Unrequited love tale
I fell in love with her back in high school. I sat behind her and always found excuses to talk to her, sometimes asking to borrow a book or a pen. She was nice and never seemed to mind my interruptions. Occasionally, I’d play little pranks on her, like the time during evening study when her pen ran out of ink, and she asked me for some. I handed her an empty ink bottle with a cricket I had caught behind the school building.
When she opened it and saw the cricket, she screamed, drawing everyone’s attention to us. She turned red with embarrassment, but she didn’t ask the teacher to change seats. From then on, I continued to borrow pens and books from her, though she wasn’t as gentle anymore, often giving me annoyed looks. But I was secretly delighted, because that reaction was unique to me.
Thinking back, some of my actions seem childish and laughable. She once asked me why, if I liked her, I kept playing pranks on her. I thought it over and realized it was probably because I wanted her to really notice me. I wasn’t handsome or academically outstanding, so I didn’t know any other way to stand out in her world. It was like she started to like me but also became stern with me.
As the end of our senior year approached, just before the college entrance exams, we began to take our books home in batches, leaving the classroom emptier and emptier. It was a time of farewells, and we all knew it. Seeing her empty desk in front of me made me inexplicably restless. On the day we took our graduation photo, I suddenly stepped out of the line and said, “Wait a moment.”
“Wait, teacher, I have something to say today.” I took a deep breath, ignoring the shocked faces of my teacher and classmates. “To the girl in the second row, fifth from the left, I like you.”
I don’t know where I found the courage, but I knew I had to say it or I’d be miserable during the exams. Why did I choose such a setting? At that time, I felt that loving someone meant it had to be grand and public, as if I wouldn’t be at ease unless the whole world knew she was the girl I loved. I had even prepared a Shakespearean poem as an opening, but I was so nervous I forgot it.
Although the confession was clumsy, at least I had done it. As the teacher’s face turned pale amid the applause and laughter, I tried to walk back to my place with dignity. The camera clicked, capturing our entire high school years. My mom wanted to frame the photo to mark my coming of age, but I hid it in a drawer. It was our first photo together, and I drew a flying kiss towards her with a red pen on it.
When filling out college applications, I chose schools in the same city as her, but my scores were too low, and none of those schools accepted me. I was assigned to a railway school in the north.
The night I received the admission letter, she and I walked through our small town from south to north and back again, joining countless others who shared our disappointment. As we walked, she suddenly stopped and said, “It’s just four years; it’ll pass quickly.” I held her hand tightly, not wanting to let go.
In college, we opened a joint bank account. Whenever either of us had extra money, we deposited it for travel expenses to visit each other. To save more, I smoked cheap cigarettes and did various part-time jobs. Every time we met, we barely had enough money for the cafeteria, and when we couldn’t afford accommodation, I’d stay overnight at an internet café for 10 yuan.
She asked, “We spend all our money on travel; how will you afford to marry me?”
I said, “We can always earn more money.”
She laughed mischievously and said, “No problem, marriage only costs 9 yuan; I’ll pay for it.”
Once, after getting off the subway in heavy rain, we had to transfer to a bus to get her back to school. Counting our money, I realized we didn’t have enough for a taxi. She laughed and ran into the rain, joining the long queue at the open bus stop. We had no umbrella, and though I urged her to take shelter, she refused. She was already coughing but still held on to me, not wanting to leave. I felt deeply moved and vowed to work hard to make her life easier.
In our senior year, we planned a graduation trip to Yunnan. In that beautiful place with clear mountains and waters, even the air felt romantic. We stayed in a small inn. She was in the shower, and I was sitting by the window, smoking. The bathroom door was frosted glass, through which I could see her faint silhouette.
The sound of water felt like the crashing sea, stirring my restless heart. I gazed at the bright moon outside, feeling dizzy. Every time we met, this would happen. Holding her in my arms at night, my desires and rationality would clash. I hated myself for being unsure about our future and feared hurting her. But this time, she stood naked in front of me.
“Take me,” she said. I didn’t dare look at her, staring out the window instead, my mind in turmoil. When I finally turned, I saw tears in her eyes. Unable to control myself, I hugged her tightly and kissed her deeply.
With that kiss, she became mine.
After graduation, I couldn’t return to her city and continued working in the north with the railways. The railway always led south but never to her place. We maintained a long-distance relationship, and she waited patiently. But her mother grew impatient, constantly introducing her to potential suitors. She always found excuses to refuse. Though she never betrayed me, my pride felt wounded. We began to argue frequently, leading to cold wars, leaving us both exhausted.
One day, after a long cold war, she suddenly appeared in front of me. Overjoyed, I introduced her to my coworkers, who envied my beautiful girlfriend. She was indeed beautiful, at least in my eyes. But when she saw my cramped, messy dorm, tears filled her beautiful eyes. She was heartbroken for me. I told her everything would be fine, and I would apply for a transfer back home. In reality, I had been applying but kept getting rejected. After she left, I found money and a note under my pillow: “Take care of yourself. Use this money to buy more food; you’re too thin.”
For some reason, her note made me feel terrible, hinting at a farewell. I believed two people in love had a connection, and I felt she was drifting away. And then we really broke up. She proposed it, disappointed in me.
After the breakup, I had no reason to go back. The city I stayed in held no attraction for me, but I stayed, feeling like I was just getting through each day. I tried dating other girls, but in the quiet of the night, she was the only one I thought of.
During night shifts, I often stared at the railway, wondering when it would lead to her, wondering if I walked along it, would I find her? Thinking these thoughts, I’d start crying by the tracks. She contacted me, asking why I never tried to win her back, but I couldn’t answer. She hung up.
I didn’t know what I was avoiding. Perhaps the problem wasn’t just the distance but my growing fear of loving her. She was so wonderful; I felt unworthy. She deserved someone better who could give her the stability and happiness she wanted.
I had many reasons to convince myself that letting her go was for the best, until I learned she was getting married. Then all those reasons collapsed instantly.
She asked over the phone, “Will you bless my marriage?”
I said, “I’ll use all my potential happiness to bless you.”
After hanging up, I cried out loud amid the train’s deafening whistle.
I had imagined countless times her in a wedding dress, with me standing in the sunlight, admiring her beauty. But after all we endured, the person standing beside her in that dress wasn’t me. It felt like losing her again, this time forever.
When the movie “The Left Ear” came out, a quote became popular: “For a man, the most helpless thing is to meet the girl he wants to care for all his life when he has no material ability. For a woman, the most regrettable thing is to meet someone she can’t wait for at the best age.
Actually, for a woman, it’s even more helpless to meet a powerless man at the age she can’t wait for. For a man, it’s even more tragic to have the material ability but no longer have a pure heart to spend his life with a good woman.”
If I had read this back then, I would have comforted myself, thinking that was why I let her go. But as time passed, having married and started my own family, reading it again, I felt nothing. Whether love was right or wrong, it was part of youth. Growing older, I realized true love stands the test of time.
The so-called inability to wait or lack of strength is just an excuse for those who can’t resist temptation or loneliness, or who don’t love enough or don’t want to continue loving. I lost my beloved girl not because of those grand reasons, but because of youthful cowardice and pride, failing to muster the resolve to love her.
This is the lesson youth teaches us: like boarding a one-way train, we lose and gain along the way. Time cycles on, and while we can’t go back, we can start anew.
Goodbye, my dearest girl.
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