Something More Likely Than Winning the Lottery
My name is Naidong.
When I was born, it was said to be the coldest winter in fifty years. My mother said I was as small as a frog, and she was worried I wouldn’t survive the harsh winter, so she named me Naidong, which means “enduring winter.”
As a child, I was carefree and cheerful. When I was six, my aunt had a baby who looked all wrinkled like an old man. I felt sorry for him and shared what I thought was the best food with him.
However, my mother spanked me hard. When she was frantically pulling two sunflower seeds out of the “old man’s” mouth, I was already bawling in frustration. This was just one of many mischievous incidents of mine, yet my mother was remarkably patient, often turning a blind eye because she was always busy.
She worked as a set designer at a film studio. Essentially, she created backgrounds for filming. My mother was straightforward and would say she was just doing renovations. I often tagged along to the set to watch people act. When I was seventeen, I met a boy whom I swore was the most handsome person I’d ever seen, like he walked out of a painting.
But he seemed vaguely familiar. With his clear, refined features, he was the kind who would stand out in a crowd, so I shouldn’t have forgotten him unless I had seen him for just a fleeting 0.1 seconds.
In that scene, the boy had to say to his father, “You said you wouldn’t leave us,” and then start crying. The 15-second close-up on his face showed a truly delicate face, and tears started rolling down, getting bigger and heavier, like beans falling on his wrist.
I whispered to my mom, “This boy is a natural actor.”
My mom looked at me helplessly and said, “You are a natural foodie.”
But I was too lazy to argue with my mom because I was already lost in my thoughts. Where had I seen such a good-looking boy before?
[More Brain-wracking Than a Math Problem]
Five days after the shoot, I ran into him at the alleyway entrance.
The clouds were fiery red that evening, just like my flushed face. I could barely contain my racing heart as I watched him walk into the building I lived in, on the seventh floor. I had seen that place occupied by a couple who had since moved out. Unexpectedly, the new neighbor was him.
Finally, I remembered. Before moving in, he had visited once, and I had caught a glimpse from the window. He had been with a middle-aged man, likely his father.
Afterward, I saw his father much more often—a tall, thin man who crossed the alley every day with bags of soy milk, fried dough sticks, buns, and pancakes. Many times, I wanted to muster the courage to ask him, “How is your son doing?”
A month later, I realized I didn’t even know his name.
When I was seventeen, I liked to do sentimental things, such as keeping a locked diary. So I began to write pretentious sentences like, “His appearance is like a small light in my life, illuminating my dull heart like a summer flower house.”
My essays often became model readings in class. Unfortunately, my acne showed no signs of improvement. For the first time, I realized that being a clueless foodie was quite uninteresting.
Until one day, the boy was chased by a dog. He ran toward me with a pale face, but unfortunately, the dog bit his butt. At that moment, I wished I had a stick to hit the dog, but there was only a brick on the ground. I used the brick to drive the crazy dog away, and the boy weakly smiled at me and said, “Will I die?”
Of course, he wouldn’t die. How could I pine for him if he died? They say if bitten by a dog, you should wash the wound with soap and water repeatedly. Seeing the large hole in his jeans, I felt weak. It was the first time I had seen a boy’s b-butt…
He hastily urged me, “Hurry to the hospital, I might really die!”
I wanted to laugh. I’d never seen such a scared boy. When we finally got him to the hospital, he almost fainted at the sight of the needle. What would he do, I wondered, since rabies shots had to be administered several times. From the medical form, I learned his name. I said, “So your name is Bei Junchi?”
He nodded. Suddenly, I felt even more fond of him. Can you like someone because of a special name? I knew his name came from the ancient text “Tengwang Pavilion Preface,” “Heroes are like stars in the sky, brilliant talents.” His parents must have put a lot of thought into his name, unlike my mother, who named me Naidong—ridiculous.
After the dog-biting incident, Bei Junchi finally realized that the seemingly weak girl was quite manly, and I earned the title of tomboy.
But why wasn’t I happy?
He was an art student, taking professional performance classes three times a week, and we didn’t go to the same school. Every day, I got up early to wait in the hallway, pretending to meet him by chance. Secretly loving someone was probably more brain-wracking than a math problem.
One morning, I asked him, “I’ve never seen your mom around.”
He was silent for a while and then sighed softly, “She’s ill.”
