Life is a book written in messy handwriting—some pages are smudged with tears that dried into faint, salt-streaked maps, others blotted with laughter that bubbled over like spilled honey, and most are filled with the quiet, unspoken weight of growing up: the awkward pauses between childhood and adolescence, the quiet grief of letting go, and the slow, stubborn courage of starting over. I’ve spent years flipping through my own chapters, tracing the edges of loneliness that wove through every memory like a thin, silver thread, until I realized: those empty spaces weren’t flaws. They were the breathing room between moments, the silence that let joy sink in and sorrow soften, the threads that stitched me into who I am—frayed in places, patched with hope, but whole.
Chapter 1: The Countryside’s Whispers
The first memories I have are wrapped in the smell of jasmine and loess, thick and warm like Grandma’s quilt fresh off the kang. I grew up in a village called Miaogou, nestled between low hills that turned green in spring and gold in autumn, where the sun hung low in the sky most afternoons like a ripe persimmon, its light gilding the tops of the wheat fields that stretched out until they melted into the hazy blue of the horizon. Back then, I thought I held the whole world in my small hands—not because I had much (we didn’t have a TV, and my shoes were hand-me-downs with patched toes), but because I knew no different. The village was my universe: the dirt road that wound past the village committee, the old well with the rusted bucket that creaked when you pulled it up, the jasmine bush outside Grandma’s door that bloomed every May, filling the air with a scent so sweet it made my head spin.
My cousin, Daming, was my shadow, my partner in crime, my first and only friend for the first seven years of my life. We were born three days apart—me on a rainy Tuesday, him on a sunny Friday—and our grandmothers were sisters, so we spent every waking moment together. They’d prop us up on the same bamboo mat in the yard, fanning away mosquitoes with palm-leaf fans while we gummed on rock candy that stuck to our gums and made us drool. By the time we could walk, we were inseparable: we’d sneak into Uncle Li’s peanut fields at dawn to dig up tender pods, our fingers stained brown with dirt that took three washes to scrub off; we’d chase fireflies at dusk, jarring them in glass bottles with holes poked in the lids until Grandma scolded us for trapping “the sky’s tiny lanterns” and made us set them free; we’d climb the old banyan tree behind Grandma’s house, its branches gnarled like old men’s fingers, its trunk so wide we could barely wrap our arms around it, and pretend we were kings of a forest that belonged only to us. Daming would sit on the thickest branch, legs swinging, and declare, “I’m the king of the tree!” and I’d sit below him, clinging to a thinner branch, and say, “Then I’m the queen of the fireflies!” We’d share roasted sweet potatoes stolen from the stove, the skin blackened and crispy, the flesh soft and sweet, and Daming would slurp the juice off his fingers and mumble, “We’ll be best friends forever.” I nodded so hard my pigtails bounced—back then, “forever” felt as solid as the banyan’s trunk, as unshakable as the hills surrounding the village.
We had rituals, little traditions that bound us tighter than thread. Every Saturday morning, we’d go to the village market with Grandma, who’d give us each five cents to spend on sugar-coated peanuts or paper windmills. Daming always chose the windmills, spinning them so fast the paper blurred, while I saved my money for the peanuts, letting the sweet-salty crunch melt on my tongue. Every evening, after dinner, we’d walk to the river at the edge of the village, skipping stones across the shallow water and racing back before dark. Once, we stayed too late, and the fireflies came out in swarms, lighting up the path like tiny stars. I tripped over a root and scraped my knee, and Daming knelt down to blow on it, his breath warm on my skin. “It’ll get better,” he said, and he gave me his favorite windmill, the one with red paper. “This will protect you.” I kept that windmill in my drawer for years, until the paper tore and the stick broke.
But forever, I learned, is a word children use too lightly, a promise they can’t possibly keep because they don’t understand how quickly the world changes. When I was seven, my parents came home. They worked in a distant city—my dad in a factory, my mom as a cleaner—and they only came back once a year, at Spring Festival. But that time, they brought suitcases, and their eyes were serious. “We’re taking you with us,” my dad said, his voice rough. I didn’t understand. Why would I leave Grandma, and Daming, and the banyan tree, and the river? I screamed and clung to Grandma’s apron, her fabric soft and smelling of ginger and rice, and begged her to make them stop. But her hands, which had always held me when I cried, gently pried mine loose. “Be good,” she whispered, tucking a sachet of wormwood into my pocket—she said it would keep bugs away and bring me luck. “I’ll send you candied hawthorns every month, just like you like.” I cried so hard I could barely breathe, and Daming stood next to me, his lower lip trembling, holding out the banyan tree branch he’d carved with our initials. “Don’t forget me,” he said. I hugged him tight, and promised I wouldn’t.
The train ride to the city was twelve hours long, and I stared out the window the whole time, watching the villages and fields blur into a green-and-brown streak. When we finally arrived, the city hit me like a fist. It smelled of gasoline and exhaust instead of jasmine and loess, and the buildings were so tall they scraped the sky like sharp teeth, blocking out the sun. My parents’ apartment was in a run-down building on the edge of the city, a tiny two-room unit with walls so thin I could hear the neighbors arguing at night, their voices sharp and loud, and the baby next door crying until dawn. The floor was cold tile, not warm dirt, and there were no trees—just concrete and wires and cars honking constantly. For the first month, I sat by the window every day, staring at the pigeons that circled the roof, their feathers gray and dirty, and waited for Grandma’s package. I checked the mailbox twice a day, rain or shine, my little hands clutching the edge of the metal box until my knuckles turned white.
