How many times must a heart be disappointed before it becomes a desert?

How many times must a heart be disappointed before it becomes a desert? She once thought love was a spring in the desert, until he forgot her birthday for the fourth time. The seventh time he stormed out after an argument, the thirteenth time he smiled at his phone screen but remained silent towards her. Later, she stopped counting, only to find herself standing in front of the mirror one day, unable to recognize the woman whose eyes were devoid of tears.

The first time was probably when she was twenty-three. He forgot her birthday. Actually, not entirely. After midnight, he sent a message, "Happy birthday, baby," along with a default cake emoji. She had just started working then, sharing a cramped rented apartment with him. On the kitchen counter sat a small cream cake she had bought for herself after get off work, with a single slender candle. The light from the phone screen illuminated her expectant face, then dimmed again. He said he was working overtime, too busy. Looking at those words, somewhere in her chest, a soft "click" sounded, as if something extremely subtle had cracked, leaving an almost invisible fissure. She ate the cake; the cream was a little too rich. He came home late at night, bringing with him the chill of the outside air. He hugged her from behind, kissed her earlobe, and said he would make it up to her next time. She turned around in his arms, hugged him back, buried her face in his shoulder, sniffed, and said it was okay. Truly, at that moment, she felt it was okay. Love is a spring in the desert, she thought. Even a spring can be temporarily covered by sandstorms, but the source remains, the sweetness remains.

But the sandstorms grew fiercer with each passing day. By the fourth time he forgot her birthday, they had moved into a house they had bought with a loan. She had hinted, explicitly stated, and even sent him the links to the restaurants she wanted to go to a week in advance. That day, she deliberately left work early, changed into the dress he had complimented, and sat in the gradually darkening living room. From dusk till nightfall. She couldn't reach him by phone. He came home at eleven at night, reeking of alcohol. Seeing her silent on the sofa, he paused, then slapped his forehead. "Damn! I completely forgot! This lousy project is killing me..." His frustration seemed so real, his irritation so real. So real that her disappointment seemed a little out of place, a bit of an overreaction. That night, she didn't argue or make a scene. Even when he leaned in to try and comfort her with a kiss, she turned her face away calmly and said, "Go take a shower, you smell." He grumbled as he went to the bathroom. She sat there, listening to the rushing water, and for the first time clearly felt that the spring called "love" seemed to have dropped a little, revealing a damp, unsightly muddy riverbed.

Then came the argument. About the mortgage, about housework, about his socks always lying around, about who should pick up his suddenly sick mother. The initial arguments were fierce; both were determined to drive their own logic into the other's mind like nails. Their voices were harsh, their words like knives, cutting back and forth. The seventh time, perhaps the eighth? She couldn't remember, only that the argument had started ridiculously—the trash can wasn't lined with a bag. But the accumulated exhaustion and resentment, like volcanic lava, finally found a weak outlet and erupted violently. She spoke, her whole body trembling, tears streaming down her face. He initially tried to reason with her, but later his face turned ashen, his lips pressed into a stiff line. As she cried out, "You don't care about my feelings at all," he grabbed the car keys from the coffee table, turned, and slammed the heavy security door shut with a deafening crash; the entire wall seemed to tremble.

After the loud bang, there was a deathly silence. She was rooted to the spot by the "bang," forgetting even to sob. Her ears rang, drowning out the bustling traffic outside the window. This time, it wasn't a subtle "crack" in her chest, but a dull "boom," as if some supporting beam had broken, and sand and gravel were falling, hitting her heart with a dull ache. The spring was blocked by fallen rocks, the water flow became weak and murky.

Later, even the arguments became rare. His time at home increasingly felt like a formality. His body was there, but his soul was detached. The most common scene was him slumped on the sofa, the soft glow of his phone screen illuminating his expressionless face, his thumb rapidly swiping, occasionally a familiar smile, one he hadn't shown her in a long time, would appear at the corner of his mouth. The smile was faint, but real. Was it for a joke on the screen, a video, or… someone?