[Getting Back on Track]
When I heard the bad news, it was during the summer vacation. They said that even in summer, the river water could be cold. When Bei Junchi’s mother jumped from the bridge, I wonder who she thought of in that moment.
Later, I saw photos of his mother. She was indeed a beauty. Even though she was no longer young, her serene and elegant demeanor was unforgettable.
I remember that morning. The sun was rising, the river was golden, and we stood in the stifling wind looking across the river. Bei Junchi cried silently. It was my first time facing such a manner of death, one I couldn’t comprehend. Bei Junchi told me his mother couldn’t endure the long-term pain anymore. How could such endless pain feel? She didn’t want to burden anyone anymore or be dragged into the hospital repeatedly.
For a once-beautiful person, this kind of living might be without dignity, right? These were all things Bei Junchi told me. He deeply regretted not noticing his mother’s suicidal tendencies. I wanted to give him a hug, but any comforting words seemed pale.
For the whole summer, Bei Junchi was very depressed. He slept until noon every day, with his father’s prepared meals already on the table. He ate, then went back to sleep. By evening, when his father came home, he ate a little dinner and then went to the riverbank.
I secretly followed him several times. On the night of the Qixi Festival, many couples went to the riverbank to release sky lanterns. The lanterns rose slowly, and the moon across the river shone on the water. For happy people, the sound of the river was a beautiful accompaniment, but for the unhappy, the river seemed to be sobbing, crying.
How could I help someone who was heartbroken to the extreme to get back on track? I thought things couldn’t go on like this; something bad would eventually happen. So I wanted to take him to the countryside. I said to my mom, “Grandma in the countryside must miss me a lot, right?”
My mom straightforwardly said, “Poor Bei Junchi. It’s good for you to take him to the countryside for a break.”
“I think you’re like a worm in my stomach.”
“Is that how you talk to your mom?” She flicked my forehead suddenly.
Perhaps it was true that being cooped up at home for too long was stifling, so Bei Junchi agreed to accompany me to the countryside. It was the most beautiful summer in our memories. Every day we picked mulberries from the tree, with purple juice staining the ground. We stepped on them, leaving deep and shallow colors.
The pond was full of lotus seeds, and we could float in a basin. I fell into the water, basin and all. This scene finally made Bei Junchi smile, a smile that seemed to be a mix of laughter and tears. It was already a significant improvement, I thought.
On the last night in the countryside, we climbed to the mountain top and saw a firefly cave that could only exist in fairy tales. The sky above was dotted with stars like the Milky Way. I thought it was stunning. We waited for the fireflies to gather.
When the brightest moment came, holding our breath, I suddenly felt like crying. Looking back at Bei Junchi, his eyes were already filled with tears.
Such beauty should be shared with the most intimate people, but unfortunately, some people would never see it.
[You Can Be Happy Too]
By the time we started our senior year, Bei Junchi’s training classes became more intense. He often said to me, “What’s the point of continuing to take these exams?”
If the person you love the most is gone, even dreams become unimportant. Originally, he wanted to get into the film academy to become an actor, which was also his mother’s dream when she was young. No matter what, I didn’t want to see him give up.
So I made the first major decision of my life: I would take the film academy exam with him.
Bei Junchi and my mom had different first reactions to this decision. Bei Junchi said, “Are you crazy?” My mom thought for a moment and said, “Daughter, you have never looked as beautiful as you do
now.”
“Beautiful?”
“Living with a dream is beautiful,” she finally said with a smile.
Because the person I liked was doing this, I decided to learn and do it too. It was both romantic and lonely. Bei Junchi didn’t need to know. I would only tell him that I had suddenly developed a passion for acting. Late at night, when I was alone, I thought, “Who doesn’t know how to act? Hiding your feelings for someone and not wanting to be exposed is acting, isn’t it?”
Later, my mom used her connections from years as a set designer to find me a teacher. I had three classes a week, and the training fees were frighteningly high. I often worried about not being able to afford them and having to quit halfway. My mom reassured me, “Don’t worry, we got a 20% discount from the teacher!”
I suddenly realized that my mom was quite a deep person for a renovation worker. Sometimes she even guided me at home during practice, saying, “Haven’t eaten pork but seen pigs run?” Bei Junchi happened to pass by, laughing out loud through the iron gate. I ran over and asked, “Did I act well?”
