The Most Beautiful Love Story 2
The town was small; it didn’t take more than a few hours to walk from the east end to the west end. Most people in the town knew each other, and even if they didn’t, they’d still nod and greet each other when they met. Strangers were rare in the town, and when one appeared, it was big news.
In the early winter of that year, I walked through the snow, holding my books, heading to a classmate’s house to ask about homework. Her house was some distance from mine, and I had to pass through a small forest. The forest was now covered with a thin layer of fog, making it look like a beautiful fairy tale world. I couldn’t help but stop and listen as I heard a melodious tune coming from the forest. Curious, I walked in.
A boy in white clothes, with his eyes closed, was absorbed in his music. It was my first time hearing someone play the harmonica. I felt a mix of novelty, admiration, and a touch of awe. I could tell the boy didn’t belong to the town. Could he be a forest sprite or an angel who had accidentally wandered into the human world? I wondered and imagined, but I didn’t dare to get closer to confirm, fearing that mundane sounds would disturb his peace.
So, I quietly retreated from the forest, but the beautiful melody of the harmonica lingered deeply in my mind.
That day, I forgot my original purpose and ran back home with a racing heart. I hid in my own world, drawing the boy over and over again on paper. The more I drew, the more confused my heart became because none of the drawings captured his spirit.
Looking at the crumpled papers scattered all over, I sighed. My mind was a mess. I even thought about going back to the forest to see him again, to remember his face clearly, to confirm if he was truly a sprite.
But I couldn’t go. My mother pushed open the door to my world and saw the scattered papers. She was furious. When she opened the papers and saw the poorly drawn boy, she became even angrier. Her curses and punches fell heavily on me as if I had committed an unforgivable crime.
I was already grown up. After this winter, I would turn seventeen. But in my mother’s eyes, I was still a child, like a baby in swaddling clothes, needing her control over my body, mind, and soul.
I was used to my mother’s fists. She was a quick-tempered person who wouldn’t let you explain. She believed her fists were the best and most convincing tool. When she got tired of hitting and squatted beside me, panting, she asked, “Who is this boy?”
“I don’t know!” I said.
“Didn’t hurt you, huh? Let me tell you, if you don’t study well and start dating, I’ll twist your head off,” my mother almost shouted at me.
“Okay!” I answered, thinking that the boy didn’t belong here anyway, and certainly not to me.
My mother mumbled as she left. She no longer looked as fierce as before, but more aged. Age is a woman’s greatest enemy, especially for women who get angry often. I watched my mother’s back and sighed inwardly.
After that day, I would always pause and look into the forest whenever I passed by. The snow had stopped, the music was gone, and the boy was hidden in the forest, out of sight. My disappointment grew day by day. Was this love that had taken root in my heart? But doesn’t love require two people to be in love?
Where was my other half? I gently asked the forest, but its response was only the wind’s lament. I asked the land, but it was hard and silent. I couldn’t ask my classmates or teachers; they’d think I was crazy. Love, at seventeen, is a secret thing, like a shadow under the sun, only vaguely following behind.
Because of my low spirits, my grades were slipping. I could see the confusion in my teachers’ eyes and the anger in my mother’s, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that boy who played the harmonica. I wondered if he could play the melody of love.
I was confused for an entire semester until I saw the boy again and heard his harmonica. He was still playing with his eyes closed, looking very focused. I stood there foolishly watching him. When he finished a song, he stopped but didn’t open his eyes, so I curiously looked closer.
My friend pinched my arm and said, “Sounds good, right? He’s my cousin, born blind. Such a pity.”
I nodded dumbly. Some answers are more disappointing than not knowing. This answer made me want to cry and even took away my courage to approach him.
As I turned away, I thought that seventeen was indeed not the right age for love.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