When the package finally came, I ran upstairs to open it, my heart racing. But when I tore off the brown paper, my excitement turned to disappointment. The candied hawthorns were sticky and moldy, the red sugar coating melted and fuzzy with green. The long journey had ruined them. I held the wilted skewers in my hands, and cried until my throat felt raw, until my mom came in and took them away. “It’s okay,” she said, but her voice was tired. “We can buy new ones here.” But they weren’t the same. The candied hawthorns in the city were too sweet, too perfect, with no trace of Grandma’s hands, no hint of the village sun. That night, I snuck out to the flower bed downstairs, dug a hole with a stick, and buried the moldy hawthorns. I wanted to bury my sadness too, but it stayed with me, heavy and sharp, like a rock in my pocket.
I tried to make friends at my new school, a concrete building with bars on the windows and a playground made of asphalt. But the other kids laughed at my thick country accent, at my clothes that were too small, at the way I didn’t know what a computer was. “You talk like a farmer,” a girl named Lina sneered one day, pushing my pencil case off the desk. My crayons rolled across the floor, some breaking into pieces. I picked them up one by one, my cheeks burning with shame, and the other kids laughed louder. That day, I ate lunch alone in the bathroom stall, sitting on the cold floor, and decided that making friends wasn’t worth the pain. So I retreated into myself: I read books during recess, borrowing them from the school library and losing myself in stories of princesses and adventures; I ate lunch alone, hiding in the bathroom or under the stairs; I counted the days until I could go back to the village, marking them off on a piece of paper taped to the inside of my desk.
But the village, too, was changing. When I visited during the Spring Festival a year later, everything felt different. Daming had a new friend from the next village, a boy with a bicycle who could do tricks, and he barely spoke to me. He didn’t want to climb trees or chase fireflies—he wanted to ride bikes and play video games at the village store. The banyan tree had been cut down to make room for a new road, its stump a rough circle of wood, and the jasmine bush outside Grandma’s door was wilted, half-dead from neglect. Grandma’s hair was whiter, her back more hunched, and her hands shook when she poured me tea. “The countryside isn’t the same,” she said softly, staring out the window at the new road. “Everyone’s leaving for the city, or growing up.” That night, I snuck out to the flower bed where I’d buried the candied hawthorns, but there was nothing there but weeds, tall and thick, covering the spot completely. I knelt down and pulled at the weeds, but they were too strong. I realized then: the world I’d held in my hands, the world of banyan trees and fireflies and forever friends, was already slipping away, and I couldn’t get it back.
Chapter 2: The Weight of Backpack Straps
Primary School: The Glow of Three Candles
I didn’t think I’d ever be happy again—not after leaving the village, not after losing Daming, not after being laughed at every day at school. I felt like a fish out of water, gasping for air in a world that was too loud, too bright, too strange. But then, in third grade, I met Xiao Yu and Xiao Ting, and everything changed.
Xiao Yu was the first person who didn’t laugh at my accent. She sat next to me on the first day of class, her hair in two neat braids, and pushed a lollipop onto my desk—a red one, my favorite. “Your shoes are cool,” she said, grinning. “They have mud on them—like you’ve been on an adventure.” I stared at her, shocked. No one had ever called my dirty shoes cool before. I mumbled a thank you, and she kept talking, her voice warm and friendly, like we’d known each other forever. She told me about her cat, Mimi, who slept on her pillow at night, and about her favorite cartoon, and about how she hated math but loved art. Xiao Ting, who sat in front of us, turned around halfway through Xiao Yu’s story, her eyes bright. “I love adventures,” she said. “Can I come next time?”
Suddenly, I wasn’t alone anymore. We became the kind of friends who shared everything—secrets, snacks, dreams, and the little heartaches that feel so big when you’re ten. Xiao Yu gave me her favorite notebook, the one with a white cat on the cover, and said, “Write down all your stories here. I want to read them.” Xiao Ting taught me how to braid my hair, her fingers deft and patient, even when I fidgeted and complained that it was too tight. I told them about the village, about Daming and the banyan tree, about chasing fireflies and eating roasted sweet potatoes, and they listened like I was telling a fairy tale, their eyes wide with wonder. “That sounds magical,” Xiao Ting said, and Xiao Yu nodded, adding, “We should go there someday.”
Every weekend, we’d take turns sleeping over at each other’s houses, and those nights were some of the happiest of my childhood. At Xiao Yu’s house, which was bigger than mine, with a living room and a TV, we’d watch horror movies until we were too scared to move, then hide under the covers, screaming and laughing at the same time. Her mom would bring us bowls of cut fruit, and shake her head at us, saying, “You girls are crazy.” At Xiao Ting’s house, her mom was a wonderful cook, and she’d make us dumplings stuffed with chives and pork, the skins thin and tender, the filling juicy. We’d eat until our bellies were full, then stay up all night chatting about boys who picked their noses in class, about our least favorite teachers, about what we wanted to be when we grew up. Xiao Yu wanted to be a painter, Xiao Ting wanted to be a doctor, and I wanted to go back to the village and be a farmer, so I could grow sweet potatoes and peanuts and never leave. At my apartment, which was small and cramped, we’d spread a blanket on the floor, eat instant noodles with eggs (a treat my mom let me make only when I had friends over), and pretend we were camping in the countryside. We’d turn off the lights, light a candle, and tell ghost stories, and I’d describe the sound of the river at night, the hoot of the owls, the rustle of the wheat fields, and they’d close their eyes and sigh, like they could feel it too.
