Heartbreaking romance in school
In college, the first time we had an audiovisual class, the teacher played the English movie Love Story. At the end of the film, Oliver sat on a bench in the ice skating rink at Harvard University, surrounded by the white snow, recalling his moments with Jenny… He heard someone crying and thought it was the sound from the movie. Turning around, he discovered it was his classmate sitting beside him, Ding Xiaofei.
Fortunately, his handkerchief was freshly washed, and he bravely handed it to her, along with the joy he felt for her. That audiovisual assignment had two top students—one for summarizing the plot well and the other for accurately capturing the classic dialogue. Ding Xiaofei and Duan Qingyun were praised by the audiovisual teacher in the next week’s class.
“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” Qingyun felt a bit guilty; he had known this phrase for a while.
It was the first time he had watched an English-language movie, and like most of the students, he didn’t understand much. Ding Xiaofei and Duan Qingyun—such harmonious names. He was only 17 at the time, the youngest in the class, and all his classmates called him “little brother.” Although he had been independent from a young age, in front of her, he suddenly felt his vulnerability.
For the first time, he couldn’t sleep well because of a girl. Over the weekend, Duan Qingyun’s mother came to visit him at school. The students were gathered in the auditorium watching a performance when she happened to meet Ding Xiaofei. Xiaofei warmly took her to a small restaurant off-campus for a meal and then found Duan Qingyun.
That night, naturally, she ended up staying in Xiaofei’s dorm. He took her out to dinner, to the movies, gave her small gifts, all under the pretext of thanking her for entertaining his mother. From then on, they interacted more frequently. When he visited the girls’ dormitory, the guard would ask, “Going to see your sister again?” He would nod. Some people would tease, “Why not just recognize her as your sister?” And so they did, kneeling ceremoniously in the girls’ dormitory to become sworn siblings. Someone even carved the date of their sister-brother oath on the wall of the dormitory.
As the Spring Festival approached, eager students set off fireworks on campus. She grabbed his hand, “Come on, sister will take you to watch the fireworks.” At home, he was the eldest, but at that moment, he truly felt the happiness of being a younger brother.
The following spring semester, she brought back local snacks like rice cakes and sesame candy from her hometown to share with her classmates. He was the last to return to school, and when he went to the classroom, she handed him a tin box and affectionately put her arm around his shoulder, saying, “I saved the most for my little brother.” In early May, the weather was still cool.
At around 11 PM, she unabashedly shouted from downstairs, “Little brother, it’s your sister! Come down!” Many boys stuck their heads out of the windows, mimicking her, “Little brother, come down!” He put his clothes back on and went down to take photos with her. The two of them pretended to be close siblings, but there was still some distance between them.
One day, she emerged from the maple grove next to the school with a boy beside her and introduced him to a slightly surprised Qingyun, “This is your brother-in-law.” It was said he was her first love from high school, a freshman at their university.
That grove had always been a place where students dated, but he had never thought of going there. For a time, they were inseparable, and Duan Qingyun became the third wheel. Before two months had passed, she came to him crying. He didn’t know why, but he hoped it was news of their breakup. She didn’t say much, just asked him to borrow a bicycle and take her out. He kept asking, wanting confirmation. She cried even harder, saying, “You’re still young, you wouldn’t understand.” He felt heartbroken; how long would he have to play the role of the younger brother? She cried until she had no strength left, her entire body leaning on his back. It was the closest they had ever been, and the most familiar kind of intimacy for him. He felt flustered, the bike bumped, and she naturally extended her arms, wrapping them around his waist. She continued to cry, soaking his shirt and seeping into his skin.
The sensation, like hundreds of caterpillars crawling over him, awakened every nerve in his body. She washed his clothes, sewed on his buttons, teased him about his interactions with other girls, her eyes reflecting the pride that her little brother had finally grown up. Yet, her name filled the pages of his diary throughout the four years of college.
As he watched helplessly, she began a new relationship, this time with a counselor from their department. He disliked the new brother-in-law, who always gave him strange looks. The counselor once asked him, “Do you like Ding Xiaofei?” He resolutely gave a one-word answer: “No.” He didn’t like her; he loved her, he told himself. It was clear the new brother-in-law didn’t really love her.
After graduation, her second college romance naturally came to an end. That night, all 30 students from the English department turned the classroom into a dining hall for their farewell dinner. Some people drank excessively, saying all sorts of farewell clichés. Exaggerated words masked the pain of parting. Not him—he simply clinked glasses with everyone, believing this was not the last goodbye.
