My best friend. Every summer, she argues with her boyfriend three times. The reason is always the same: the air conditioner temperature.

She’s afraid of heat—twenty degrees. He’s afraid of cold—twenty-six degrees.
They fight over the remote control. In the end, one sleeps on one side. She pulls the blanket over herself and lets the fan blow; he wears long sleeves and wraps himself in a blanket.
This year, they split up.
He moved in with me. On the first night, she set the air conditioner, lay down, then sat back up again.
“He’s never said why he’s afraid of the cold.”
She heard it from his brother.
He had a pneumothorax surgery—back in high school. A third of his lung was removed. The doctor said that, for the rest of his life, his respiratory tract would be more sensitive than other people’s. Just a gust of cold wind, and he coughs.
We’d been together for three years. Not a single word about it.
Every time they fight over the remote, he only says: I’m just afraid of the cold.
She sat there through the whole night.
The next day, she bought a palm-leaf fan—an old-fashioned one, woven from brown palm leaves. She said that when she was little, her grandmother fanned her just like this. One wave after another. The breeze was soft.
As she fanned herself, she stopped.
“The wind this fan blows out—he should be able to handle it.”
The fan was still in her hand.