We had our own little traditions, just like Daming and I did. Every Wednesday, we’d meet at the school gate after class and share a bag of spicy strips, our fingers turning red from the oil, our tongues burning. Every month, on the 15th, we’d go to the bookstore downtown and browse the children’s section, sitting on the floor and reading books until the clerk told us to leave. Xiao Yu would read art books, Xiao Ting would read science books, and I’d read stories about villages and farms. We’d save our pocket money for weeks to buy a new book, then take turns reading it aloud at sleepovers.
Once, on my tenth birthday, they showed up at my door with a cake they’d made themselves. It was lopsided, with too much pink frosting that oozed down the sides, and the candles spelled “Happy Birthady” (they’d forgotten the second “e”). But it was the most beautiful cake I’d ever seen. “We saved our pocket money for three weeks,” Xiao Ting panted, wiping flour off her cheek with the back of her hand. “And we baked it at my house. My mom helped, but we did most of it—mixing the batter, adding the frosting, picking the candles.” Xiao Yu pulled out a small box from behind her back. “And this is from me,” she said. Inside was a drawing of the three of us, holding hands, standing under a banyan tree full of fireflies. “I drew it myself,” she said, her cheeks pink. As we blew out the candles, the smoke curling up toward the ceiling, I made a wish: Please let this last forever. I didn’t want to lose another friend, didn’t want to feel lonely again.
But again, forever slipped through my fingers, like sand through a sieve. When we graduated from primary school, Xiao Yu’s dad got a new job in Guangzhou, a big city far away, and they were moving. Xiao Ting’s parents decided to send her to a private school in another district, one with better teachers and a bigger campus. On the last day of class, we exchanged friendship bracelets made of colored string—Xiao Yu’s was blue and green, Xiao Ting’s was pink and yellow, mine was red and brown, like the dirt of the village. We sat on the playground, the asphalt hot under our legs, and cried. “We’ll write every week,” Xiao Yu said, her voice cracking. “I’ll send you letters with drawings, and you can tell me about your new school.” Xiao Ting nodded, hugging us tight. “And we’ll meet every holiday, I promise.” We walked home together that day, our backpacks bumping against each other, and didn’t say much. We just held hands, like we could hold onto each other a little longer.
But we didn’t write every week. At first, we sent letters—Xiao Yu’s were filled with drawings of her new school, of the big buildings and the river in Guangzhou, and she told me about her new friends, about how she was learning to speak Cantonese. I wrote back, telling her about my new middle school, about how I still missed the village, about how I hadn’t made any new friends. But then, life got busy. Xiao Yu had homework and new friends, I had exams and classes, and the letters got lost in the mail, or we forgot to write, or we didn’t know what to say anymore. Eventually, we stopped trying. I kept my friendship bracelet in a box under my bed, next to the broken windmill and the drawing of the banyan tree. I’d take it out sometimes, running my fingers over the frayed string, and cry. It was like losing the village all over again.
Middle School: The Hum of Textbooks and Heartbeats
Middle school was a blur of textbooks and test scores, of early mornings and late nights, of pressure that felt like a heavy blanket wrapped around my chest. My parents told me, “If you don’t get good grades, you’ll end up back in the countryside, working in the fields like your grandparents,” and their words echoed in my head every time I opened a textbook. So I studied until my eyes burned, until my fingers ached from writing, until I could barely keep my eyes open. I woke up at 5:30 every morning to recite English words, my voice hoarse from sleep, and ate breakfast while flipping through math workbooks. At school, I sat in the front row, taking notes furiously, never raising my hand unless I was sure I knew the answer. During lunch, I ate quickly, then went to the library to do homework, while the other kids laughed and talked in the cafeteria. I went to bed at 11:00 every night, after finishing my homework and reviewing my notes, and dreamed of equations and vocabulary words.
I didn’t have any friends. The girls in my class formed cliques, talking about fashion and K-pop and boys, and I didn’t know anything about those things. The boys played basketball at recess, and I was too shy to join. I ate lunch alone in the library, sitting at a table in the corner, my head buried in a book. I felt like an outsider, like I didn’t belong, and the loneliness came back, softer than before but just as persistent, like a dull ache in my chest.
But even in the chaos of textbooks and exams, I found light—faint, but enough to keep me going. I met Lin Hao in the second year of middle school. He sat in the back of the classroom, by the window, and never paid attention in class. Instead, he drew cartoons in his notebook: caricatures of our teachers, of the other students, of imaginary creatures with big eyes and funny ears. He had messy black hair that fell over his forehead, and he always wore a blue jacket with a hole in the elbow. One day, after math class, he passed me a sketch across the desk. It was a girl with pigtails, sitting by a window, staring at pigeons. The girl had my eyes, my messy hair, my sad expression. On the back, he’d written: “That’s you. You look like you’re homesick.”
I stared at the drawing, my throat tight. No one had ever seen me like that—no one had noticed that I was sad, that I missed the village, that I felt alone. I turned around and looked at him, and he smiled, a small, shy smile. “It’s good,” I said, my voice quiet. “Thank you.” He shrugged. “I just draw what I see.”
