When he pursued me, he was as hard as iron.

I casually said I wanted to eat the wonton from the restaurant in the east of the city,
he rode his electric bike for forty minutes to buy it,
and delivered it steaming to the bottom of my building.
I told him not to be so good to me,
he said I was worth it.
Later, he softened.
Not physically soft, but the part of his heart that was dead was gone.
He forgot my birthday, saying he was in a meeting.
When I had a fever of thirty-nine degrees,
he told me to drink hot water.
I asked him if he still loved me,
he said why are you so sensitive.
I thought he was just tired.
Until I saw another bowl of wonton on his phone—
not from the east of the city, but from a neighboring city.
He drove two hundred kilometers to deliver it,
and even took a photo after dropping it off downstairs.
I stared at that photo for a long time,
and realized he had changed cars.
Not that electric bike anymore.
It was a Porsche I’d never sat in before.
He still acted tough in front of her.
Not physically tough, but the part of his heart that was soft hadn’t been worn down.
Just like he was with me back then.
I didn’t make a fuss.
I took out the packaging of the wonton he gave me back then,
and pressed it under my pillow.
Today is his birthday.
He bought her a cake,
and I bought him an urn.
Empty.
Placed on his car roof,
with a note next to it: No need to be tough anymore.
This is the last tenderness I give you.