Ling Momo quickly pulled out the charger she always carried with her from her bag, plugged it into the power source, and after a while, her phone automatically powered on.
Ling Momo swiped on her phone a couple of times before realizing that she had uninstalled WeChat a long time ago because she wanted to cut off all ties with Enson, so she proceeded to download it again. Read full story at Novᴇl_Fire(.)net
Thanks to the citywide Wifi of City X, the download was remarkably fast, taking only a few dozen seconds before a dialogue box popped up on her phone, notifying her that WeChat had finished downloading. Ling Momo tapped on it, entered, took a deep breath, and gently keyed in her username and password to log into WeChat.
Many messages started coming in one after another, causing her phone to continually "ding" with notifications. Ling Momo stared at the screen, reading. Most were from old WeChat friends. She deleted them one by one until, finally, a system message caught her eye. She clicked on it and saw Enson’s name inside. A familiar stir of emotion swiftly surged through her heart, and she quickly read the message.
The first message from Enson was the most recent, dated about two months back, on the day she began shooting the music video. Ling Momo’s fingers trembled slightly as she scanned down the list of messages, all sent by Enson, until she reached the last one and started reading from there back up to the top.
The content of the last message was: "Enson has sent a friend request, with a note: ’Momo, I’m sorry. Let’s have a proper talk!’"
Ling Momo’s heart quivered slightly. She couldn’t quite discern her feelings at the moment. He said he wanted to talk. But talk about what?
On that night, hadn’t he made his feelings crystal clear with his rough treatment of her?
Was he telling her that she needed to understand her place?
Her already sorrowful heart sank even further. Her vision blurred as she continued to read the line in front of her: "Enson has sent a friend request, with a note: ’Momo, are you angry? I am truly sorry about that night. If you see this, could you please reply?’"
What right did she have to be angry? It was a consensual contract of selling oneself. She had taken the benefits, and therefore she had to do the work. What he did to her was not unreasonable compared to other women who sold themselves.
Ling Momo blinked and kept reading the next message: "Enson has sent a friend request, with a note: ’Momo, I am truly sorry. I was troubled by some things during that period and neglected you. If you really want to see me, let’s arrange a time, okay?’"
"Enson has sent a friend request, with a note: ’Momo, I’m worried about you.’"
The content of the subsequent messages was mostly the same, reminiscent of their past conversations, like those he used to send at around ten o’clock at night—a simple "Good night, have a good rest."
There were more than a dozen of these. As Ling Momo read on, the corners of her mouth subtly twitched and her eyes began to sting, craving to cry. So, she forced a smile, strained and stiff.
Until she read the very last message, she could no longer hold back the tears welling up: "Enson has sent a friend request, with a note: ’I’m sending you the scenery of the whole world, hoping you can forgive me.’"