The thirteenth time. She remembered the number. That day was their wedding anniversary; she didn't remind him. In the evening, she served the carefully prepared dinner. He sat down, ate a few bites, and praised, "It tastes good." Then, his phone screen lit up. He glanced at it, and his fingers began to tap rapidly. For a moment, the only sounds on the table were the soft clatter of the bowls and chopsticks and the faint "tap-tap" of his typing. She put down her chopsticks, looking at his lowered, focused eyes and the unconscious, relaxed gentleness on his face. She suddenly spoke, her voice soft, as if afraid of disturbing something: "Today... is our seventh wedding anniversary." He hummed in response, not even looking up, his thumb still clicking on the screen. A few seconds later, perhaps after sending the message, he suddenly realized, jerking up: "Ah? Oh! Right! My memory..." His apology was superficial, his eyes still lingering with the pleasant warmth of their earlier interaction on the screen—a warmth that felt completely out of place with her and this "anniversary." She smiled and said, "It's alright, eat quickly, the food's getting cold." At that moment, she clearly felt the last, feeble flow of the wellspring in her heart cease. Not a sudden collapse, but a silent, solidified, dried up. Not a single drop could seep out again. It turns out that the desolation of the heart isn't ultimately marked by anger or tears, but by silence, by an extreme, desolate calm.

She stopped counting; she couldn't count anymore, and there was no need. The days passed like faded old cotton cloth, dryly turning over one by one. She went to work as usual, did housework, and maintained necessary, superficial communication with him. Like strangers sharing a room, tacitly adhering to some kind of agreement. She thought she had adapted to this desert-like state, until that ordinary, unexpected morning. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror brushing her teeth, the electric toothbrush emitting a monotonous buzz. She spat out the foam, rinsed her mouth, and picked up a towel to dry her face. She glanced up, and her eyes met her reflection. She froze. The woman in the mirror had neatly combed hair, her skin was fine, and there were fine lines at the corners of her eyes, but they weren't obvious. Everything looked normal, even presentable. But those eyes… whose eyes were they?

Once, those were eyes bathed in love, bright and sparkling, everything they saw seemed to shimmer with a soft light. When they looked at him, they were like two clear springs, shimmering and sparkling. Now, those springs are gone. Only a dried-up, empty lakebed remains, devoid of ripples, reflections, and even emotion—just a heavy, gray, indifferent expanse. Like a Gobi stone polished by years of wind and sand, rough and dull, it absorbs all light, reflecting no brilliance whatsoever. She leaned close to the mirror, almost pressing it against the cold glass, staring intently at those eyes. Trying to find a trace of familiarity, a hint of moisture, a spark of life that belonged to "her." Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Only a barren wasteland, spreading from the depths of their eyes, enveloping their entire face. She raised her hand, her fingertips trembling, and gently touched the mirror, touched those desolate eyes.

So this is how a heart becomes a desert. It wasn't destroyed by a sudden disaster, but rather eroded, peeled away, and dried up little by little, day by day, time by time, in a slow, relentless sandstorm called "disappointment." Every unnoticed tear evaporated silently underground; every swallowed grievance turned into a hardened, cracked clod of earth; every silent compromise caused a patch of green vegetation to die. Until all moisture was squeezed out, all softness was dried by the wind, and all expectation was ground into sand. In the end, standing before the mirror was a woman she couldn't even recognize, her eyes devoid of all moisture. She slowly lowered her hand; the bathroom was eerily quiet, save for the faint, distant sound of water running from the upstairs neighbor. The sunlight outside was bright, slanting in a small patch, shining brightly on the tiles, but unable to penetrate her eyes. That heart, that desert, silently existed within this still breathing, still moving body. It had completed its final, and most complete, transformation.

My teachers and friends continue to offer their silent help and encouragement! I am deeply grateful for their kindness, their tireless and generous comments and attention, and I appreciate the warmth in their words! May your words always bring warmth, may your hard work be rewarded, and may your future be filled with blooming flowers.