After that, we started passing notes. He’d draw cartoons of our math teacher, who had a big belly and a loud voice, and write funny captions on them, making me laugh even when I was stressed about exams. I’d help him with his math homework, explaining equations and formulas until he understood, because he was terrible at math but brilliant at art. Sometimes, he’d draw pictures for me: a cat sitting on a windowsill, a river at sunset, a banyan tree full of fireflies. “For your village,” he said, when he gave me the banyan tree drawing. I kept it in my textbook, between the pages of my math notes, and when I felt overwhelmed, when I wanted to give up, I’d look at it and breathe, remembering the smell of jasmine and the sound of Daming’s laugh.
We weren’t “friends”—not like Xiao Yu and Xiao Ting, who shared everything. We didn’t hang out after school, or have sleepovers, or tell each other our deepest secrets. But we were something, something gentle and quiet, like the rustle of leaves on a windy day. We’d walk home together sometimes, our backpacks bumping against each other, and talk about nothing and everything: his dream of becoming a cartoonist, of drawing comics that made people laugh; my fear of failing exams, of disappointing my parents; the way the sunset turned the sky pink and orange over the city buildings; the fact that neither of us liked the spicy noodles at the school cafeteria. One day, as we walked past a park, he said, “You don’t have to be so strong all the time. It’s okay to be sad, to miss things.” I stared at my shoes, the concrete rough under my feet, and for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I had to pretend. I didn’t say anything, but I nodded, and he didn’t push. We just walked in silence, and it was okay.
But middle school ended, too, like all good things do. Lin Hao wanted to go to an art high school, where he could study drawing and painting, and my parents insisted I go to a public high school with a good academic reputation, one that would help me get into a top university. On the last day of middle school, we exchanged phone numbers. “I’ll text you,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You can tell me about high school, and I’ll send you my drawings.” I nodded, but I knew we wouldn’t. We were moving in different directions, like two trains on separate tracks.
I saw him once, a year later, at a bookstore downtown. I was there buying study guides for my exams, and he was in the art section, looking at comic books. He was with a girl with short hair, who was laughing at something he’d drawn in his notebook. He looked happy, relaxed, like he’d found his place. He didn’t see me, and I didn’t go over to say hello. I just turned and walked away, my throat tight, my eyes burning. It was better that way, I told myself. Some people are meant to be in your life for a season, not a lifetime.
High School: The Cracked Mirror of Loneliness
High school was when the loneliness came back, sharper and more painful than ever, like a shard of glass in my chest.
The pressure to get into a good university was suffocating, a constant, heavy weight that followed me everywhere. My classmates talked about nothing but test scores and college rankings, about how many hours they studied each night, about which tutoring classes were the best. The hallways were filled with the hum of anxiety, of students rushing from class to class, their faces serious, their backpacks stuffed with textbooks and workbooks. I studied harder than ever: I skipped lunch to go to the library, spending the hour poring over physics formulas and history notes; I took extra tutoring classes on weekends, sitting in stuffy classrooms from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m.; I slept for only six hours a night, staying up late to finish homework and review for exams. But no matter how hard I tried, my grades stayed in the middle of the class. I wasn’t the top student, wasn’t the one teachers praised, wasn’t the one my parents bragged about to their friends.
“You’re not trying hard enough,” my mom said, as she looked at my midterm report card, her face tight with disappointment. “If you’d study more instead of reading those silly books, your grades would be better.” My dad nodded, adding, “Maybe you’re just not smart enough. Maybe we should lower our expectations.” Their words cut like a knife, sharp and cruel, and I went to my room and cried, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I barely recognized myself: my eyes were sunken, with dark circles under them; my hair was greasy, unwashed for days; my lips were chapped from not drinking enough water. I looked tired, worn out, like I’d aged ten years in a few months. I felt like a failure, like I’d never be good enough, like I didn’t deserve to be happy.
I tried to make friends, but it was like trying to hold water in my hands—no matter how hard I squeezed, it slipped away. I joined the literature club, hoping to meet people who loved books as much as I did. But the other members talked about classic novels I’d never read, about authors with complicated names, about literary theories that went over my head. I sat in the corner, listening quietly, never speaking, until I stopped going altogether. I tried sitting with a group of girls at lunch, smiling and nodding as they talked about K-pop idols and TV shows I didn’t know. But one day, I overheard them talking about me when they thought I wasn’t listening. “She’s so weird,” one girl said. “She never talks, she just sits there like a ghost.” Another laughed. “Yeah, and she’s always reading those boring books. Who even reads anymore?” I packed up my lunch and left, and never sat with them again.
After that, I gave up on making friends. I ate alone in the library, studied alone, walked home alone. I avoided eye contact with my classmates, kept my head down in the hallways, and tried to be invisible. The loneliness was a constant companion, like a shadow that followed me everywhere. I felt like a cracked mirror—every time I tried to connect with someone, I broke a little more, until I was scared to try at all. I’d come home from school, drop my backpack on the floor, and sit on my bed, staring at the wall, for hours. I’d think about the village, about Daming and Xiao Yu and Xiao Ting and Lin Hao, about all the people who’d left me, and I’d wonder what was wrong with me. Why couldn’t I keep friends? Why did everyone leave? Why was I so alone?
