Unnamed Lover

Where Did the Light of That Year Go?

Lin Yin always thought some people would never leave. Like the back of the head that was always bent over his desk, fast asleep. Like the cartons of pure milk that appeared at the corner of his desk every day. Like someone who would come over when you stood there daydreaming, say nothing, and quietly watch the same patch of sky with you.

He got used to their presence. Used to reaching out and getting a response. Used to not having to speak when that person was beside him, without things ever feeling awkward. Used to finding comfort in the rhythm of someone’s breathing nearby.

But he never thought that, after two people grew too familiar with each other, they might start drifting apart. It took him a long time to truly understand: when some things break, they make no sound. By the time you realize all you’re holding is half a loose thread, the person at the other end is already far away.

But it wasn’t as if he had nothing left. He kept an entire summer glowing with light, all those awkward yet sincere attempts to get close, and a place in someone’s journey from innocence to understanding.

Years later, when Lin Yin looked back from somewhere else, he finally realized that the light of that year had been lit just for him.

He couldn’t remember much of what came afterward. But he remembered how they spent that summer.