On a copy of Chekhov’s Selected Stories that Cheng Mingqiu, a sophomore chemistry major, borrowed from the library, he found a note written in blue ballpoint pen.
“Chekhov didn’t write about love. He wrote about being tired.”
He didn’t know who had written it. But he wrote in the margin, “I don’t think it’s about being tired.”
He returned the book, then borrowed it again. Beneath the blue writing, new words in pencil had appeared. He returned it and borrowed it again. The blue and pencil notes continued to grow in turn, ranging from Chekhov to Nabokov, from the blank spaces on the pages to the same table in real life.
Cen Shen, a sophomore Chinese literature major, sat across from him. They each read their own books, exchanging an occasional thought after long stretches of silence.
They came to know each other through books, learned to converse through their notes, and fell in love as their seats drew closer. Later, Cen Shen applied for an exchange program in the UK. At the airport, Cheng Mingqiu slipped a copy of The Lover into his bag. On the title page, he wrote four words: One year from now.
A year later, Cen Shen returned with a British edition of Chekhov’s Plays. On the title page was a line in blue ink: Everything is only just beginning.
Cheng Mingqiu opened the book, picked up a pencil, and wrote beneath it: Then I’ll lend it to you again.
They still had plenty of time.
A love this true comes only once in a lifetime.