Then, halfway through my first year of high school, Chen Li transferred to our class. She was quiet, like me, with long black hair that she kept in a ponytail, and she sat in the corner of the classroom, writing in a notebook during breaks. She never talked to anyone, never smiled, never participated in class discussions. One day, we ended up sitting next to each other in the cafeteria—she was eating alone, staring at her food, and I was eating alone, staring at my book. “This food is terrible,” she said suddenly, making me jump. I looked up, and she was smiling, a small, sad smile. “Yeah,” I said, laughing a little. “It’s not as good as my grandma’s cooking.” She nodded. “My mom’s a good cook, but she’s always working. I eat alone a lot.”
That was the start of our friendship. We started eating lunch together every day, sitting in the corner of the cafeteria or outside on the steps, and talked about everything—our families, our fears, our dreams. She showed me her poems, which she wrote in a leather-bound notebook: they were about rain and empty rooms and the way the wind sounds through open windows, about feeling invisible and alone. “I feel like I’m a ghost,” she wrote in one poem. “Like no one can see me, like I’m not even here.” I knew exactly what she meant. I told her about the village, about the banyan tree and the fireflies, about Daming and Xiao Yu and Xiao Ting, about how I missed the life I used to have. She listened quietly, her head nodding, and when I finished, she said, “You’re not alone. I see you.”
We became close—closer than I’d been to anyone since Xiao Yu and Xiao Ting. We’d skip self-study class to sit on the roof of the school building, our legs dangling over the edge, and watch the clouds go by. She’d read me her poems, her voice soft and gentle, and I’d tell her stories about the village, about chasing fireflies and climbing the banyan tree. “We’re not ghosts,” she said once, as we watched the stars come out, the sky dark and clear. “We’re just people who haven’t found our place yet. But we will. Someday.” I wanted to believe her, wanted to think that there was a place for me, for us, in the world.
We had our own little rituals, too. Every Friday afternoon, we’d go to the convenience store near the school and buy ice cream—chocolate for her, strawberry for me—and sit on the park bench outside, eating it and talking about our week. She’d tell me about her poetry, about the lines she couldn’t get right, about the way writing made her feel less alone. I’d tell her about my studies, about the exams I was stressed about, about the books I’d been reading. She gave me a small notebook, with a blue cover, and said, “Write down your stories here. Not just the sad ones, but the happy ones too. You have a lot of good stories to tell.” I started writing in it every night, jotting down memories of the village, of my friends, of the little moments that made me smile—like the time Lin Hao drew me the banyan tree, or the time Xiao Yu and Xiao Ting made me that lopsided cake.
But Chen Li left, too. Halfway through our second year of high school, her parents got divorced, and she moved to Beijing with her mom. She didn’t tell me goodbye—not in person, anyway. I went to class one morning, and her desk was empty. Her notebook was gone, her backpack was gone, her poems were gone. That afternoon, I found a note in my textbook, tucked between the pages of my history notes. It was in her handwriting, neat and small: “I’m sorry. I couldn’t stay. Thank you for being my friend. You’re not a ghost. You’re amazing, and you deserve to be happy. Don’t forget to write your stories. I’ll read them someday. Goodbye.”
I sat on the roof that night, the same roof where we’d sat and watched the stars, and cried until the stars faded, until the sky turned pink with dawn. I felt like my heart had been torn out, like I’d lost a part of myself. I went back to eating alone, studying alone, walking home alone. I stopped writing in the notebook she’d given me, stopped reading the books we’d talked about, stopped looking for light in the darkness. I felt like the cracked mirror had shattered completely, and there was no way to put the pieces back together.
After that, I stopped trying. I studied because I had to, ate because I was hungry, went home because there was nowhere else to go. I felt numb, like I’d turned off my emotions to protect myself from the pain of losing another friend. But then, one day, a month after Chen Li left, I found a note in my desk. It was from a girl in my class, someone I’d never spoken to—her name was Wang Fang, and she sat in the front row, always quiet, always studying. The note was short, just two sentences: “I see you. You’re not alone. I know what it feels like to be sad, but it gets better. I promise.”
I didn’t write back, didn’t talk to her, didn’t even look at her the next day. But I kept the note, tucked inside the notebook Chen Li had given me. It was small, just a scrap of paper with messy handwriting, but it was enough to make me realize: loneliness isn’t a cage. It’s a room you can walk out of, if you’re brave enough. It’s not permanent, not forever. It’s just a part of life, a chapter, not the whole book.
Chapter 3: The Unfolding of Wings
The Summer After the Exam: Dusting Off My Shoes
The college entrance exam was a marathon—nine hours of testing over two days, of scribbling answers in exam booklets, of trying to remember formulas and dates and vocabulary words that felt like they were slipping away. When I finished the last paper, I walked out of the classroom, my legs shaking, my hands sweating, and stared at the sky for a long time. It was a bright, sunny day, the sky blue and clear, with a few fluffy clouds floating by. But I didn’t feel happy or sad—I just felt empty, like a balloon that had been let go, floating aimlessly without a direction.
My parents were disappointed when I got my scores. I’d gotten into a local normal university, not the top-tier school they’d dreamed of, not the one they’d spent years pushing me to get into. “It’s fine,” my mom said, but her voice was tight, her smile forced. “At least you can be a teacher. Stable work, good benefits. It’s a good life.” My dad nodded, but he didn’t look at me. “Better than being a farmer, I guess,” he said. I nodded, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t happy about the university, wasn’t excited about becoming a teacher, but I was just glad the pressure was over—glad I didn’t have to study until my eyes burned, glad I didn’t have to worry about test scores and college rankings, glad I could breathe again.
