At seventeen, after a year as desk mates, he pushed thirty-two tangerine candies to the corner of my desk. Each one came with the same excuse: “I just happened to bring extra.” Then the heavy snow buried the words he never finished, the division into academic tracks separated our desks, and two school buildings came between us and an entire youth.
For the next fourteen years, I went to college, looked for work, saw my mother off on her final journey, and married. He got into Tsinghua through a recommendation, went straight into a PhD program, and became famous. Every greeting stayed in the drafts folder.
At thirty-one, we met again in front of the ruins. He placed the candy he'd been too reluctant to give me back then in my palm. “Some things should have been said fourteen years ago.”
But by then, we'd both set off on our own lives.
This is a story of things being “just right”: just the right amount of affection, just the right amount of cowardice, just the right missed chance, and just the right rest of our lives to make up for the words left unfinished.
Theme: The ache of youth / Mutual unrequited love