Early the next morning, she knocked on his door. He felt groggy, looking around to find that he was the only one left in the dormitory. He slept on the top bunk, and she stood on a small stool to talk to him. Just like four years ago, her eyes were filled with tears. Even as siblings, such a parting was heartbreaking. Her train was at 11 o’clock, and he wanted to take her to the station, but she refused, “Someone else will be taking me.” Finally, they had to part. She came up to hug him; it was only their second embrace.
The first time was when she lost her love and clung helplessly to his back. “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely, “I haven’t been able to take care of you these four years.”
Once again, he recalled the line from Love Story: “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” This was a separation by life, not by death. Sometimes, the pain of being separated by life is even more agonizing.
In August, she told him over the phone that she had signed a contract with a key high school in Xiaogan City. Just as they were about to hang up, she casually asked, “Our school is looking for an English teacher; would you be interested?” He immediately responded, “Sure, sure.” She had already moved on, but this invitation might have been a hint.
He took a long train ride to her city. Squeezing through the crowd at the station, he was soon surrounded by the unintelligible Hubei dialect. He suddenly felt a deep loneliness gnawing at his heart. He became even more desperate to see her, and hopped onto a sand-laden truck heading toward her rural home. He arrived at her house at around 4 AM, even she found it unbelievable. She affectionately told her mother about their sworn sibling relationship and eagerly urged him to call her mother as well. He didn’t dare refuse, afraid that the old woman would see through his true intentions behind the oath. He liked this kind of life, liked hearing her say “our Xiaogan,” liked it when she said “our mom and dad,” and liked it when she used “we” in every conversation. His parents only had one son, and had already arranged a job for him. But he gave it all up, choosing instead to start a new life in a strange city with a familiar person.
He had long since gotten used to calling her “sister,” but their different last names still exposed their true relationship. Rumors were inevitable, and he hoped she could see his intentions through them. She once again apologized, fearing that her influence would affect his future marriage. She married swiftly, just like all her previous relationships, to a civil servant in the education bureau, shattering his last hope. On her wedding night, he got drunk again, calling out “brother-in-law” with a heart full of sorrow. She tried to set him up with girlfriends, one after another, but none were right for him.
At 24, he married her cousin. Even if he couldn’t be the closest person to her, he would at least be a relative by blood. The night before the wedding, she felt a bit sad. It wasn’t love, just the inertia of possession. It was like riding a bicycle that she had for many years, already worn out, but when someone else wanted it, she still felt a bit reluctant to part with it. Her husband was a decent man and loved her; it was clear she was happy. He comforted himself with that thought. With a wife and child of his own, his life became calm and uneventful. Two years later, her husband was promoted to deputy director, and he became the school’s dean of academic affairs.
She was diagnosed with pneumonia at the age of 25. She continued teaching while receiving IV drips until she was too weak to stand. Only then did she go to Wuhan for an examination and was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer. What followed was painful treatment. Her hair slowly fell out, and financially, they could no longer afford
the expenses. He asked his wife for their savings but was refused. “Your cousin is already on the brink of death, what’s the point of treatment?” For the first time, he hit his wife. “Don’t you dare say that! She’s your cousin! She’s going to get better.” He took 2,000 yuan he had borrowed and went to see her. Seeing her reduced to a pile of bones, his heart ached. Tears streamed down his face. She held his hand, “I brought you here, away from home, and I know your feelings. But I didn’t want to lose you as my little brother. I’m afraid I won’t be able to repay your kindness in this lifetime. I’m sorry…”
Hearing this, he felt aggrieved, tears welling up in his eyes. Even now, she hadn’t forgotten to apologize. Did she still remember the Love Story they had watched together? She was about to leave this world, just like Jenny in the movie, but he regretted that, in this tragedy, he wasn’t even her Oliver. He had silently loved her for so many years, and in his heart, she had long been his greatest love.
There were three words he never told her, ever. And there were three more words he had always held back, which he would never have the chance to say. Four days later, she passed away, weighing only 27 kilograms. It was the height of summer, and local customs required that the mourning hall be set up where sunlight could reach. He took care of all the arrangements for the memorial service—vehicles, tents, the eulogy… Her husband gathered her family for a meeting, asking if they had any requests. He stood up and listed several, one after another, as his last act of respect for her, not to cause any trouble.
After the cremation, he escorted her ashes back to her husband’s hometown in the countryside. He sat silently in the bumpy vehicle, not shedding a single tear. His clothes were soaked as if they had been washed, and he knew that, except for his eyes, every part of him was crying.
After the funeral, he buried his face in his wife’s arms, crying like a child. He apologized to her for hitting her, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” He had stayed in someone else’s city for so long, but his roots were tied to just one person. Now that she was gone, what was the point of staying there?
In the fall, he hastily transferred back to his hometown. Some say that home is where the grave of the person you love the most is. Could Xiaogan be considered his hometown?
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
