Unrequited affection Stories: You Are the Protagonist in My Story
I’ve had more than a dozen desk mates, but it seems that this term has only ever belonged to him in my world.
In elementary school, we had to enroll in an extracurricular class as part of the holistic education program. I initially planned to join the writing class, but when I overheard him and the boy in front of him say they were going to sign up for the Math Olympiad class, I quietly changed my choice.
During classes, whenever a task required cooperation with a desk mate, like practicing an English dialogue, I would be especially excited and eager, pulling him along to practice seriously, repeating it several more times than other pairs. When the teacher asked which group would like to present, I would immediately raise my hand. He was terrified of speaking in public and would turn red as soon as he stood up. After sitting back down, he would always warn me fiercely, “Hey, don’t raise your hand next time!”
After dictation in Chinese class, we would often swap notebooks with our desk mates to mark each other’s work. I would always intentionally make one or two mistakes, and he would gleefully circle them with a red pen, teasing me, “You’re so silly, you forgot the top part of the character ‘叠’!” Seeing his handwriting in my notebook gave me a special sense of satisfaction.
During dull classes like moral education, we would place a comic book or novel between us on the desk, positioning it so that the student in front of us blocked the teacher’s view. My left hand would press down on the right side of the book, while his right hand would press down on the left side. When we encountered something funny, we would stifle our laughter together. Sometimes, when he turned the page, he would accidentally brush against my hand, and that was the moment my heart raced the fastest all day.
In gym class, I would secretly glance at him. If I saw him talking to a girl for a long time, I would feel unhappy for the rest of the class.
During parent-teacher meetings, the class leaders had to help out. My job was to guide parents to their children’s seats. I waited and waited until finally, a lady in a maroon dress asked me, “Excuse me, where is (his name) sitting?” After greeting her, I led her to his seat and saw my mom chatting with his mom, which made the corners of my mouth involuntarily curl up.
I often helped him revise his essays. We participated in a district writing competition together, and the essays I helped him revise could at least earn a third prize. But one day, he shyly handed me a piece of paper and asked if I could help him revise it. When I unfolded it, I saw that it was a love letter to another girl.
I laughed heartily, mocking him as I made revisions, “How can you write like this when trying to woo a girl?” His face turned an awkward, shy shade of red—the boy I liked had finally found someone he liked, but it wasn’t me. I was jealous of her, envious of her, but still became her good friend, asking about her favorite color, what drink she liked, and where she spent her Saturdays, then casually passing this information on to him.
He drew a cartoon for her, based on a character from the game we used to play together. She was the character “Xuan Cai E,” and that’s what he drew for her. He sketched this picture during class, and I covered for him. Throughout his clumsy pursuit, I offered advice and strategies. Until one day, he sadly told me that she had rejected him. Seeing his dejected face, with eyes faintly glistening under his arms, I realized that his sadness hurt me more than my own.
At graduation, we wrote in each other’s yearbooks. I wrote a poem where I split his name into six parts and hid them within the lines. I still don’t know if he ever found them.
Later, we went to the same middle school but ended up in different classes. The top ten students in the monthly exams would have their photos posted on the honor roll. I was afraid he would forget me, so I studied hard and made sure my photo was always there. The honor roll was displayed on the wall in the main hall on the first floor of the school building. I hoped that he would glance at it as he walked by.
For three whole years, my photo was always there. My name appeared on almost every award list, at events as a host, in articles in the school newspaper, and in speeches at opening ceremonies.
I could always catch the latest gossip about him—he had a girlfriend, they broke up, he was cheated on, he got into a fight… But whenever we bumped into each other in various settings, we would just casually greet each other, passing by, as he and his friends laughed and chattered away. I would turn back to look at him, for years on end, until my gaze held no more emotion.
This lonely watch finally ended with me fulfilling my own expectations, but without ever gaining the attention of the one I liked.
Perhaps this is the best possible outcome. I finally understood that no matter how excellent you are, you might not win the heart you desire.
In truth, Mi Shisi’s story is not unlike the stories of some of us. We pour our hearts into performing our one-person play, moved by our own persistence, thinking that he would be moved as well. But one day, when we tell him about this play, the expression on his face is full of surprise. “I’ve never heard of this before. How did I become the protagonist in this story?” As the curtain falls, the empty theater echoes only with our own voice. It turns out this one-man show had an audience and a performer who were both just ourselves.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
