I’m happy even though we’re not together.

“Hmm… I dreamt about you last night,” you said on the other end of the phone.

“I dreamt we broke up, right there on the big platform of Teaching Building A. You were still wearing a striped short-sleeved shirt,” you said.

This winter isn’t cold at all. I was standing on the path outside the library, stepping on the thick layer of sycamore leaves, when I received your call.

“I woke up from a dream around four in the morning. I found my face covered in tears,” you said.

“It was only when I was feeling down that it suddenly dawned on me that we… had probably broken up a long time ago,” you said.

I don’t remember exactly how long we’ve been broken up, maybe three years, maybe three and a half years. I only know that if we hadn’t broken up, it would be four years and three months by now.

I deleted all your contact information a long time ago. I naively thought I would never think of you again, but memory is a strange thing, just like love. It always secretly lurks somewhere in my body, flourishing and running rampant when I’m not paying attention.

One late winter evening, we took the bus home together.

That year, heavy snow fell in the north, the roads were icy, and icicles hung from the holly trees. The buses had anti-skid wheels, but they moved slower than people.

There were three seats across from each other, and we sat side by side. I sat next to you, and opposite us were three more seats. Sitting opposite us were a girl and a boy who looked like middle school students.

I vividly described to you the embarrassing thing that happened to Lao Liu in class that day. Lao Liu is our math teacher.

Back then, the boys in the class had to carry the water from the water dispenser themselves. That day, when the bell rang, the students who went to fetch the water were worried that bringing the buckets in would affect the teacher’s mood, so they left the two buckets at the classroom door. In winter, a thick curtain hung on the classroom door. Halfway through class, Old Liu said he needed to go back to the office to get some toilet paper. He lifted the curtain, took a big stride, and tumbled into the corridor, buckets and all…

I laughed heartily, and you laughed heartily too. The young man and woman sitting opposite us had obviously heard my vivid story and laughed along with me. Snowflakes drifted outside the window.

The roads were slippery due to the snow, and a motorcycle suddenly darted out. The driver slammed on the brakes. Amidst curses and the lurching of the vehicle, the bus came to a stop in the cold northern winter.

My head naturally rested on one of your shoulders.

The girl opposite her also leaned on the boy’s shoulder.

As I got off the bus, you gripped my hand tightly.

What made me fall completely in love with you was when you invited me to your house to listen to a record sent by a friend.

I’ve been tone-deaf since I was a child, but I’m fortunate that I’ve never been ashamed of it, so I can sing off-key songs loudly when I’m in high spirits.

Like countless other young people, your room is covered with posters of basketball stars of various skin colors on the walls, and your drawers are filled with all sorts of new and interesting things you’ve collected. A dark blue quilt is huddled up to one side, a guitar stands in the corner, and the bookshelves are full of military or history magazines, as well as a few novels about the strange and supernatural.

We chatted casually, and you put on a record—a musician I didn’t know and can’t recall now.

It might be awkward, but we all remained silent for no reason.

When I sat on the edge of your bed, carefully playing with the hem of my clothes for five minutes, I finally mustered up the courage to look up at you.

You were so moved by the record that you burst into tears.

When that music started playing, I was completely immersed in my shyness, while you were completely immersed in the vast ocean of your heart.

At that moment, you must have understood that musician perfectly; you resonated at the same frequency, and you decayed at the same speed.

At that moment, you appeared both incredibly vulnerable and incredibly strong, as if you had a path to the divine in your eyes.

At that moment, I admitted that I had fallen completely in love with you.

We once churned together in the hormones of adolescence.

We’ve had n+1 arguments in total. Each time, we solemnly warned each other that this was the last time. And each time, on the nth argument, we inexplicably made up.

The first argument was because a girl from the next class handed you a note. This was perfectly reasonable, but you actually followed the instructions on the note and waited for her to go home together after evening self-study.

The second argument was because I spent all my time reading romance novels during class. That was perfectly acceptable, but you ignored me for a whole week because of it.

We’ll have a third time…

The fourth time…

The umpteenth argument…

You see, we get tired of the trivialities of life in such petty ways.

Just when we thought there was nothing left in the world worth arguing about, we broke up.

There’s no need to think of every possible reason.

It’s simply that I don’t love you anymore.

After the breakup, you told me that you took that girl home because you wanted to talk to her face-to-face and clear things up, so she wouldn’t feel disappointed, since she didn’t owe you anything. You also said that you didn’t let me read novels because you didn’t want me to become a girl soaking in a vat of emotional garbage.

To be honest, after the breakup, I felt you were too manly.

I stumbled along the way, and had seven or eight boyfriends, but none of them gave me the same intense feeling as you.

I’ve been thinking about why this is.

Later, while reading “Norwegian Wood,” I came across a description of Hatsumi by Watanabe, and suddenly the answer became clear.

Hatsumi is Watanabe’s friend’s girlfriend. According to Watanabe, Hatsumi is not particularly beautiful, and the force she exerts is insignificant, yet it can resonate with the hearts of others.

“It’s like a childhood dream, a dream that has never been realized and can never be realized. This kind of innocent and passionate dream that I had forgotten about long ago, and for a long time I didn’t even remember that it had ever existed in my heart. And Hatsumi’s shock is precisely a part of me.”

What you gave me was the awakening of a long-dormant part of me. You not only gave me the sweet moments of romantic love, but also a rational and logical perspective and way of thinking as a person of the opposite sex. You not only gave me the tenderness and care of a boyfriend, but also sincere advice and encouragement as a friend.

The days and nights we spent together, the days and nights we were inseparable, the occasional days and nights I spent alone, the days and nights I wished time could stand still—you awakened a part of me. Every day after I left you, thankfully, I cherish what you awakened within me and carry it with me into the next day and night.

About ten years ago, my childhood friend asked me, “What kind of person would you fall in love with?”

I touched my head, thinking of my neighbor, Duoduo, who I grew up with, and said, “I think it should be someone I grew up with.” Ten years ago, I was 12 years old, and you were 12 years old too. We didn’t know each other yet.

About six years ago, I sat behind you and poked you in the back with a ballpoint pen. I secretly stuck a small piece of paper with “certificate processing” written on it on your back, but you never minded.

Six years ago, I was 16, and you were 16 too. We had only known each other for a short time.

About four years ago, I wrote to you: My body has housed the snow of every winter of my life, the sea, and all the wandering lovers in this world. You asked me, “Is this Ma Liang’s ‘Confession’?”

Four years ago, I was 18, and you were 18 too. It’s like we grew up together.

And now, I am 22 years old, and you are 22 years old too.

You’ve fallen in love with someone else. And I’m in love with someone else.

I’ll tell others that we’ve never met. I think you’ll feel the same way.

We once used incredibly sharp and sarcastic words to ridicule each other. We also once laid bare our contempt and inadequacy to each other. Then, we confessed our love to each other with boundless sincerity and tears.

Everything is on repeat amidst the overflowing hormones.

The person who can accept the knife you offer and see your scars is someone you can love.

This person might offer you a ray of light, but it’s also worth leaving if their light can hurt you.

Sometimes I really feel that love is like the ocean, like the ocean of my childhood, boundless and endless.

So vast that my heart once held nothing but you.

But Michael Ondaatje wrote in “The English Patient”: “Love is so small that it can go through the eye of a needle.”

So small now, I can’t even find a place in my heart that can hold you.

I’m happy even though we’re not together.

It felt like a dream; our meeting was so brief.

I paused for a moment on the phone and said, “Are you sure I was wearing a striped short-sleeved shirt? I was quite chubby back then.”