In the late autumn of 2003, when I was in 11th grade, I first heard the name “X.”

Let’s just call him X; The male protagonist in a story of unrequited love shouldn’t have a name anyway.

A name that can’t be spoken aloud is just fine being called X.

01

Before the first exam in 11th grade, a girl sitting behind me suddenly took a liking to a sports talent student and couldn’t resist dragging a few of us to watch him train at the sports field. The sports student noticed girls watching and immediately seemed to gain a boost, running even faster. But the girl suddenly looked disappointed. After returning to class, she announced that she no longer liked the sports student. I asked why, and she said, “Didn’t you see? When he sprinted against the wind, his face was shaking like crazy! His face was shaking!!”

For the girl behind me, “liking” was just a kind of emotional outlet. Adolescent fantasies hovered like wings in the air, always searching for a real body to land on. Unfortunately, the sports student wasn’t a perfect host and didn’t meet her expectations.

Sitting by the window on the bus after school, bumping along from the suburban school back to the city center, I watched the dusty scenery outside while my mind replayed “his face was shaking” over and over. I laughed while also feeling a bit eager. I wanted to find someone to like too. But it was just a thought. The weight on my shoulder quickly squashed it. My backpack was filled with heavy textbooks, and there were so many outstanding students in my new class. Each one seemed so impressive. My grades in middle school weren’t bad, but if I ranked at the bottom in the first exam of the new class, wouldn’t that be humiliating?

A young girl’s thoughts turned into a sigh, as dusty as the street scene.

After the mid-term exam, I was helping organize the annual score statistics table in the homeroom teacher’s office. This table would be given to everyone at the parents’ meeting after school. I was about to take a printed draft to make copies when my teacher stopped me. She pointed to the blank space at the top and said, “Write the scores here: Class 8, X, Math 150, Physics 98, Chemistry…” I wrote carefully, but because it was dictated, I misspelled X’s name. My teacher noticed and waved the paper at another teacher, asking how to correctly spell X’s name.

The other teacher, who also taught French, disagreed with using X as a negative example. X’s French grade was… let’s say it wasn’t great. His other grades were excellent, but his French grade was embarrassing. As their French teacher, I wouldn’t be happy using him as an example either. After the commotion, I reprinted the form, made many copies, and for some reason kept the one with X’s name on it, neatly folded.

The actual first place in the grade was another girl, but X from the neighboring class received all the attention because he scored perfect marks in Math, Physics, and Chemistry. When I returned to class, I heard the girl behind me talking about X. She said he had been outstanding in middle school and was even more impressive now.

From that day on, X completely replaced the sports student as the host of many girls’ fantasies. I turned to the girl behind me and asked, “What if X looks like a gorilla?” She snorted disdainfully and said, “Of course not, I’ve seen him at their class door.”

I pretended to be uninterested, gave a faint smile, and turned back to my work. The girls’ curiosity and admiration for X only highlighted my aloof and composed demeanor… In short, I was just too special.

02

I had several opportunities to see X in person. For instance, some girls stood up and said X was playing basketball in the gym and suggested we go watch. Or my deskmate handed me a notebook with extremely messy handwriting, saying it was X’s reading notes, and asked if I could take it to the class next door. My answer was always no.

It’s strange; I would usually follow along to see other popular figures with a calm mindset, but with X, I felt awkward. Maybe it was a bit of jealousy. I envied smart people since physics was my nightmare. Even in high school, I never fully trusted my intelligence, always feeling that I could only stand on equal footing with the bright minds through hard work, and any relaxation would lead to a downfall. Why was life so unfair?

This feeling of inferiority spread in the presence of X. I secretly hoped he looked like a gorilla.

Time passed like this. I sat in the classroom next to X’s class for an entire year. I became familiar with almost all his classmates, but I still hadn’t seen him. However, I almost had a falling out with my deskmate because of him.

One early summer afternoon, I went to buy ice cream with the girl sitting behind me. While crossing the playground, a group of seven or eight boys walked past us, exuding a remarkable aura. I never stared at others, so I was chatting and laughing with the girl while passing them. The girl seemed distracted and only mentioned after they had walked by for a long time that the one in white was X.

I didn’t want to look back, but I understood the need to maintain a certain pretense, so I naturally turned and glanced. The boys had already walked far away, and at least four of them were wearing white. The girl suddenly became unusually silent. I was focused on finishing my ice cream before class and didn’t notice her change. As we entered the classroom, she softly asked, “What do you think of X?”

I was taken aback. Thinking of the group of boys’ backs, I replied with a smile, “A bit short, right?” The girl suddenly got angry, “What’s wrong with you! He’s not shorter than you! Is it fun to nitpick?”

Many classmates were watching us. I got upset too and said with a cold smile, “Being taller than me is considered an advantage?” We returned to our seats and ignored each other for a class period.

We weren’t friends, just classmates, so once we fell out, there was no reason to talk. My personality wasn’t as self-centered then as it is now, and I valued harmony. So, I swallowed my pride and wrote her a note. The gist was that I was joking and didn’t expect her to care so much since she always talked about X, but I was sorry.

