When I was nineteen, Lin Zhao chose my essay out of five.
She said, “A teacher can only choose one student to mentor. I'm willing to bet on you.” I held onto those words for five years.
The day she injured her arm, I said nothing. I just stared at the bruise and thought: How much must that have hurt?
After that, I, who didn't believe in ghosts or gods, secretly began praying to Buddha. I don't believe in it, but I made a wish: Let her get better soon. Let her arm stop hurting.
On coming-of-age day, I brought an old phone, keeping the camera trained on her the whole time. She filmed other people, so I filmed her.
Before graduation, I gave her a book. On the title page, I wrote: Teacher, I hope you find happiness and smooth sailing, and live your whole life without a care.
This book tells the whole story of us. It's nothing dramatic or thrilling, and it has no ending. It's just a collection of ordinary little moments.
I wrote it because I was afraid I would forget. Afraid that one day I wouldn't remember the sound of her voice, or how many times I silently repeated her words to myself while lying on my desk after she chose my essay when I was nineteen.
All the things I didn't dare say back then are written here now.
Even though I don't believe in gods or Buddha, I still go into temples when I pass by. My wish has never changed: I hope she stays safe. I hope the world treats her gently.
This is the story of her and me.
I write slowly, and I ramble. There's not much of a plot. Just one person hiding her feelings for three years and waiting four years for a reply.
If you'd like, come in and sit for a while.
