School Love Stories: Thank You for Letting Me Pass Through Love
During a provincial industry training program, she and he were strangers to each other. Although they worked in the same field, if he hadn’t represented the students by giving a semester-end speech, perhaps their paths would never have crossed.
She still vividly remembers the scene: hundreds of students attentively listening in the audience. They were all unfamiliar with each other, but at that moment, everyone was captivated, even awestruck, by him—specifically, by his voice. He was a broadcaster, and his speech was flawless, with every rise and fall in tone perfectly timed. She was mesmerized, feeling as though his voice was like raindrops on parched earth—absorbed and then gone, leaving behind a lingering echo. It wasn’t until the applause around her subsided that she remembered to clap, which drew some suspicious and even disdainful glances. But her face showed only a hint of embarrassment, while her heart was filled with a refreshing warmth.
As he stepped down from the stage, he smiled softly and slowed his pace as he passed by her. Leaning slightly towards her, he gently said, “Thank you!” His delicate, magnetic voice caught her off guard, especially since it was their first exchange at the end of a week-long training session.
In their brief farewell, exchanging contact information was an inevitable step. Everyone knew it was just a formality—names and numbers lined up in a beautiful notebook, rarely if ever used. Yet, seeing many students approach him, she too decided to ask him for a note and phone number, exchanging pleasantries about “keeping in touch.” He seemed genuinely happy, writing in a bold, powerful script, and repeatedly emphasizing, “Definitely! Definitely!”
A month passed, and the number she had memorized by heart still hadn’t touched her life. Gradually, her enthusiasm waned, like a cup of water losing its warmth. Perhaps they were just passing through each other’s lives, each chasing one goal after another, and those imagined encounters were just wishful thinking. Unable to bear the waiting any longer, she made the first call. It turned out there was only a thin barrier between them; his voice was still as magnetic as ever: “Actually, I’ve been meaning to contact you, but at the time, there were so many people, and in the rush, I forgot which number was yours, unsure if I even got your number.” Though she felt a bit disappointed, she believed him, and could even picture his expression—a tone and smile with no trace of deceit.
After that, their mutual understanding and affection grew rapidly, like a fire spreading with intensity. Their relationship became the talk of their colleagues, so much so that she would even wake up from dreams of him, smiling at the stories and visions of happiness they shared. But unfortunately, their love story didn’t turn into a real-life fairy tale, despite the opportunity and the perfect conditions.
She understood why—her personality was lively, always talking and sharing her joys and sorrows with him. But he had grown accustomed to being silent around her, his voice worn out from his work at the radio station, constantly narrating news, commercials, and occasionally stepping in for other events. Of course, there was also the hidden wound within him, always at risk of resurfacing. He rarely spoke, not because he didn’t want to, but because he was tired. Most of the time, he simply did things for her—cooking, washing clothes, accompanying her on walks—believing that these tangible efforts were more meaningful than sweet words.
He had told her that his reluctance to speak wasn’t due to a lack of desire, but because of exhaustion. The demands of his job as a broadcaster made him extremely cautious about his voice, always carrying lozenges and throat sprays, not just to meet the station’s requirements, but to maintain the career he loved in a city where he was on his own. “For the sake of my career, I neglect my life; for the sake of broadcasting, I take care of myself.” He had found a warm and comfortable space for himself, no longer caring when she said, “You’re so selfish,” and no longer trying to cater to her whims.
Even his indifference became a habit. She had grown used to listening to his precise diction, accurate phrasing, and perfectly timed expressions—especially his intimate whispers during their romance, laced with the same tone he used when broadcasting the news, which she had come to enjoy, losing herself in it, unaware of the way home. “In reality, there’s no such thing as perfect broadcasting. I strive for excellence, but it’s never quite right, and I gradually grow weary, cautiously managing it. Just as with my career, so too with my life.” He was tired, and their relationship, like flowers in late autumn, faded at its own pace. She thanked him for his honesty and the joy he brought her, as well as the tears of happiness and sadness. Without these entanglements, her meticulously crafted dreams also shattered.
They broke up. The tears in his eyes were like duckweed floating in a stream, drifting aimlessly in the evening breeze. Though his feelings for her during the training might have blurred, he still tried to hold his head high—just so she wouldn’t see. Seeing him that way, she, proud as ever, thought he was still as arrogant as before, just as when she pursued him, always feeling like a beggar in love, never finding the end, only met with cold indifference along the way. But on reflection, love is not something that survives on one person’s selfishness or sacrifice. In this situation, silence prevailed. In the end, he gave her a cassette tape he had made for her. As she took it, she softly repeated the words he had once whispered, “Thank you!”—in the same gentle tone, with a sigh for what was lost.
Listening closely to the tape he gave her—a recording of his closing speech from the training—the familiar, rich voice echoed in her ears once more. She suddenly noticed a mistake, a clear mispronunciation that he glossed over, giving the words new meaning. There was no criticism, no ridicule. She couldn’t hold back her tears, her heart breaking, but she also understood that love is as delicate and fragile as porcelain. You can’t demand perfection from it, or it becomes a cycle—no matter how hard you work, you just end up back where you started. Just as his first “thank you” opened her heart, clear and fleeting, leaving behind only the mistakes and the wrong person, embedded in a past that could never be relived.
“Thank you for letting me pass through love”—she wrote these words down, found the once-familiar number, and gently pressed “send.” Then she took out the SIM card, threw it—hard and far—just like she wanted to discard those memories that were too painful to revisit. Life is like that: when you’re young, you don’t hesitate to give up a love. But for a devoted heart, even if the feelings were once mutual, meeting was just a fated calamity. After a brief, dramatic encounter, they walked their separate paths once again.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
