A Silly Love Story: Weaving Love
She once knitted a scarf for him.
It was seven years ago.
Back then, they were in love, attending the same school in the same city. The long-haired girl from the class next door used to be his one and only love.
Their love was so intense that it touched everyone around them. People envied how they always held hands while walking together.
She knitted him a scarf, clumsily, stitch by stitch, burning the midnight oil, weaving her emotions into it. In those days, almost everyone who was in love would wear a crude yet affectionate scarf around their necks. No one mocked its simplicity, and no one criticized its style. Because it was love.
Over those seven years, they broke up. Then reconciled. They stayed together.
The bumps and rough paths they traversed during that time are hard to put into words.
Seven years later, they were both more mature. He had become the vice president of a trading company, always dressed in a sharp suit.
She gave up everything—her life and career—to follow him to an unfamiliar Beijing. The city was bustling, but in its clear air, she couldn’t see any birds flying freely. Every day, she stood by the transparent glass window on the 21st floor, looking at the blue sky. She could no longer find her own sky.
He often came home late. His body carried the scent of mixed perfumes, and she wasn’t oblivious to it. But if she confronted him, it would inevitably lead to a breakup. She was 27 now and no longer had the courage to face a shattered relationship. Many nights, she sat alone in the darkness, waiting, crying, and reminiscing.
There was a time when he stayed up all night in line to buy her a ticket to the concert of her favorite singer, spending half his savings.
There was a time when he stood in the freezing cold with frostbitten hands outside the busy dormitory entrance, just to spend a little more time with her.
There was a time when he ran several kilometers to get her favorite osmanthus cake from a small shop, returning with eyes full of love and concern, completely focused on her.
But where had all that gone?
Time, once gone, never returns.
When she made up her mind, she forbade herself from regretting it. In those years when he foolishly devoted himself to her, she had silently promised to stay with him forever out of gratitude. But she never imagined that in just a few years, the feelings she thought would last a lifetime had scattered in the fragments of their relationship.
He probably didn’t love her anymore. He just held onto old feelings, unwilling to push her out of his life.
Seven years later, he was now a successful man, while she remained the calm, quiet woman she had always been. Her long, straight hair was still uncolored and unchanged, repeating the same pattern day after day for over a decade. What was once vibrant had turned to decline, like an outdated silk flower—still retaining its old beautiful shape but long since dulled in color and obsolete in texture. Just like their love.
Later, they got married anyway. It was natural, unremarkable, without any surprises or excitement. He would surely marry her; she was forever his home, his first infatuation, and his final destination.
But she wasn’t happy. She had become used to enduring. Although she had achieved the “happy ending,” she no longer had to worry about making a living in such a huge city. All she needed to do was wait quietly without asking questions, and he would provide her with everything she needed.
Yet she had grown accustomed to spending her days watching the bright blue sky outside and her nights keeping company with endless darkness. Such a life—whether she was used to it or not—remained unchanged.
One weekend, he suddenly said they should go out for a walk. She followed him indifferently. When they arrived at their destination, she stood in the square, waiting for him to park the car. A young couple passed by, their faces flushed from the cold, their gestures full of love and affection. Around their necks were matching scarves of the same color. In that instant, she was overwhelmed, and her tears couldn’t be held back.
He had long forgotten the scarf from that year. It was a scarf made by the hands of the girl he loved most at the time, knitted through sleepless nights, filled with promises and emotions. Now, it had faded into nothing more than a memory, a memory that belonged to his youth. And for her, it was the only tangible relic that allowed her to hold on to those memories.
Now, they were still together. She was still herself, but he was no longer the same man. Even if she still had the strength to knit, he no longer had the courage to wear it.
That was the foolishness that only love could bring.
It would always be like this, wouldn’t it? Because this is life.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