My mom, proud of herself, said, “I really know what I’m talking about. Acting, the first lesson is to release your nature. Try acting like a pig.”
I broke out in a cold sweat. Later, Bei Junchi whispered to me, “Naidong, you’re so lucky.”
“Do you know what my mom always tells me? She says, ‘Being easily happy is a virtue.’ Really, she’s that kind of person.”
“So, you are easily happy.”
“So, you can be too.”
He smiled at me. That smile was like the first ray of sunlight in the morning, tingling and giving me goosebumps inside.
Our professional exam was that winter. Bei Junchi and I took the train northward. The Siberian winds blew southward, and we went from south to north, braving the wind. For me, it was a journey of immense significance. Accompanying him to fulfill his dream meant I would never have another chance in my life. It was a 17-year-old’s exam, and I was filled with inexplicable confidence. Despite not having much training time, with him by my side, I feared nothing.
[No One Else in My Heart]
We rented an apartment with other candidates. Long after, the details of the exam became hazy. I only remembered the fatigue and the evening twilight passing the city gate. During that time, we experienced nerve-wracking moments when the results were released, feeling tense and desperate, especially when we almost didn’t pass the final stage.
On the last day of the exams, we screamed our hearts out under the cold Deshengmen. Only we were left performing such acts of art on the deserted streets. We drank some beer, sneezed into the night, and shouted, “Do we still have a chance?!”
Bei Junchi, with bright eyes, said, “Let’s go home.”
He turned away, and I saw tears he couldn’t hide. The next day, before we set off for home, I heard that the school would come to our hometown for another round of admissions. Hearing this, Bei Junchi seemed energized again. They say boys mature later. His joy and sorrow were plainly visible on his face, almost childlike, don’t you think?
I asked my mom this question: “Why do boys fight all the time? Why do they bully the girls they like? Why do boys always like the girl everyone likes?” Back then, I was a curious child, full of questions. My mom, with the wisdom of experience, said, “Boys, even when they’re fifty, are still less mature than their peers. In other words, men are essentially kids, always immature.”
“No matter how successful they are in their careers, they always need a girl to take care of them.” She paused, feeling indignant, “Your dad is like that, a lifetime of worry!”
Okay, Bei Junchi was also quite a worrywart.
After the art exams, we focused on academic subjects. I had already given up entirely before, but my foundation was decent, so I could catch up. But Bei Junchi struggled. He wished I could give him half my English scores. Holding the test paper, he asked, “Are your school’s questions this tough?”
Every day he brought his dirty backpack to my study room to do homework together. His father supported this because after he passed the local admissions test, we went out for a meal. His father choked up while talking, probably thinking of the departed aunt. Later, he specifically asked me to tutor Bei Junchi. Hiding my excitement, I got to see that handsome boy every day.
My little heart was constantly in an excited state. After school, I quickly rode my bike, thinking my day’s notes would be helpful. And I had my mom prepare half a watermelon, so Bei Junchi and I could share it with a spoon each.
This scene had been planned in my mind for so long that when it finally happened, it felt surreal. On the first day of tutoring, we were cautious. On the second day, Bei Junchi was already calling me playfully, “Teacher, I don’t get this.”
When a handsome boy acted a bit spoiled yet bossy, I felt the peak of his charm.
From then on, no one else filled my heart.
[Please Look After the One I Love]
Seventeen-year-old love can be wild and crazy or quietly settled deep in your heart.
I didn’t want to tell him too soon. Clearly, he was more interested in becoming an actor now. He was clumsy yet fragile. If he didn’t pass the academic exam, he might fall into despair.
On the day of the college entrance exam, we were at different schools. Before leaving, we met in the hallway. He suddenly put his hand on my shoulder and shouted, “Let the little universe explode!” I was startled. He laughed like a child, swiftly running ahead, saying, “Good luck!”
Don’t worry, Bei Junchi. Yesterday I found a fortune teller who said we would both get what we wanted. I thought to myself. Actually, I also went to a temple to pray, not for the exam. I was honest with Buddha, asking for just one wish: I hoped the person I liked would be a lucky person from then on.
Fortune goddess, please look after the one I like.
Perhaps it was Buddha’s blessing. That year, Bei Junchi got into his dream school, becoming a performance major. But where was my school?
