In those years, I loved someone.
He grilled skewers and I studied medicine. We met in the night market, held hands under the street lights, and stumbled closer to each other amidst everyone's disapproval. Later we separated. It's not because we don't love each other, it's because neither of us was good enough at that time - he felt he wasn't worthy, and I felt I wasn't brave enough.
The year I went to Beijing for an internship, I took away a red string given by him and a notebook with his name written all over it. I have seen the moon in Beijing many times on the overpass, but it is not as bright as the night market.
The reunion happened on a very ordinary evening. He stood at the door of the hospital, with no iron clamps or skewers in his hands, only a bouquet of flowers. He said: "I learned a lot of things. I learned how to speak well, how to stop doing everything by myself, how to - stop losing you."
I looked at him and thought of that summer many years ago when he was behind the oven, hat brim low, saying to me, "Slow down." I've been waiting for those two words for too long. This time, I won't let go.
Intent: Two-way redemption and healing
