City Love Story
The first time I met her was about four years ago. That day, I heard the sound of keys jingling at the door, which startled me. I thought it was a bold thief in broad daylight, so I quickly opened the door, ready to scold whoever it was. To my surprise, the person outside was even more shocked than I was, standing there with her mouth wide open, stammering, “Who are you? Why are you living here?”
Because she was nervous, sweat beaded on her nose, and her slender eyes were wide open, like a startled koala. Feeling a bit sorry for her, I smiled and said, “This is my home. Where else would I live?”
She let out an “ah,” took out a piece of paper to check carefully, and asked, “Isn’t this Building X, Apartment Y, Unit Z?” I couldn’t help but laugh and pointed to the door across from mine.
Her face turned red all the way to her ears as she repeatedly apologized and turned to open the door to the opposite apartment. I watched her thin back, smiled, went back inside, and closed the door.
This building was constructed in the early 1980s, and the soundproofing wasn’t very good. I could hear her humming happily while mopping the floor and cautiously moving furniture…
I smiled to myself, thinking she was a cheerful girl. I even shamelessly thought, if she were prettier, I might find an excuse to chat her up and pursue her. Then, feeling a bit mean, I laughed at myself and went to bed.
We would occasionally meet in the hallway, just nodding and smiling without saying a word. On weekends, we often ran into each other on the shared rooftop terrace. She went there to hang up the clothes she had washed the night before, while I would read English books.
The look in her eyes when she saw me was full of respect. Gradually, we became familiar with each other. Two young, single people often cooked and ate together. When we sat across from each other, she would rest her chin on her hands and playfully say, “Slow down, don’t swallow your tongue.”
Every weekend, she would often use the excuse of running the washing machine to collect my dirty clothes, wash them, and hang them on the terrace. When I looked up, I would see my clothes and hers, drying together in the warm sunshine.
When we were together, we talked about our school days. I spoke of my childhood in the wet alleys, while she spoke of her sad, dry, and rainless hometown in Gansu. She said in the morning, a basin of water was used for the whole family’s face. When she spoke of these things, her eyes shone, making my heart race.
I couldn’t bear to see her sad, so I joked that she was so virtuous, some lucky guy would marry her. She blushed, lowered her head, and fiddled with her fingers one by one. I suddenly realized that maybe she liked me.
Thinking this, I sneaked a glance at her. The more I looked, the more I felt my heart retreating step by step. She was like an ordinary grain of sand on the beach, too inconspicuous. And I, like all young men with lofty ambitions, hoped my girlfriend would be stunningly beautiful.
I began to deliberately avoid her. Although I did it very subtly, she still sensed it and stopped knocking on my door easily. When we met on the terrace, we would only exchange polite smiles before she quickly hung up her clothes and went back inside.
The next winter, I had a beautiful girlfriend. When we played around, I would suddenly raise my finger and tell her to keep it down because the walls weren’t soundproof. For some reason, I always felt uneasy, afraid our laughter would become sharp blades piercing through the walls. I didn’t want to hurt her.
Sometimes, when my girlfriend and I met her on the stairs, she would hurriedly go up or down, head down like a timid child. I felt a strange discomfort, like I owed her something I could never repay.
My girlfriend seemed to notice something but didn’t ask. She only urged me to buy a house and move out, using our impending marriage as an excuse.
The following autumn, I moved into a new home and rented out the old one, thinking I would forget the sadness in her eyes. But I didn’t. Some nights, I would wake up suddenly, remembering how she looked at me with a smile while I ate, or how she sang and hung clothes on the terrace. I tried hard to focus on my relationship with my girlfriend, but it didn’t work.
Often, when my girlfriend talked about the wedding, my gaze would dim, feeling like I wasn’t choosing love but satisfying my vanity of being envied.
Love is such a personal matter. Why should I care about public aesthetics? Marrying a beautiful wife nourishes the public’s eyes, but they can’t bear the dissatisfaction in life for me. My heart ached faintly.
In the end, I didn’t marry the beautiful girlfriend who could satisfy my vanity. We broke up, and she disappeared without a trace. Feeling depressed, I went to the old house several times, using the excuse of renovation to ask the tenant to move out.
With nothing else to do, I wandered around the house, stood on the terrace, and looked at the door to her room, wondering if she had moved away or fallen in love or even gotten married. Did she remember someone like me had entered her life?
In matters of love, the most beautiful things are always the ones you can’t get or have lost. He didn’t know if such a melancholic sentiment would lead to meeting her again.
I went to the old house several more times but never ran into her. Pretending it was unintentional, I asked the neighbors and learned she hadn’t moved away. I thought of calling her, using the excuse of asking how she was, to reestablish contact, but I realized I had never asked for her phone number.
So, I stayed at the old house on weekends, lying awake at night, listening for any sounds from next door. Late at night, I finally heard footsteps on the stairs, coming closer and closer. In the darkness, I silently laughed with my mouth wide open. The next morning, I pretended nothing had happened, stretching lazily as I went to the terrace, rehearsing my greeting countless times.
It was all in vain. The person who opened the door to the terrace in the morning wasn’t her but a handsome young man. We both froze. Awkwardly, I pointed to my apartment and said, “I’m your neighbor.”
We shook hands and did morning exercises on the terrace. The morning light was beautiful, but my heart was dark, without a trace of light.
When she appeared on the terrace to call the young man for breakfast and saw me, her eyes landed on my face, as if burned, before she quickly regained her composure and said, “Oh, it’s you. Are you here to invite us to your wedding?”
I was stunned, standing there in her calm and collected gaze. I could clearly see the cautious avoidance in her eyes. I smiled and said, “Of course, when the time comes.”
Besides feeling desolate and regretful, I didn’t blame her. Such a good woman had been let down by my youthful ignorance. What reason or right did I have to expect her to wait? I finally understood that most of the time, looking back after time has passed only disturbs things, making it neither poetic nor beautiful. It’s better to cherish the memories alone.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
