Youth Fades, Romance Withdraws
From others, I learned that he is about to get married. I wasn’t too surprised, just a bit melancholic, or perhaps lonely. He had once said that even if he got married, he wouldn’t invite me to his wedding.
At that time, I didn’t delve into why he made such a decision. Now, I have no reason to question it either. One thing is certain: he kept his word. Whether I received an invitation or not, or whether I knew he had found someone who truly loves him and can grow old with him, I should bless him and put aside my usual selfishness.
The promise we made many years ago, “If by the age of XX, neither of us has found someone worth spending a lifetime with, we’ll be together,” probably came from some TV drama. It was pretentious and a bit ridiculous. Only now do I realize that neither of us took it seriously, even though we both spoke sincerely at the time and were deeply moved.
There’s not much to say about the story between him and me. It seems I can sum it up in a few words, but these sparse phrases can’t serve as a proper farewell. I want to exhaust every corner of my memory, recalling our shared experiences, and then store away the memories of this man who will soon become a husband and father.
Twenty years ago, we were placed in a crowded classroom. That should be our first meeting, though I didn’t notice him, a short and slightly chubby boy. Was our first conversation during that third-grade performance? Did we play a tree, a flower, or a bee buzzing around? Who remembers? I only remember that from the third grade, his figure frequently appeared in my vision.
Looking back, it seems he was always on the participant list for any activity. Among the group, he was particularly lively and bold, daring to pull my pigtails and give me strange nicknames. Yet, what sticks in my mind is the image of him quickly riding his bike past me, as if fleeing out of fear. Was he that afraid to walk alone with me? What a peculiar boy.
The exam for entering middle school became our watershed. Though he was always smarter than me, he only got into the town’s middle school. In retrospect, aside from that ignorant primary school time, we were never in the same environment. Perhaps neither of us thought of creating an opportunity to be under the same sky. Different middle schools, different universities, different cities after work. Our intersections were pathetically few.
During middle school, before computers were widespread, phone calls were the common way to stay in touch. As boarding students, we had limited access to the dorm phone that required an IC card. Besides sleeping, we didn’t have much time in the dorm. That short time had to be shared among ten roommates, all needing to use the phone.
Writing letters became our favorite method—secret and romantic. Now, I don’t remember the last time I received a handwritten letter. Today, I only receive bank statements and utility bills… monotonous and dull. I can’t remember the last time I eagerly anticipated receiving a letter.
In a ceremonious manner, I revisited the letters he wrote me years ago. For the first time in many years, I read through those letters delivered through the post, slipped under my door, or handed to me personally. Reading these letters, I found I couldn’t recall the events mentioned. Who had a crush on whom? Our disappointing exam scores? The annoying physics teacher? The long evening study sessions? The morning runs we planned? My constant no-shows? His promise to wait until 20XX…
Yes, he said he would wait for me, but I forgot the time was set for 20XX. For me, 20XX was significant. I worked hard to get into a university in Beijing to become an Olympic volunteer—unrelated to romance. I forgot that 20XX was his deadline for saying goodbye to our feelings. Like he wrote with his youthful penmanship: he is a man who keeps his promises. In fact, he extended the final judgment time by two years.
In 20XX, we entered society, learning about human interactions, dealing with workplace stress, and feeling uncertain about the future. During a call, he asked, “One last time, is there any chance for us?” If I had realized his seriousness, if I had thought it over, if I hadn’t quickly and decisively said “no,” would our ending have been different?
I believe he only confirmed his relationship with the girl at the time, now his wife, after my answer. He is not vague about feelings; he buries the past before starting a new relationship. He is different from the many men who are frivolous and unfaithful. I always believed this, but I never showed him my belief through actions.
In middle school, he once fell ill and needed surgery during the Chinese New Year. I planned to visit him in the hospital but was stopped by my mother: “It’s unlucky to go to the hospital during the New Year.” Ultimately, I didn’t go. Was it my mother’s hindrance or my unwillingness to go the extra mile for him? Later, in high school and college, I had a few relationships that ended in tears.
Whenever I was frustrated, I wanted to call him for comfort. He always scolded me for poor choices but would gently say, “Don’t cry,” before hanging up. I thought if I were with this boy, I wouldn’t get hurt. But we never officially dated. Maybe my subconscious told me he would always be there, steadfast like a deeply rooted tree. When I was tired, really tired, I could turn back to him. But I received the news of his upcoming marriage instead. Perhaps he was tired too and gave up on this waiting game before I did.
We shared a period of youthful innocence and purity. We didn’t know how to interpret the restless feelings and inexplicable attachment, thinking liking someone was discussing TV plots, making noise outside her window to wake her up for a badminton game, confiding secrets, fixing her computer, or removing a scary bat from her room despite being scared himself.
Such a good man, and I never held his hand. Maybe it was just a youthful romance. As youth fades, so does the brilliance of romance. God didn’t arrange another grand reunion for us, except for that small classroom shared with fifty other classmates, nor did He give us the impulse to defy everything. We met each other’s final destination.
I wanted to text him, asking why he never told me about his marriage, why he didn’t hint at getting married. I wanted to ask what I meant to him and if I was still cherished in his heart. I wanted to tell him I’m happy for him and wish him well. But I haven’t brought up marriage with him. All questions and blessings seem pretentious now. Missing the best timing, everything appears awkward.
Our closest encounter was at the station. Me with my boyfriend, he with his girlfriend. A simple “This is my boyfriend” from me, and “This is my girlfriend” from him. No further introductions, no further inquiries. Details are the confession of reality, telling each other this is my present, and you are the unspoken past. Not asking or approaching preserves the beauty best.
I remember a winter night years ago when he held me and solemnly said, “I love you.”
After years of ambiguous feelings, it was his only time saying he loved me. The embrace was warm.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