It wasn’t that I didn’t do well; I just wasn’t satisfied. I wanted to study journalism, but my scores weren’t enough. So I decided to repeat the year. My mom said, “Is it necessary? Girls shouldn’t waste time. You wanted to study acting; I agreed. Now you want to be a journalist. What do you really want?”
“Being a journalist is my real dream,” I said. My mom’s eyes lit up, “You took the acting exam for Bei Junchi?!”
I nodded. She poked my forehead and said, “Fool.”
Since then, my mom started nagging about how a grown girl can’t stay. I closed my door and began reviewing high school coursework. Life is strange. The more you are determined to do something you believe in, the more people oppose it, the more you feel it must be done.
So, I went to a repeat school. Bei Junchi called my dorm. I was working on an assignment, and his background was noisy. He sounded very excited, “Can you hear it? I’m at the Midi Music Festival. It’s awesome here. You must come next time!”
What kind of world was that? I couldn’t imagine. After hanging up, I suddenly had a strange feeling, a bit lonely. I felt like I was running on an endless road, always a step behind. My feelings were hard to share with him; he probably wouldn’t understand.
That year, I was 18 but suddenly felt very old.
[I Really Fainted]
A year later, I finally got into my dream school. When I met Bei Junchi in Beijing, his appearance almost made him unrecognizable.
“Hey, you’re very trendy now.” I had to admit I had fallen into a pen full of peacocks as a little pig.
He wore sunglasses, looking like a clothes hanger. I could even see the contours of muscles under his shirt. Was this still the once-weak Bei Junchi?
The soft light on his eyes made me realize what the rumored electric eyes were—tender, as if his eyes were narrating a long story. My foolishness was evident as I stood there, almost crying with joy.
Bei Junchi said he would show me around Beijing. That was my happiest day. It felt like walking on clouds. I kept thinking, “Bitterness comes to an end.” I endured so much just to be in his city and tell him, “I like you.” So direct, is that okay? I couldn’t wait any longer. If my mom knew how unreserved I was, she might kill me.
I chose a secluded spot in Jingshan Park, with a golden ginkgo tree nearby. The leaves fell from the branches, flying in the wind. I held my breath, ready to speak…
A crisp ringtone interrupted. Bei Junchi answered, “Hello, Peipei…”
Life is strange. Sometimes, it feels like fate is deliberately messing with you, making you choose the wrong moment every time.
He hung up, smiling, “My girlfriend is so demanding. Let’s have dinner together tonight.”
I wanted to say no, to throw a tantrum. I wanted to become the kind of girl I hated. I wanted to shout, “Why did you get with someone else!”
Life is unfair. I felt like I was bleeding inside, needing an ambulance or to travel back in time and seize every chance to tell him those four words.
I like you. I like you. I like you.
Beijing’s autumn was beautiful, and I felt dizzy.
Then, I really fainted.
[Something More Interesting]
When I woke up, Bei Junchi was looking at me with bright eyes.
“The doctor said you might have fainted from stress and a sudden shock. What happened to you?”
I ignored him, relieved that the doctor couldn’t read minds. When we parted, standing on the busy street, he was heading east, and I west. I had a premonition that some words might never be spoken in this lifetime.
After we returned to our respective schools, we rarely met. Crossing half the city was too troublesome. Mainly, it was the busy studies and the group of ambitious youths chasing after me, exhausting me.
Has anyone told you that no matter how you look, in your first year of college, there will always be a group of boys being nice to you? Fetching water, food, saving seats, passing notes, copying homework. By the second year, half the boys might drop off.
By the third year, only one or two remain. By the fourth year, if you still act indifferent, all the boys will leave, not a single one left! Believe me.
Because I was that person, with no boys left around me. Once, when I was sick, I went to fetch water in the boiling room and saw a guy who used to be nice to me, holding hands with a junior. The scene was like this: the boy’s position was colorful and bright, and I, dragging my weak leg, shivering, was in a dark place.
This is probably the cruelest side of love.
The only comfort was that I finally got an internship at a newspaper. Freshmen were pitiful—poor, tired, insecure, with a weak sense of presence. Meanwhile, Bei Junchi was starting to get film offers. During that period, I followed seniors for interviews, braving rain, scorching sun, and dust, looking quite ragged.
Coming home late every night, I cooked a hotchpotch of vegetables, meatballs, and rice cakes, and turned on the TV. If nothing in the room made a sound, I might get lonely and depressed.