That summer, I did things I’d never done before. I got a job tutoring middle school students in math and English, saving up money for a trip. I’d never traveled anywhere except the village and the city I lived in, and I wanted to see more—to see mountains and rivers and forests, to see places that weren’t concrete and wires and cars. Through WeChat, I reconnected with Hu, a girl from my primary school class who’d moved away in fourth grade. We’d been friends for a little while before she left, and we’d added each other on WeChat a few years back but never talked. One day, I messaged her, saying, “Do you want to go traveling this summer?” She replied right away: “Yes! Where?”
We decided on Yunnan, a province in the southwest of China known for its mountains, lakes, and ancient towns. We traveled for two weeks, carrying backpacks and staying in cheap hostels, and it was the best two weeks of my life. We hiked up Jade Dragon Snow Mountain, our lungs burning from the thin air, our legs aching, but when we reached the top, the view took our breath away—snow-capped peaks stretching as far as the eye could see, the sky a deep, vivid blue, the air crisp and cold. We walked through the old town of Lijiang, its streets paved with stone, its buildings made of wood with curved eaves, its shops selling handcrafted jewelry and colorful fabrics. We sat in a little café with a view of the river, drinking tea and watching the world go by. We visited Erhai Lake, a large, clear lake surrounded by mountains, and sat on the shore at sunset, watching the sky turn orange and purple and pink, the water reflecting the colors like a mirror. “I missed you,” Hu said, as we ate roasted corn by the lake, the kernels sweet and crispy. “Me too,” I said, and for the first time in years, I meant it. We talked about our childhood, about primary school, about the friends we’d lost and the ones we’d made. She told me about her life, about her high school years, about her dreams of becoming a journalist. I told her about the village, about Chen Li and Lin Hao and Xiao Yu and Xiao Ting, about the loneliness and the sadness and the small moments of joy. She listened quietly, and when I finished, she said, “You’ve been through a lot, but you’re still here. That’s amazing.”
I also turned 18 that summer, a milestone I’d been dreading for years. I didn’t want a big celebration—didn’t want a party, didn’t want presents, didn’t want to be the center of attention. So I spent the day alone. I woke up late, made myself pancakes for breakfast, and went to a café downtown with the notebook Chen Li had given me. I sat there for hours, drinking coffee and writing, jotting down memories of the village, of my friends, of the trip to Yunnan. I wrote about the way the snow felt on my face at Jade Dragon Snow Mountain, about the sound of the river in Lijiang, about the taste of roasted corn by Erhai Lake. I wrote about Chen Li’s poems, about Xiao Yu’s drawings, about Lin Hao’s cartoons. I wrote about Grandma’s ginger tea, about Daming’s windmill, about the banyan tree that was gone but never forgotten. Then, I went to get a haircut—short, so it was easy to manage—and walked around the city until the streetlights came on, watching people laugh and talk and live their lives. It wasn’t a grand celebration, but it was mine. I realized then: growing up isn’t about having a big party, or receiving presents, or reaching some arbitrary milestone. It’s about learning to be with yourself, about liking the person you are, about accepting the past and looking forward to the future. It’s about realizing that you don’t need anyone else to make you happy—that happiness comes from within, from the little moments, from the stories you carry with you.
That summer, I also went back to the village for a week. Grandma was 78 then, her hair completely white, her back more hunched than before, but she still had that warm smile, that gentle voice, that smell of ginger and rice. She made me ginger tea every morning, her hands shaking a little as she poured it, and told me stories about the village—about who’d gotten married, who’d had kids, who’d moved away. Daming was home too, visiting from the city where he worked as a mechanic. He was taller, broader, with a beard and calloused hands, but he still smiled the same way, with his eyes crinkling at the corners. We sat in the yard, drinking tea, and talked about our childhood. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay in touch,” he said, his voice quiet. “I was busy with school, then work, and I didn’t know what to say. But I thought about you sometimes—about the banyan tree, about chasing fireflies, about the roasted sweet potatoes.” I smiled. “I thought about you too. I missed you.” We didn’t talk about forever this time—we both knew better—but we exchanged phone numbers, and promised to stay in touch. That night, we walked to the river at the edge of the village, just like we used to, and skipped stones across the water. The fireflies were out, and for a moment, it felt like we were kids again, like nothing had changed.
University: The Chaos of New Beginnings
University was a shock, but this time, it was a good one—a chaotic, exciting, wonderful shock. It was a world away from high school: no more constant pressure to get good grades, no more loneliness that felt like a weight, no more feeling like I didn’t belong. It was a place where people were different, where everyone was trying to figure out who they were, where I could be myself without fear of being laughed at.
My dorm room had three other girls, and at first, I was terrified. I’d never shared a room with anyone before, never had to navigate the complexities of living with strangers. But Li Mei, Wang Ling, and Zhang Na turned out to be the best roommates I could have asked for. Li Mei was from Chengdu, loud and outgoing, with a love for K-pop and spicy food. She talked so fast her words ran together, and she was always singing or dancing in the dorm room, even when we were trying to study. Wang Ling was from a small town in Hunan, quiet and artistic, who loved to paint and listen to classical music. She’d sit at her desk for hours, brush in hand, painting landscapes or portraits, and she rarely spoke unless she had something important to say. Zhang Na was from Shanghai, fashionable and confident, who knew everything about fashion, makeup, and pop culture. She’d give us advice on what to wear, what makeup to use, and she’d always have the latest gossip about celebrities.
