When we were sorted into classes in our first year of high school, Sui Hao became my desk mate.
Back then, everyone in class called him a “little wife.” I was stronger than him and loved picking on him. Then, when I went to tease him again at the start of our second year, he suddenly grabbed my wrist and pinned me against the wall. Bracing an arm beside my ear, he leaned down to look at me, a hard-to-read smile in his eyes. “Still going to mess with me?”
I froze. Only then did I realize that the boy who used to look up at me was now much taller than I was.
From then on, our roles were completely reversed. The more I ran my mouth, the more he put me in my place. The most infuriating thing was that he could pin me down right away, but always waited until I had struggled halfway before smiling and pushing me back down.
And yet, this was also the person who would silently unscrew his thermos and slide it over when I curled up over my desk with a stomachache. When I secretly played games late at night, my phone screen would suddenly light up with a message from him: “Go to sleep. If you don't, I'll beat you up tomorrow.”
Then one day, everything came to an abrupt stop. He was suddenly sent away for “intensive tutoring.” His last message was only a few words: “Good luck on the college entrance exam, Lin Chen.”
I never saw him again. All the things I hadn't managed to ask were like a letter full of unspoken feelings, never delivered, left forever in that summer of our youth.
Until the class reunion years later.
The private room door opened, and I watched him walk toward me, step by step. He finally stopped in front of me, the corners of his mouth lifting as he spoke in that familiar tone:
“Lin Chen, long time no see.”
