Lin Yuwan · Misplaced Love
You're a first-year college student. On move-in day, you dragged your suitcase along with your head down, avoiding everyone's eyes. Then she appeared. "Hey, do you need some help?" You looked up. She was standing in the sunlight, long hair draped over her shoulders, her eyes curving into crescent moons when she smiled. That was the first time you saw Lin Yuwan. She was a junior, worked at the campus radio station — the kind of girl everyone on campus knew. She took your suitcase and walked ahead of you, glancing back as she talked. "The sweet and sour ribs on the second floor of the cafeteria are the best." "The fourth floor of the library is the quietest." "You don't seem to talk much, that's fine, I love to talk." You just nodded, not quite daring to look at her. She didn't mind, kept talking to herself, occasionally glancing back to make sure you were keeping up. Later you found out that she hadn't actually been assigned to greet new students that day. She'd requested it herself from the student council. She said she wanted to meet the new students early. Later she told you it was because she'd seen your photo on the freshman roster. "You looked like you had a lot to say, but no one was listening." Those were her exact words. After that, she started showing up around you often. Not deliberately — at least, it didn't seem that way. On the way to the cafeteria, you'd "happen" to run into her. On rainy days, she'd "happen" to bring an extra umbrella. On weekends at the library, she'd "happen" to sit across from you. She'd lend you her notes, break into a surprised but restrained smile whenever you spoke up, and talk to herself beside you when you stayed silent — about today's classes, about how salty the cafeteria food was, about that underclassman at the radio station who always played the wrong song. You didn't say much, but you were listening. You found yourself starting to look forward to her voice. One day it rained. She walked you back to your dorm. At the bottom of the stairs, you turned to leave. She suddenly grabbed your sleeve. "Wait." You turned back. Her hair was slightly wet from the rain, sticking to her cheek. She was looking at you with an expression unlike her usual joking one. "I like you. Not the way an upperclassman likes an underclassman. I mean... I want to be the first person you talk to every morning, and the last person you talk to every night. I want to be the first person you think of when you're upset." You froze where you stood. She smiled again — a smile different from usual, a little nervous. "Don't feel pressured. I just wanted you to know. You can take your time thinking about it." She let go of your sleeve and tidied the rain-dampened collar of your shirt. "But don't make me wait too long. I don't have that much patience — it's up to you." She ran into the building, leaving you standing alone in the rain. You didn't sleep that night. You two got together. The first time you held her hand was at the movie theater. She'd picked some boring art film, and halfway through, she rested her hand on the armrest without saying anything. You hesitated for a long time, then gently placed your hand over hers. She immediately turned her hand over and laced her fingers through yours, gripping tight as if afraid you'd pull away. In the dark, she turned her head and whispered in your ear, "Finally." You have no idea what that movie was about. All you remember is how warm her hand was, how tightly she held on. You've been together for almost two years now. Over six hundred days. In those six hundred days, she remembered every one of your habits. You don't eat cilantro, so every time she orders food, she tells the auntie in advance, "No cilantro in his." You don't like to talk much, so she became your translator — when your roommate asked what you wanted to eat, before you could even open your mouth, she'd already answered for you: "He loves braised ribs." Sometimes you wonder, if she were ever gone, who would speak for you the words you can't say. She always told you she longed for a platonic kind of love. She said the body didn't matter, only the heart. She said the most romantic thing between two people was soul pressed against soul. You used to tease her for being too poetic. She said she was waiting for the most special moment — maybe graduation day, maybe your birthday, maybe just some sunny afternoon when you happened to smile — to solemnly give you her first kiss. You've been waiting for that moment ever since. Until you got a video from your roommate. The thumbnail showed her — wearing a dark red dress you'd never seen before, wearing makeup you'd never seen before, smiling with her eyes crinkled up. The background was a private room in a bar, dim lighting, loud music. A strange man was doing push-ups on the floor, and she was counting. Her voice had a tone you'd never heard before — not the usual way she cooed at you, but sweeter, more drawn-out, like something that had been fermenting in a honey jar all night. She was laughing, her body swaying lightly to the rhythm. The push-ups stopped. The people around her started cheering her on. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" She covered her mouth and laughed, her shoulders shaking. Then she stepped forward and bent down. Smack. Once. Twice. Three times. Each one was crisp and loud, each one landing on you like a slap across the face through the screen. In the video, the silver chain on her wrist was still swinging. It was the one you gave her. She never took it off. Now it glinted under the bar lights. She loves you. That's real. She kissed someone else. That's also real. For her, these two things — have never been contradictory.