At first, I felt like an outsider—Li Mei and Zhang Na would stay up late talking about K-pop idols and fashion trends, and Wang Ling would paint while listening to classical music, and I didn’t know how to join in. I’d sit on my bed, reading or writing in my notebook, feeling like I didn’t fit. But slowly, they pulled me in. Li Mei insisted on teaching me how to dance to K-pop songs, laughing as I stumbled over the steps. Wang Ling asked me to model for her paintings, sitting still for hours while she sketched my face. Zhang Na took me shopping downtown, helping me pick out clothes that fit my style, not just what was trendy. We started having dorm parties every Friday night, ordering hot pot and watching movies, laughing until our sides hurt. We’d stay up late talking about our childhoods, our dreams, our fears—Li Mei talked about her dream of becoming a K-pop dancer, Wang Ling about her hope of having an art exhibition, Zhang Na about her goal of working in fashion design. I talked about the village, about my friends, about my love of writing and my fear of becoming a teacher. “Why don’t you become a writer?” Wang Ling asked, as we ate hot pot. “You’re good at telling stories. You should share them with the world.” I’d never thought about it before—writing had always been something I did for myself, to process my feelings, to hold onto memories. But the idea of becoming a writer, of sharing my stories with others, made my heart race.
I also started to face my fears in university. I joined the school newspaper, where I wrote articles about student life—about dorm parties, about tutoring programs, about the little moments that made university special. At first, I was terrified of writing for an audience, of putting my words out there for people to read and judge. But my editor, a senior named Liu Yang, encouraged me. “Your writing is honest,” she said. “It’s real. People want to read that.” So I kept writing, and slowly, my confidence grew. I joined a volunteer group that taught English to kids from migrant families, and at first, I was scared to talk in front of the kids, scared I’d mess up, scared they wouldn’t like me. But the kids were sweet and eager to learn, and they didn’t care about my accent or my shyness. They just wanted to learn English, to hear stories, to have someone pay attention to them. I started looking forward to the volunteer sessions, to the sound of the kids laughing, to the way their faces lit up when they learned a new word. I even asked a boy out on a date—his name was Zhou Wei, and he was in my literature class, with a love for poetry and a gentle smile. I was nervous, my hands shaking as I asked him, but he smiled and said, “I’m flattered, but I’m seeing someone. I’m sorry.” I didn’t cry, didn’t feel ashamed. I just laughed and said, “That’s okay. Maybe next time.” It was a small victory, but it felt huge—for the first time, I’d put myself out there, and even though it didn’t work out, I wasn’t destroyed by it.
But university wasn’t all easy. I struggled with some of my classes—education theory was boring and confusing, and I’d stay up late writing lesson plans, worrying that I’d never be a good teacher. I fought with my roommates sometimes: Li Mei would play music too loud when I was trying to study, Zhang Na would borrow my clothes without asking, Wang Ling would forget to take out the trash. But we always made up—we’d order hot pot and talk about what was bothering us, and realize that we were all just trying to figure out how to be adults, how to live with other people, how to balance our dreams with reality. One night, after a big fight with Li Mei about her music, we sat on the floor of our dorm room, eating ice cream, and she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how loud it was. I just get so excited when I listen to my favorite songs.” I nodded. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I was stressed about my lesson plan.” We hugged, and it was okay.
I also reconnected with some old friends that year. Through WeChat, I found Xiao Yu—she was studying art at a university in Guangzhou, and she’d started posting her paintings online. They were beautiful, full of color and life, just like she was. We started video calling every Sunday night, catching up on each other’s lives. She told me about her art classes, about her new friends, about the exhibitions she’d been in. I told her about university, about my roommates, about the school newspaper and the volunteer group. “I’m so proud of you,” she said, during one call. “You’ve come so far. Remember when we used to camp on your floor and pretend we were in the countryside? Look at us now—we’re living our own adventures.” I smiled, my eyes burning. “I miss you,” I said. “Me too,” she replied. “We should meet up sometime. I’ll come to your city, or you can come to Guangzhou.” We made plans to meet the next summer, and this time, I hoped we’d keep them.
I also found Chen Li’s poetry online. She’d started a blog, where she posted her poems, and I read them every night before bed. Her writing was still beautiful, still sad, but there was a new strength in it, a sense of hope. In one poem, she wrote: “Loneliness is a river, but you can learn to swim. Loss is a storm, but it passes. You are not broken. You are becoming.” I sent her a message through her blog, telling her who I was, telling her how much her poems meant to me, telling her I missed her. A week later, she replied: “I’m so glad you found me. I think about you all the time. Your stories inspired me to keep writing. We should meet when I’m back in your city. I want to hear everything.”
The Present: Stitching the Pages Together
Now, I’m in my second year of university, and life is still messy—still full of ups and downs, of joy and sadness, of new beginnings and painful goodbyes. But it’s also beautiful, in its own messy way.
I still get lonely sometimes: I’ll sit in the library and miss the village, the smell of jasmine and loess, the sound of the river at night; I’ll walk past a banyan tree in the park and think of Daming, of the way we used to climb it and pretend we were kings and queens; I’ll read Chen Li’s poems and wonder where she is, if she’s happy, if we’ll ever meet again. But loneliness doesn’t scare me anymore. It’s just a part of me, like my country accent that still comes out when I’m tired or excited, like my love of candied hawthorns that I still buy whenever I see them, like the scar on my knee from tripping over that root by the river when I was a kid. It’s a reminder of where I’ve been, of the people I’ve loved, of the stories that have shaped me.
