Silent love story
The first time I saw her, she was standing at the podium, a bit awkwardly introducing herself. Her grace, vast knowledge, penetrating voice, and always composed smile etched themselves deeply into my mind. Yes, in that moment, I fell for her and continued to do so for fifteen years, almost consuming my entire youth.
I wanted to see her, but I was also afraid to. Every day, I would sit stubbornly by the window, watching her rush out of her office. When she walked into the classroom, I would instinctively lower my head, afraid that others, including her, might notice my feelings. Only during her lectures could I openly display my admiration.
We had enviable interactions, always for legitimate reasons. I considered myself a decent writer, often favored by Chinese teachers, but around her, I felt a bit insecure. She would often read my essays to the class, using them as examples, yet she would also subtly point out my flaws. She would say it would be better without the typos, or if my handwriting were clearer. Once, I deviated slightly from the main point of an essay, and she encouraged me, saying that while the theme was a bit off, the language was beautiful. I often replayed these moments in my mind, becoming infatuated with her.
Subconsciously, I wanted to get to know her better and deliberately sought opportunities to do so. Once, after class, she forgot her keys on the podium. Without thinking, I grabbed the keys and ran after her. I saw her standing by her bike, anxiously searching her bag. I quickly called out, “Teacher, you left your keys on the podium.” She looked up, startled, then smiled and said, “My memory, I thought I lost them! Thank you!”
Watching her fragile figure on her bike, I looked up at the flag on the field, thinking, “It’s a tailwind today; she won’t have to struggle so much riding home.”
With Teacher’s Day approaching, our class decided to buy small gifts for each teacher to show our appreciation—nothing too expensive, but thoughtful and fitting each teacher’s character. I suggested we get our Chinese teacher a water cup and throat lozenges because she had laryngitis. She was moved when she saw these, and I felt a surge of joy.
She managed our relationships skillfully, always reciprocating our gestures. During the Mid-Autumn Festival, we didn’t get a break, and everyone was disappointed. She came to class with mooncakes, corn, peanuts, sunflower seeds, and candies. A female classmate hugged her, sharing her feelings. I thought to myself, how wonderful it would be to be that girl.
I thought I could continue like this, following her from afar. But yearly subject choices split us up. She started teaching the class next door. I could still see her, but it felt empty. I remembered her reading “To the Oak Tree” to us, so I decided I had to grow into a tree that could shield her from the wind and rain. Watching her pass by our class every day became my routine. She remained elegant: white shirt, black suit.
Classmates said she started driving a new electric car. I thought she finally wouldn’t have to endure the weather commuting. They said her boyfriend bought it for her. I wondered if there was a tree beside her; despite feeling down, I was happy for her. Later, I heard it wasn’t from her boyfriend, which oddly made me happy again.
Graduation year became more intense for us and our teachers. I was grateful because whenever I felt exhausted and wanted to give up, her smiling, determined face would appear in my mind.
To not affect our exam mood, the school arranged a photo session after our exams. I took our graduation photo to an unfamiliar studio and had her photo printed separately to keep in my wallet. I managed to get her phone number indirectly and eagerly planned to get closer to her. When I called, a man with a magnetic voice answered. Shocked, I hung up quickly, overhearing their conversation: “Who was it?” “I don’t know, no one spoke.” “Probably a wrong number.”
I hadn’t dialed wrong; it was her. Her voice was so charming, I’d never forget it.
I was a step too late. I heard she got engaged. Sometimes, I would still call her number just to hear her voice without saying anything.
After graduating from college, my job went well, I got a car, and started paying off a mortgage. Known as a homebody, I often thought of her on my commute, feeling lost.
One late night, I saw a family mediation show on TV about a man in love with a woman ten years older, facing opposition from everyone around them. Yet they stayed together, and an expert was helping them communicate with their families. She was only six years older than me, I remembered clearly.
That moment, I grabbed my car keys and drove for hours back to my alma mater, feeling overwhelmed, waiting for her to appear.
The school guard kindly helped me find out when she would come, but she was absent due to her upcoming wedding. I don’t remember how I drove back home, then fell asleep for an entire day.
Upon waking, my first thought was to prepare a special wedding gift for her. Finding her wedding date wasn’t hard; a former classmate now worked with her. I wondered why I didn’t have the courage to contact them or her earlier.
That day, I watched from afar as she looked beautiful in her wedding dress. Her smile was still warm, slightly shy, a sign of happiness.
I had the wedding organizer deliver my gift and quietly left. The gift was a set of finely bound books, knowing she would love them because she looked even more beautiful while reading. The signature read, “A forever student.” Yes, I was her forever student, a student who silently loved her. She might not have known, but it didn’t matter. Loving her secretly was intoxicating, like an ever-blooming beautiful flower. But now, I wanted to let go, to keep her in a corner of my heart, and that was enough.
I shared my unrequited love story with my girlfriend, who half-jokingly said, “You’re so pure-hearted, just the way I like it.” My girlfriend later became my wife and eventually the mother of my children.
One year, we visited my hometown, and my child wanted to see my old school. My wife said schools all look the same, but my child was insistent. Seeing me at a loss, my wife relented, “Sure, why not!”
The school had changed a lot. The old teaching buildings were overshadowed by new ones. But the sunlight in the campus was as bright as ever.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
