Three Months Before the Wedding, He Laid That Shopping List on the Table

When A-Kai slid the wedding invitation samples back into the envelope, he pressed down twice on the seal. In three months, he would be moving into a new home, and the spouse's name on the household registration would be someone else's. His fiancée, Xiao-Min, called from the kitchen for him to try the wedding cakes. He answered yes, but stayed standing at the desk without moving. In the drawer was a folded piece of paper he had written a few days earlier while Xiao-Min was in the shower. On it were only a few lines: physical exam, teeth, insurance beneficiary, and one last item he had crossed out with a ballpoint pen and then rewritten—health supplements.

The reason he crossed it out was simple: he didn't know if it counted as an item. The year he divorced, he was forty-two. What his ex-wife took wasn't just half the house—it was his entire sense of judgment about his own body. Over the years he'd developed habits: swallow a B-complex before meetings, drink a bottle of clam essence after business dinners, and line up five or six bottles of different colors along the fridge door. The first time Xiao-Min opened that fridge, she laughed and said, is this a pharmacy or a kitchen? He laughed too, but didn't tell her that half those bottles were things he'd randomly clicked on shopping sites in the middle of the night.

What really made him stop was his good friend Lao-Zhou. That night the two were drinking beer on the balcony. A-Kai had only meant to ask about the remarriage process, but as he talked, he drifted elsewhere. He said, I'm not afraid of getting married—I'm afraid I'm not in good shape. Lao-Zhou didn't respond right away. He crushed a peanut shell and tossed it into the bag, then after a moment said, The last time you mentioned your back hurting was last year. Have you gone to get it checked yet? A-Kai said no. Lao-Zhou said, Then are you buying those things to buy peace of mind, or to buy answers?

That sentence stuck like a thorn. Back in the room, A-Kai called Xiao-Min over to the desk and pushed the list toward her. After reading it, she pointed at the crossed-out line and asked, What's this? He told her honestly: he'd seen people online discussing Japanese Tengsu, making it sound amazing. He'd spent several nights researching, and the more he looked, the more confused he got. Some pages were densely written; others left only a single line saying to DM for inquiries. He couldn't tell what was information and what was sales talk. Xiao-Min didn't get angry. She just said, Then why didn't you ask me first? A-Kai was stunned. He realized that for months he'd been talking to the search bar, but not to the person who was about to sleep in the same bed as him.

Afterward, they did something very ordinary. Xiao-Min moved all the bottles and jars from A-Kai's fridge onto the dining table, took out her phone, and looked up the ingredient labels and permit numbers on each package one by one. The ones she couldn't find, she set aside; the ones she could, she lined up in a row. She said, It's not that you can't take these, but you need to know what you're taking. Only then did A-Kai admit that he couldn't even say what dosage his daily B-complex was. Xiao-Min asked again, When was your last health check? He checked his calendar and found it had been over two years ago—the report was still tucked in an old briefcase, unopened.

The following week, he went to a lab near his home, ran through the tests he needed, and put those few bottles of supplements from the list into a ziplock bag to bring along. The nurse at the counter didn't ask much—she only reminded him that if he was taking anything long-term, he should write it clearly on a list and show it to the doctor at the follow-up. A-Kai sat in the waiting area. A man next to him was also filling out forms. They glanced at each other, neither spoke, but that feeling of "so it's not just me" relaxed him more than any online article could. After the results came out, some numbers needed monitoring. The doctor asked him to adjust his daily routine first and schedule the follow-ups that were due—but didn't tell him to buy anything immediately.

On the way home, he called Lao-Zhou and said the checkup was done and he'd gotten an earful. Lao-Zhou laughed on the other end and said, Getting scolded is a good thing—it means someone still cares enough to scold you. A-Kai said he'd originally thought remarriage meant covering up the past. Only now did he understand it meant bringing the past into the new life together—what needed facing still needed facing. He copied the list out again. This time there were no cross-outs. The last item read: If there's a problem, ask a person first—don't ask the search bar.

Two weeks before the wedding, Xiao-Min stuck a note on the fridge door: "I've arranged your bottles for you. Remember to check the expiration date on the new one." A-Kai looked at that note and smiled for a long time. He hadn't become a different person. His back still ached. He still got nervous before meetings. But he knew that next time he felt uneasy, he could sit down and talk to Xiao-Min first—instead of typing and deleting keywords alone in front of a screen at midnight. That list was later put in the top drawer, together with the wedding invitations, like two things of equal importance.