I was staying up late working on my thesis when I suddenly thought about my past, back in high school.
Back then, I had a crush on our class president. She had fair skin, wore glasses, and always ranked first in the class. She was a bookworm, but in high schools in Asian countries, where academic achievement is everything, that made her the star. The teachers liked her, and all the students—boys and girls—admired her.
I liked her too, but among all the people who liked her, I was the most unremarkable one. I was short, not wealthy, not athletic, and my grades were just average. In high school, chasing after a girl you liked usually meant treating her to lunch in the cafeteria using your meal card, buying her snacks from the school shop, or getting her small gifts when we were allowed to go out on weekends. I don’t know what gifts she might’ve received from others, but I remember once I used my pocket money to buy her a piece of bread—she was about to be late for class and hadn’t had breakfast. She thanked me, and then paid me back at lunchtime.
There was one time when we went to another city for a test. There were about five of us. I shared a room with another boy, and she shared a room with two other girls. Our teacher drove us in a seven-seater van. She got carsick, so she sat in the front passenger seat. I kept looking at her. When she woke up, there were red marks on her face from her glasses. She asked me why I was staring at her. I panicked and said it was because she had marks on her face. She seemed upset, thinking I was making fun of her. After that, during the whole trip, she didn’t say a word to me. I should have told her then that I thought she looked really cute. Why didn’t I?
In senior year, everyone was writing in each other's yearbooks—signing names and leaving little messages. I gave my notebook to a few my friends and her. She asked everyone to write something. I wrote: “I love you.” She wrote: “Good luck on the college entrance exam.”
Later, we went to college. She did well and got into a top university. I went to an average school in a big city. We never spoke again.
One day, I found that old notebook again. Her contact info was still written in it. I sent her a message: “Haha, it’s me. Do you still remember me? I confessed to you in your notebook—you probably forgot about that, right?”
She replied: “You’re *my name*, right? I remember you. You once bought me a piece of bread. Thank you, I have stomach issues.”
That's all. I’m still short. The guys joke that I’m underdeveloped, and the girls say I’m practically disabled. No girl likes me. My university is just so-so. My grades are barely enough to pass. I haven’t even started an internship yet. But I didn’t tell her any of that—because she’s preparing to go abroad for grad school, and she has a boyfriend.
Back then, I had a crush on our class president. She had fair skin, wore glasses, and always ranked first in the class. She was a bookworm, but in high schools in Asian countries, where academic achievement is everything, that made her the star. The teachers liked her, and all the students—boys and girls—admired her.
I liked her too, but among all the people who liked her, I was the most unremarkable one. I was short, not wealthy, not athletic, and my grades were just average. In high school, chasing after a girl you liked usually meant treating her to lunch in the cafeteria using your meal card, buying her snacks from the school shop, or getting her small gifts when we were allowed to go out on weekends. I don’t know what gifts she might’ve received from others, but I remember once I used my pocket money to buy her a piece of bread—she was about to be late for class and hadn’t had breakfast. She thanked me, and then paid me back at lunchtime.
There was one time when we went to another city for a test. There were about five of us. I shared a room with another boy, and she shared a room with two other girls. Our teacher drove us in a seven-seater van. She got carsick, so she sat in the front passenger seat. I kept looking at her. When she woke up, there were red marks on her face from her glasses. She asked me why I was staring at her. I panicked and said it was because she had marks on her face. She seemed upset, thinking I was making fun of her. After that, during the whole trip, she didn’t say a word to me. I should have told her then that I thought she looked really cute. Why didn’t I?
In senior year, everyone was writing in each other's yearbooks—signing names and leaving little messages. I gave my notebook to a few my friends and her. She asked everyone to write something. I wrote: “I love you.” She wrote: “Good luck on the college entrance exam.”
Later, we went to college. She did well and got into a top university. I went to an average school in a big city. We never spoke again.
One day, I found that old notebook again. Her contact info was still written in it. I sent her a message: “Haha, it’s me. Do you still remember me? I confessed to you in your notebook—you probably forgot about that, right?”
She replied: “You’re *my name*, right? I remember you. You once bought me a piece of bread. Thank you, I have stomach issues.”
That's all. I’m still short. The guys joke that I’m underdeveloped, and the girls say I’m practically disabled. No girl likes me. My university is just so-so. My grades are barely enough to pass. I haven’t even started an internship yet. But I didn’t tell her any of that—because she’s preparing to go abroad for grad school, and she has a boyfriend.
