a second, then transferred the fifty thousand first. The remaining 950,000, he said he’d go to the bank and do a counter transfer that afternoon. Zhuang Yating got the notification for the fifty thousand, glanced at it, then put her phone back in her bag.

“Thanks,” she said, her tone as flat as if she were saying, “Nice weather today.”

“That’s it?” Chen Guohao asked. “Nothing else to say?”

Zhuang Yating thought for a moment. “You really have changed.”

“Rich?”

“More pathetic.”

She stood up. This time she actually left. At the door, she turned back, opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, then closed it, pushed the door open, and walked out.

Chen Guohao sat alone in the café, staring at her latte—barely touched. Suddenly he felt empty.

He thought he’d won.

He pulled out his phone and checked her Instagram. She hadn’t blocked him. He refreshed a few times. Fifteen minutes later, she posted a story: a photo of hotpot, a glasses-wearing guy across from her, grinning goofily. Caption: “Ran into a lunatic today, but hubby says it’s okay—we’re going to eat something nice.”

He stared at that story for a long time.

Lunatic. She called him a lunatic.

He turned off his phone, paid the bill, and walked out of the café. The sun was blazing outside. He stood under the awning, suddenly not knowing where to go.

Finally, he flagged down a cab and went to the bank to handle the rest. Counter transfer of 950,000—no designated account needed, just a ton of forms and signatures. The teller asked if he wanted to set up a designated account for future transfers. He said no, this was the last time he’d ever transfer money to that person. After it was done, he went back to the rooftop extension.

He walked in. That mangy mutt from the alley—he’d taken it in, named it Afu on a whim. At least it had better luck than him. Afu was curled up in the corner. At the sound of the door, it lifted its head, gave him a look, then put its head back down.

“I’m home,” he said to the dog.

The dog ignored him.

He walked over, squatted in front of Afu, and reached out to pet its head. Afu flinched back, then sniffed his hand—the smell of the café, and Zhuang Yating’s perfume.

The dog backed up two steps.

“You too?” Chen Guohao gave a bitter smile.

He stood up, walked to the suitcase, opened it, and pulled out the metal box. Inside wasn’t money or a bankbook—it was a photocopy of the lottery ticket. He stared at the string of numbers. It suddenly felt absurd.

955,200,000.

He thought this money could buy him dignity. All he bought was an ex-girlfriend who called him a lunatic, and a dog that wouldn’t even let him sniff.

He closed the box, threw it back in the suitcase, and kicked it under the bed.

Afu was still huddled in the corner, eyes on him, tail tucked.

“Come here,” he said.

The dog didn’t move.

“I said come here.”

The dog hesitated, then crawled over slowly, sat down by his feet, but its body was still tense, ready to bolt.

Chen Guohao reached out and gently stroked its head. Afu didn’t pull away, but its body kept trembling.

“You know what?” he said to the dog. “You’re the only friend I have who won’t ask me for money.”

Afu licked his hand.

Suddenly Chen Guohao’s nose stung.

His phone buzzed. He picked it up. A message from Zhuang Yating: “Money received. Thanks. Don’t contact me again.”

He read it three times.

Then he opened her contact, his thumb hovering over the block button. It hovered for a long time. In the end, he didn’t press it. Couldn’t even block her. He was such a worthless piece of shit.

He muttered to the air: “Motherfucker.”

Afu flinched, backed into the corner, hit the wall, and let out a whimper.

“Not you,” Chen Guohao said softly. “Sorry.”

He sat down on the floor, back against the wall. Afu hesitated for a moment, then came over and rested its head on his knee.

He looked down at the mangy mutt—scars all over, fur patchy, always smelling weird.

But at least it was still here.

At least it wouldn’t leave because he had no money.

At least it wouldn’t call him a lunatic.

Chen Guohao stroked Afu’s head. Suddenly he remembered he hadn’t eaten lunch yet.

He went to the convenience store, bought a bento box, came back, heated it on the induction cooker, split it into two portions—one for Afu. The dog sniffed it, then started eating.

He crouched beside it, watching it eat, and suddenly said, “Afu, do you think I’m really that pathetic?”

The dog looked up at him, then went back to eating.

“Silence means yes.”

The dog farted.

Chen Guohao gave a wry smile. “Okay, okay, I know I stink.”

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at Taipei’s sky. Perfect weather, not a cloud in sight. But he felt like he was living in a giant tin box, suffocating.

His phone buzzed again. This time it was a bank deposit notification—the one million he’d sent today, fifty thousand online plus 950,000 counter transfer, every last cent, all withdrawn by Zhuang Yating.

He turned off the phone, lay down on the bed, and stared at the fluorescent light on the ceiling.

Afu finished eating, jumped onto the bed, curled up by his feet, and fell asleep.

He reached out and touched the dog’s body, feeling its warmth. Suddenly he felt a little less alone.

But only “a little.”

He closed his eyes and listened to the drip from the air conditioner outside the rooftop extension. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Just like his life—always leaking, never able to patch it up.