[Completed]
As choices, rules, timeless deeds, and beginnings attract then push Zhan away between two peaks of bliss, he learns: It's easy to fall, but harder to love. It's one thing to spend a star-aligned winter, but something else to bear the war...
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IN MY FIRST YEAR in high school, it felt like I tore off one layer of my skin. Half the things denied my entire life came to light and acceptance in such a rush that I didn't get to think twice or imagine a different scenario for comfort.
In all previous years, time together came so naturally. But in high school, when I first went, Feng was already a year in, settled too well with a bunch of people around him; admiring him, following him, getting to know him. I remember realizing, he's not exclusive to me.
I remember running into him in the hallways. He would throw an arm around my shoulder and I stopped functioning for a second. Then he'll tell whoever he's with, hey, meet my little bro. And then all the way back, I tingled head to toe, blushing for no good reason, and swallowing an iron-heavy reality that I'm possibly in love with my best friend since childhood.
From what I knew, Feng wasn't himself back then. He hated team sports, but he was the to-be basketball captain. He hated authority but he was friends with all the seniors. What bugged me was how all of that suited him. He blended into it so well as if he was playing a perfectly casted role.
He was the golden heart. The smart-ass hooligan. The kinda guy who could flash a smile and get out of the little trouble he's made. But the same person called me over one night, and I found him slit-lipped, bruised on a cheek, smelling like smoke, and muttering through the many shaky breaths he took to hold back tears, I hate dad, I hate everything. Maybe he was somewhat exclusive after all.
That year, I was a little surprised to receive a letter since I was mostly trying to fade into the background. An envelope of a floral print, my name on it in perfect cursive, an innocent confession inside with a time and date for a meet-up.
I remember feeling sick. I remember constant noise like waves in my head, a burst of emotions at nothing and everything. I ran down the stairs of our building needing air, found the trash can, and threw the envelop as hard as a paper can be thrown. Anything about dating used to tick a hazardous nerve back at the time.
What I didn't see was Feng, who was waiting for me right in front of the building, witnessing all of it. He took a look at the note, and then at the mess that was me, and tightened his hand around my neck to walk me home. He took me to his house, sat next to me shoulder to shoulder, watched TV, played games, no questions.
And I felt okay.
And he felt so . . . addictive.
All these years might have been better if I cared more about things that aren't Feng, but nothing else felt like they mattered.
And that year gave me some habits I still can't get rid of. Like, agreeing to everything he says. Like following him around ignoring the rest. Like trying to figure out what he's thinking, following him up the staircase, watching the lazy swing of his torso.
Feng's door had a photo he took last fall: the large old tree near the summerhouse, and the tiny figure of myself under it, reading a book or playing on my phone. It's too small to say for sure. I think he kissed me when he made it to the tree; a simply beautiful memory. But what wasn't in that fall?
