Radio Romance Story: Not Enough Time to Love You Properly
If someone’s first love is dull and long, I’m not sure if that would be considered strange. When I was in my third year of high school, while others were still buried in their studies, my parents had already taken care of all the paperwork for me to go abroad. As soon as I received my diploma, I was set to head to America.
There was a boy in our class, known as Big P, who was quite the talker. Normally, he would host various segments like “Sports Express” during morning self-study, “Political News” during recess, “Storytime” during lunch break, and “Classical Music” during evening study. Yet, despite all this, he somehow managed to scrape into the top few spots during exams. Our homeroom teacher, unable to do anything about him, eventually had him sit with me in the back row, where we could both be “carefree together.”
Back then, Big P was skinny and dark, with a somewhat fierce appearance. When he read English, he sounded like one of the hyenas from The Lion King, and when he recited ancient poetry, it was as if he had just gone mad like Fan Jin. Truly, even the monkeys would scatter when we visited the zoo, and he would get excited, patting my head and introducing me to them: “THIS IS MY pet!” I would retort, “Stop shouting! Look, your second aunties are all scared away.”—But that’s another story.
When we first started sitting together, one night during evening study, he was belting out O Sole Mio while I was secretly sipping on cola. As he hit the high notes, he suddenly turned to me and asked, “How’s my voice?” I almost sprayed the cola out of my mouth, and in my frustration, I punched him several times. But he acted like nothing happened, commenting that my punching technique was wrong and not forceful enough. When I asked him to teach me, he seriously obliged, even suggesting I practice on him.
The next day at school, the first thing he said to me was, “Sister Thirteen, the punches you threw at me last night left bruises.” As he spoke, he rolled up his sleeves to show me. Looking back, I think that’s probably where our feelings began. From then on, Big P always called me Sister Thirteen. Our friendship grew stronger as we continued to insult each other and boast about ourselves. He lived in a noisy world, always making different sounds to draw attention as if that would prove something about himself.
I got used to his antics, accustomed to watching him make a fool of himself, and to our constant bickering. Often, I would help him with his answers during class while he slept; at meals, I ate the lean meat while he took the fatty parts because he “needed the nutrition”; when he got into fights, I cheered regardless of the outcome; during self-study, I memorized vocabulary while he used a calculator to estimate my forgetfulness rate at 88.7%; and after school, we’d walk down the hallway loudly teasing each other. We roamed the senior year together like brothers, in perfect sync.
I once heard that every person is like an arc, and when two people can just perfectly form a circle, they are meant to be together. At that time, I particularly believed in this saying. I increasingly felt that Big P and I were fundamentally the same—simple, straightforward, and without reservations. I was confident that I understood him better than anyone else because, in a way, he was just like me. Once, I told Big P, “I feel like I’ve spent a lifetime in senior year.” He didn’t care, instead shouting that I was like the “Eternal Granny of the Heavenly Mountains,” but I had a thought in my heart—a thought about eternity.
After graduation, Big P was still my buddy. Looking back now, I realize we never really discussed our feelings, probably because I felt there was no need to say anything. I was certain that if I liked him, he surely liked me too—wasn’t that obvious? I knew I’d eventually return because I had found my other half, the other half of my circle, and I believed that nothing could separate us, no matter how far apart we were. Before I left, Big P said, “Don’t get cocky; after all these years, it might still be the two of us.” That was the last thing he said to me, and I’ll never forget it.
That year, Big P got into Peking University, while I had just arrived in Los Angeles. A nearby Chinese restaurant exploded, and half of our house’s wall was gone. We moved, and I took a year off from school. I sent Big P an email with just three words: “I moved,” without giving him my new phone number. The new neighbors were a deaf couple, and their vegetable garden was the best in the neighborhood. They often brought us fresh vegetables, and my mom would invite them over to eat after cooking. I had never seen such a loving couple. Sometimes, when they communicated in sign language, I would think of that circle and of Big P, and my heart would ache.
I bought a book and spent an entire autumn teaching myself sign language. Gradually, I became a part of their silent world. They couldn’t hear, so they had to rely on close observation to sense each other, always so calm and composed. This was a world that Big P, who was always restless, could never understand. I had nothing much to do, so besides practicing sign language with my neighbors, I spent a lot of time at the basketball gym collecting NBA player autographs or sending him the latest comic books, which moved him to write back with a string of :p, and he even admitted that he was pursuing a girl.
I sat in front of my computer for an entire afternoon, repeatedly telling myself, “Don’t cry, don’t cry, there’s nothing wrong with this,” but by the time dinner came around, I had no tears left to shed. My parents had long been used to my dazed state and didn’t ask any questions. Later, spring arrived. I was still the same, except my sign language skills had reached a professional level, and Big P, under the careful guidance of me, his “love advisor,” had won his first battle. I thought, as long as he’s happy, I should be too. Being his buddy wasn’t so bad after all. The New York Symphony Orchestra was coming to perform, and I secretly mowed lawns for a month to save up enough money for a ticket. I sneaked in a small recorder and made a live recording of the concert for Big P. But when he emailed back, he complained that I was so engrossed in the concert that I didn’t notice when the tape ran out, missing a large portion. Silently, I kept repeating “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” as tears streamed down my face again.
In June, I returned to Beijing, and Big P’s debate team was just about to have their final round. I didn’t want him to know I was back, so I quietly slipped into the venue. Over the past year, Big P had matured quite a bit. When he gave his closing statement, everyone was laughing and applauding. I knew he had done well, I knew it long ago. After the debate ended, Big P’s team won. As he stepped off the stage, I saw a pretty girl smile at him and walk over. But at that moment, I knew Big P needed someone to dump a bucket of cold water on him to keep him from getting too cocky. I knew, but it no longer mattered.
After returning to the U.S., I found two emails from Big P. In the first one, he mentioned that during the debate final, he saw someone who looked just like me. He called out “Sister Thirteen,” but she ignored him, so it couldn’t have been me. Still, it was amazing how much they looked alike. In the second email, he said that although his girlfriend was nice, he felt there was something between them. He asked why he and I could be so straightforward with each other.
I typed out a reply, telling him that I was actually his other half, but that we could no longer complete the circle. I saved the email without sending it. I never gave Big P my phone number. I still easily got autographs from basketball stars. I worked to earn money for concert tickets, even forgetting when the tape ran out. I didn’t want Big P to know that I had returned to Beijing.
And so, I silently let go of my other half of the circle. Because after the explosion at the Chinese restaurant, I could only live with the help of a hearing aid.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