So, I watched TV until I fell asleep. One day, I saw Bei Junchi on TV. He played a lively young obstetrician, congratulating a new father, “Congratulations! Your wife just gave birth to a big boy!”
I laughed out loud, genuinely from the heart.
I thought nothing could be more interesting than watching Bei Junchi act.
[This Person Seems Strange]
Gradually, life seemed to gain some color.
I was assigned to the entertainment section as a full-time reporter, and Bei Junchi finally signed with a new company that seemed determined to make him famous. He was incredibly lucky, quickly gaining fame. After playing the young doctor, a director noticed him, and even before graduation, he landed a major role.
That role earned him many female fans, with girls on Weibo clamoring for his photos. My cousin called me several times, “We all love him. Get me some autographs, please!”
If I could easily see him, I might ask for a hundred autographs to sell… A senior told me that an entertainment reporter must have “the agility to catch the wind and the shadow, the imagination to soar the sky, the face as solid as steel, and the pen to turn things around.”
I was still honing my solid face, so I often hesitated to call him. I seemed to have gotten used to seeing him on the screen. If we met face-to-face, I might still sweat nervously.
Oddly, as I got older, I became more shy about expressing my feelings.
One day, someone exposed the story of Bei Junchi’s mother’s suicide. The news quickly spread online, with people saying he was inspirational or had an extraordinary background. I urgently called him, but his phone was unreachable.
When our newspaper decided to cover the story, I argued with my boss.
“Have you ever considered his feelings? Facing his mother’s death so young, he was fragile. It wasn’t easy for him to get here, and now you’re reopening old wounds?”
By then, my boss knew about my connection with Bei Junchi. He wasn’t listening, excitedly saying, “You must know many things about him!”… After that, I couldn’t hear anything. I remembered a rainy evening when I went downstairs to throw out the trash and saw someone sitting in the shadows at the entrance.
Soaking wet, head hanging, I sat beside him, unsure how to comfort him, cautiously placing my hand on his shoulder. He said, “Accompany me to the riverbank.”
After his mother’s death, he went there every day. Thinking of these memories, I wanted to find him quickly, not knowing how he was coping.
Later, I sent him many messages. When he saw them, he finally arranged to meet at a cafe. But I might have done something inappropriate again, like my ill-timed confession.
Bei Junchi told me, “He knew about the revelation; it was just a deliberate market strategy in the entertainment industry, what we call… hype.”
As he spoke, his eyes still sparkled, sincere and serious, not seeming fake. So… someone as smart as him surely knew what he was doing.
I probably worried for nothing. I bitterly smiled inside, realizing I was the biggest fool in the world. His face still looked sad, even shedding a few tears, saying, “The past always stays there, always painful.”
But suddenly, he seemed like a stranger to me.
Was I too immersed in the past innocence, or had he moved on too fast? I remembered a joke I once saw on Weibo.
I said, “Let me tell you a joke.”
“A composition class, a kid wrote: In twenty years, I’ll work by buying lottery tickets. Today I won fifty thousand, tomorrow I won a hundred thousand, the day after I won a million.
The teacher was about to teach him that life has more meaningful things than lottery tickets when the kid said: Teacher, my dad won five million yesterday and will go to Hangzhou to claim it tomorrow. The teacher was speechless and also bought a super lottery.”
“Haha, funny, right?” I laughed for a long time, but Bei Junchi looked puzzled. He didn’t know what I was trying to say.
Actually, neither did I.
That day, we parted. Watching him on TV wouldn’t make me so awkward. Much later, my cousin, now 17, the same age I was when I fell for Bei Junchi, called. She said, “Sis, I really like Bei Junchi! Can you introduce me to him?”
It seemed that people her age were more direct and bold about their feelings, whether for fun or genuine love, which wasn’t bad.
But I was still better at loving someone silently.
Bei Junchi, after all these years, doing so much for you, I thought you were still that weak boy. Today, are you lost or worldly? I don’t know.
Maybe I’m the only one who hasn’t changed, still holding on to that outdated love.
I might have wanted to say that there are more meaningful things in life than buying lottery tickets—like loving you. But for you, time has turned you into someone else, navigating fame and fortune more surely than winning the lottery.
Yet, because of love and tolerance, I will never blame you.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