She replied, saying she shouldn’t have been so impulsive but asked me not to speak of him that way. She said he was a very, very nice person. I suddenly became curious.

“What’s so nice about him?” I asked as soon as class ended, leaning on her desk. The girl hesitated for a moment before speaking softly, “I joined the same art class as him and sat next to him. Every time his pencil fell, I’d pick it up for him, and he’d always say thank you.”

I didn’t know what to say. But I still replied, “He’s so polite and has such good grades, that’s great.” Complimenting X was like complimenting her. Seeing her excitement, I didn’t say more.

X speaks very little, X hates French class, X loves sleeping, X actually has a great sense of dry humor… I always remember that afternoon. The weather was beautiful. I leaned against the windowsill, tilting my head to look at the bright blue sky. A cloud passed by, then another… She kept talking about a person I’d never seen, all trivial details, all nonsense, all conjecture, all wishful thinking.

X continued to maintain his impressive record, often placing in the top three, with many first-place finishes. In 12th grade, I began taking French classes. I finally experienced what it felt like to be a top student. Indeed, being first felt incredibly satisfying. This also reduced my jealousy towards X.

My mom once told me a story about when I was three or four years old, playing games with them in the park. The square’s tiles were arranged in circles by color from the inside out. The three of us played a chase game along the outermost circle, with my parents chasing me. Just as they were about to catch me, I suddenly jumped to an inner circle and confidently told them, “I’ve leveled up.” Another time, during a snowball fight, I suddenly picked up a stone and claimed, “I ate a star, so I have a cannon now.”

Despite the reverence for math students, which persisted even in the liberal arts class, I still heard about X frequently. This time, however, X’s ardent fan was the girl sitting in front of me. I couldn’t understand why, despite being the top student in the liberal arts class, everyone still thought X was the best. Can someone explain this to me?

03

Time passed in a blur. Everyone’s high school life, summarized, is much the same: going to and from school, exams and rankings, choir performances, basketball games, friends and rivals, happiness and sorrow. Our school was in the suburbs, with closed-off dormitory management. I often secretly read the romance novels of the girl in the neighboring bed, crying my eyes out and then quietly putting them back, while outwardly maintaining a disdainful attitude towards such illogical stories

However, the heavy atmosphere of the science class in 10th grade had suppressed my girlish feelings, which these stories stirred up again, shaking off the dust from their wings and flying high.

Once, we celebrated a classmate’s birthday. We pushed the tables in the cafeteria into a long row and were lighting candles when a group of boys walked by. The girl in front of me suddenly whispered excitedly, “Wow, it’s X.” Reflexively, I turned to look at them, and one of the boys turned to look at us.

…A gorilla.

X indeed looked like a gorilla!

I smiled and sang the birthday song with everyone, laughing and joking, but suddenly felt a bit down. Well, not just a bit, but really down. But why? Their girlish fantasies were pinned on a real person, while mine were pinned on a name and a bunch of legends. Even though I didn’t want to admit it, I was truly sad.

For my inexplicable melancholy, my parents’ assessment was, “Our child is growing up.” Don’t think they’re so open-minded; they just enjoyed observing the budding thoughts of a teenage girl.

When I heard others talking about X again, I no longer felt the strange mix of jealousy and curiosity, just a sense of pity, and shame for my previous foolish thoughts. What a pity. I didn’t really wish you looked like a gorilla.

Every Friday, we would take home a week’s worth of laundry. I was standing on the platform with a big duffel bag, waiting for the bus, with my good friend beside me. He’s not important to the story, so let’s just call him L. L was chatting with me and suddenly looked over my shoulder, his expression changing, “Wow, what an honor to be taking the bus with the top student in the grade!”

At first, I reflexively put on a modest smile, “Oh, no need to be so formal, we’re all friends here.” Then it hit me. The top student in the grade? I turned around, stunned.

Is this X? He looks pretty good… so where did the gorilla go?

Only then did I realize I had mistaken someone else for him before. X dressed simply, wasn’t very tall, but not too short either, and had a cold expression.

04

To this day, I still can’t clearly describe X’s appearance. Or maybe you can think of it this way: the person you like and the person I like both have the same face—a face that we find uniquely special but are always too shy to describe in detail for others to understand

X walked over with his suitcase and stood about five meters away from us, looking up at the bus schedule. I casually turned my head to observe his back. That might have been the last time I openly looked at him during high school.

Later, I sat by the window in the last row of the classroom, chatting with L while watching the sunset outside. The sunlight was exceptionally beautiful. L asked if I had taken the wrong medicine because I was smiling so happily. I didn’t answer.

I remember that day, walking home from the bus stop, even the paving stones and garbage bins looked better than usual. The bus stop was on a slope, and my home was at the bottom. I needed to cross a quiet path and descend a long flight of stairs.

Standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at the neatly arranged houses below and the distant sunset disappearing into the urban jungle, a strange emotion filled my chest. It wasn’t just happiness. It felt like I had discovered the secret of life, the joy of living, and the whole world spread out at my feet.

I dropped my duffel bag, spread my arms, and ran down the stairs, kicking and skipping. The wind rushed past my ears, my heart pounded in my chest, and my backpack bounced against my back, whether it was urging me on or holding me back, I couldn’t tell. My girlish heart and I flew together.