Last month, I went back to the village. Grandma is 81now, but she still makes me ginger tea every morning, her hands shaking a little more than before, but her smile just as warm. She can’t walk as far as she used to, but she still sits in the yard every afternoon, watching the kids play, her eyes soft with love. Daming is married now, to a girl from his hometown, and they have a baby girl, who’s two years old, with chubby cheeks and my old pigtails. Her name is Xiao Man, and she’s the sweetest thing—she clung to my leg the whole time I was there, calling me “Jie Jie” (older sister) and asking me to pick her up. Daming and I sat in the yard, watching Xiao Man play, and talked for hours. He told me about his job, about his family, about how he’d bought a house in the village and was planning to open a small repair shop. “I wanted to come back,” he said. “The city was too busy, too loud. I missed the quiet, the fresh air, the people. This is home.” I told him about university, about my roommates, about the school newspaper and the volunteer group, about my dream of becoming a writer. “That’s amazing,” he said, smiling. “I always knew you were going to do something great. Remember when you used to tell me stories about the fireflies? You were a writer even then.” The banyan tree is gone, but there’s a new park where it used to be, with a playground where kids laugh and chase each other, where Xiao Man ran around with other little kids, chasing butterflies and screaming with joy. It’s not the same as the banyan tree, but it’s good—new, but full of life. “You’ve changed,” Daming said, as we watched Xiao Man play. “For the better.” I think he’s right.
I’m not the girl who clung to Grandma’s apron and cried when she had to leave the village. I’m not the girl who ate lunch in the bathroom stall and was too scared to make friends. I’m not the girl who cried because her friends left, because she felt like a ghost, because she thought she’d never be happy again. I’m someone who’s been broken, again and again, but who’s stitched herself back together, each time stronger than before. I’m someone who’s learned to embrace loneliness, to see it not as a curse but as a gift—a chance to know myself, to appreciate the people who stay, to find joy in the little moments. I’m someone who knows that forever is a word we use too lightly, but that’s okay—because the people who matter will always be with us, in our memories, in our hearts, in the stories we tell.
University is still challenging. I’m busy with classes and the school newspaper, with volunteer work and internships. I still worry about my future—will I be a good teacher? Will I ever become a writer? Will I find someone to love, someone who stays? But I don’t worry as much as I used to. I know that whatever happens, I’ll be okay. I have my friends—my roommates who laugh with me, cry with me, fight with me and make up with me; Xiao Yu who video calls me every Sunday night and tells me about her art; Chen Li who writes me poems and promises to meet me soon; Wang Fang who left that note in my desk all those years ago and who I’m now friends with, who’s studying to be a doctor and who still checks in on me sometimes. I have my family—Grandma who makes me ginger tea and tells me stories; my parents who still push me, but who now tell me they’re proud of me, even if I’m not going to a top-tier university; Daming who’s back in the village with his family, who reminds me of where I came from.
I still write in the notebook Chen Li gave me, every night. I write about the village, about my friends, about the little moments that make me happy: the way Li Mei sings off-key in the dorm room, the way Wang Ling’s paintings make me see the world differently, the way Zhang Na always has a kind word when I’m stressed, the way the kids at the volunteer program light up when they learn a new word, the way Zhou Wei smiled at me when I asked him out, even though he said no. I write about the sadness too—the way I miss Chen Li, the way I worry about Grandma getting older, the way I sometimes feel like I’m not doing enough. But I write about it not to wallow in it, but to process it, to let it go, to make room for joy.
Life is still messy. I still have bad days—days when I’m stressed about exams, days when I miss my friends, days when I feel like I’m not making progress. But I also have good days—days when I finish a story and feel proud, days when I laugh so hard with my roommates that my sides hurt, days when I hold Xiao Man in my arms and feel pure joy, days when I drink Grandma’s ginger tea and feel at home. I know that there will be more goodbyes, more loneliness, more challenges. But I also know that there will be more hellos, more love, more moments that take my breath away.
The best part of life isn’t the “forever.” It’s the right now: the smell of ginger tea wafting through Grandma’s house, the sound of Xiao Man’s laugh as she chases a butterfly, the feeling of a good book in my hands on a rainy afternoon, the way my roommates sing off-key to K-pop songs, the knowledge that I’m still growing, still changing, still becoming. It’s the stories—the ones we tell, the ones we live, the ones we carry with us. It’s the people who come into our lives, even if only for a season, and leave footprints on our hearts. It’s the courage to keep going, even when things are hard, even when we’re lonely, even when we feel like giving up.
My story doesn’t come to an end. Yours doesn’t either. We’re all writing our own books, page by page, with messy handwriting, with tears and laughter and quiet moments of growth. Some pages are sad, some are happy, some are boring, some are exciting. But each page is a part of us, each chapter a step forward.
And when we meet again—whether it’s in a village, a city, or a park under a new tree; whether it’s tomorrow, next year, or ten years from now—I hope we’ll both be able to say: “I’ve become someone I’m proud of. I’ve lived, I’ve loved, I’ve lost, I’ve grown. My book is messy, but it’s mine. And I wouldn’t change a thing.”
