Diaries Beneath the Willow Tree

Under the willow tree in sixth grade, a class monitor asked him, "She asked me whether you liked her." He was tying his shoelaces and didn't even look up. He said one word: "Still." The person who'd asked him said, "Oh," turned around, and left without asking again.

He spent years trying to explain that word. First it was "still okay," then it became "still here." In the end, he wasn't even sure whether he was just giving his eleven-year-old self better lines.

From that year on, Liu Wanqiu shared many things with him: photos of herself giving a speech in formal clothes, her life after changing majors, her roommate's wedding photos, a snowy campus, a brochure from the bakery on the corner, gifts from other people, and a wallet. He used that wallet for nearly twenty years. Its edges wore white, and the coating on the zipper pull rubbed off, revealing a hint of brass.

He gave her a few things too, not many, but she kept them all.

Between them stood a rule. In high school, a teacher had once said, "Anything else is fine, but no dating." By the time that rule was gone, they had discovered they had learned to get along in a different way, and couldn't change back.

Twenty-six years passed. A tree grew up beside the wall, then was cut down, and even the hole where it stood was filled in. When he returned at forty, two electric scooters were parked there.

He wrote it all into a book called Diary Under the Willow Tree, never intending to let her read it. He knew she would see it.