Then, like an idiot, I had to climb back up the slope to retrieve my duffel bag from where I had dropped it.

Have you noticed? We Drama Queens live very difficult lives.

I’ve never thought unrequited love was bitter.
Liking someone is hidden in the eyes; through them, the world becomes more beautiful. I would compare my grades with X’s after every exam; I’d purposely go to the bathroom on the floor where his class was; I’d straighten my collar and stand tall when we happened to meet, walking with a spring in my step. I listened intently for any gossip about him, and even if someone just mentioned X, I was delighted.

Of course, as a seasoned poser, I couldn’t show even the slightest interest in X. Instead, I would subtly steer conversations towards math, then towards his class, and finally, when everyone started talking about X, I’d pretend to read, feigning disinterest. Even this pretense was enjoyable.

When summer arrived, the days grew longer, and during the break before evening self-study, many boys flocked to the playground to play basketball. I no longer used this time to study; instead, I took solitary walks around the basketball court. There were sixteen hoops, and I would walk around each one, checking if his class was playing. But once I found the target, I never dared to stand by and watch.

It seemed that with just one glance, the whole world would discover my secret.

As I mentioned, after that encounter at the bus stop, I never again openly stared at him. I’d maintain a calm facade, pretending to look elsewhere, focusing on the distant wasteland while the nearby basketball hoop remained out of focus, leaving only a vague group of people. Among them was him.

I only once saw him make a three-point shot with a “swish.” As everyone cheered, I turned my face away and smiled too.

I remembered the girl in 11th grade saying he was a very, very nice person.

During the summer vacation after 12th grade, while traveling abroad, I found myself at the hotel front desk writing postcards. I wrote one to him. I wrote a line and then crossed it out, wrote a card and then tore it up, until finally, I had a thick stack of torn postcards that I took to the lobby trash can to throw away.

That was the first time I wanted to do something concrete to get closer to him.

05

Before, I liked him. Now, I hope he can like me too. Once this thought surfaced, I became unhappy. I ended up writing a postcard, but brought it back untouched. Of course, I didn’t dare to actually send it—if he received a postcard from abroad, everyone would easily guess who it was from. Even before he understood it, everyone else would have already figured it out.

But what else could I do? During 13th grade, I often skipped evening classes to wander around the flag-raising square, sitting on the dark corridor windowsill, thinking of a thousand ways for him to notice me.

We shared the same French teacher, so I put extra effort into answering questions. After every exam, the best answers were copied and distributed. At least this way, I could become familiar to X, letting him see how, well, talented I was. Then I worried, since he disliked French class so much, he might find me boring too.

One day, my mom picked up a postcard from the floor near my desk and asked, “Who’s X?” As expected, she asked the classic question: “Why do you like him?”

When we started preparing for university in 13th grade, the announcement asked everyone to go to the principal’s office to fill out forms. I went late and unexpectedly saw him and his mother. X was sitting on the sofa, looking indifferent. His mother was holding the documents and consulting the teacher. Absent-mindedly, I sat at the other end of the coffee table, filling out my form. I nervously glanced at him now and then, hoping for a chance eye contact. I would smile and nod, saying, “You’re X, right? Hi, I’m…”

I’m not usually shy. But he never looked over, simply listening to his mother’s guidance, filling out the forms step by step.

We both passed the first round of preliminary reviews and attended the university entrance exams together. I didn’t do well. When I walked out of the exam hall, still dazed, I saw my mom from afar and froze.

She was standing with X’s mom, chatting amicably. I stiffly walked over, and my mom introduced me, “This is X’s mom.”

I thought, “Of course, I know!”

X’s mom was friendly and exchanged a few pleasantries. Then I saw X approaching with a blank expression, ignoring the others, pulling his mom’s arm, and saying just two words.

“Let’s go.”
His mother smiled and nodded at us, took X’s backpack, and they walked away happily together. My mom gave me a meaningful smile and said something I still remember to this day: “Your future family relationships are going to be difficult.”

“What are you trying to do?” My face was already stiff from the forced smile.

“It was boring standing outside, and when I heard her mention ‘our X,’ I just went over and had a little chat,” my mom said, laughing happily. “Is that the X you like? He looks like a robot.”

I knew my mom’s intention. She thought X wasn’t worth liking. But what she couldn’t answer was, “What are love and liking?” Can the occurrence of emotions always be traced to a reason? Liking someone is like a broken faucet; rationality tells you it’s not worth it, but no matter how you try to shut it off, it’s futile.

That night, I walked home slowly, arm in arm with my mom, under a red sky. My mom sensed my low mood and suddenly squeezed my hand, saying, “His mom already knows you. She knows which class you were in before and that you write excellent essays.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” my mom smiled, “really. And she said X told her.”

Even though I knew this basic information probably came from X’s mom’s extensive network rather than X himself, I was instantly cheered up: “Is there more? Besides the essays?”

“No, that’s all.”

“Oh…” I felt very disappointed.

“Oh, by the way, his mom said you are very pretty.”

“Really?!”

“…I made that up.”