unobtainable lover

I met her for the first time in our sophomore French class.

I arrived a little late that day. I hurriedly opened the classroom door and met a girl in a vest, harem pants and leather boots, who was standing in the center of the classroom giving a speech. This sudden move caught the attention of all my classmates, and I was a little embarrassed. She raised the corners of her mouth at me slightly, and there was a hint of curiosity in her smile, but there was no ridicule or dissatisfaction. With apology, I nodded and bowed as I found a seat in despair. Her speech was not interrupted by my intrusion. Fluent expression, standard and beautiful pronunciation, coupled with her appropriate gestures and natural expression, I couldn't understand the specific meaning, and I couldn't say anything except "wow". It's just that my eyes are glued to her and I can't take them away for a second. At the end of the speech, there was thunderous applause, and then I learned her name in the praise, let's call her M.

M has an Asian face, but not like the most Hmong people in the school. I am by no means appearanceist, but her sophisticated dress, free and easy temperament, and mystery in her bones all tell me that she is a cold person. But it is such a person that always attracts me to see what is going on in her head.

American high schools divide courses by individual ability. M is a proper scholar. Because how long ago I came to the United States, my English level is hard to say, and I only saw her in math class. Seeing her having a great time chatting with friends who are top 10 students in GPA, I swayed a bit in wanting to get in touch with her more. Wouldn't she feel the price dropped when she chatted with someone like me who stumbles in English.

In the following time, I roamed the sea of books, read with candles at night, and tried to catch up with her grades, while secretly paying attention to her. M is a drama fanatic and goes to the club to rehearse almost every day. I used to stand behind the door, peeking at her rehearsal like a paparazzi. Occasionally, when I was discovered by M, I would smile awkwardly, then run away with oil on the soles of my feet, and secretly make up my mind that I can't do this anymore, I'll be hated by her, but I feel like I'm missing something if I don't go.

Opportunities always come when there is no preparation. Teacher Lathrop, who taught us literature, sent an urgent notice, saying that alumni would be invited to watch the evening drama performance, and volunteers were needed to distribute flyers, and the reward was to watch the performance for free. When I just got home, I saw M's name on the cast. Without thinking for a moment, I made a sharp turn and ran back to school. The 20-minute journey was shortened to 10 minutes. Under the eyes of the teacher who sighed for my positivity, I held the flyer and waited and watched the door of the rehearsal room.

"Alice?" (my name)

M came from behind me and startled me.

"Um?"

"what do you need?"

"I... came to volunteer."

She gave me a look of disbelief.

"Really! Look at it if you don't believe me." Saying that, I shook the flyer in my hand. M smiled, showing 16 teeth.

After the flyers were handed out, it was show time. When I touched the pocket, it was broken. In a hurry, I forgot my glasses. Even so, I listened to the whole thing. Reminds me of sweet singing on stage. M is wearing a wig, holding a guitar, and the strings are accompanied by spotlights, as if this is a concert and the whole stage belongs to her. I can feel her confidence, her high-spiritedness, although I can't see clearly, there must be light in her eyes. After the curtain call, M and other actors moved outside the auditorium to accept the gratitude of the alumni. I really want to hug her and tell her she's doing great, but she's so busy. No way, I gave her a thumbs up, bowed my head and walked into the night.

It's late, how does M get home? If only I had a driver's license and could take her home when she was tired. The cold wind poured into the chest with the collar, but the heart was not cold. Why do I always want to walk into her life and always be so quick when she performs? Is this love? No, I remember when I was in junior high school, I liked boys.

There was an ACT craze during my senior year of high school. The fact that it took me two months to go from 27 to 32 was known to the math teacher Janssen. In front of the whole class, he said to M: "Alice scored 32 on the ACT, come on!" M lived up to expectations, scored 33, and robbed me of the ACT number one spot that I had lasted for a month. When another Houston teacher who taught mathematics took this incident and gave me a "public execution" in class, I knew that the teachers had no malicious intentions, but I was actually happy when I learned that the M score was higher than mine. But M doesn't think so. She found me and said very seriously: "I got high marks for personal reasons, not because I want to compete maliciously with you. Alice, in my eyes, you are amazing." This sentence hit me like a hammer The heart, turned into a ball of cotton wrapped around it. No one has ever praised me since I was a child. The first and only person who said "you're amazing" to me was actually her who was usually serious, meticulous, and even a little self-conscious.

Teacher Lathrop probably took special care of me. He gave us the opportunity to choose a partner for our IB graduation show. I took a note and wrote "I have a strong desire to work with M." When I got my wish, I was more ecstatic than getting a 32 on the ACT.

M and I played a couple in the play. In the last episode, M confessed to me in a dream, and after I woke up, I said the last line: "Nector, he stood here, right next to me. He said he loves me. Oh, he's here, he's here! " (Translation: Nector, he's standing here, right next to me, and he says he loves me. Oh, he's here, he's here!) Tasting the salty taste on my cheeks, I realize the tears have long since clouded my eyes. M was surprised as he ran around the classroom and said, "Wow, even I can't do it!" Her only response was my silence. She may have found out that my acting skills were not bad, but she didn't know that I was not acting. I made the mistake of being fake, but I'd rather all the plots be real. Is this love? Maybe. But, will I not be able to tell the difference between friendship and love?

I know that M's life experience was in the senior year of high school. She did not write an assignment on the genetic characteristics of her parents.

"My sister and I are both of Chinese descent. We were born in Zhejiang and adopted by our mother when we were very young. She is white. I don't know who my biological parents are, let alone their characteristics." This is under my euphemistic inquiry, M Answer calmly.

Teacher Greenwald, who taught biology, passed by, took away M's blank paper, and said, "I know your situation. This assignment is waived for you." M turned his head and smiled at the teacher. I stared at the profile of her face, a delicate and shiny earring clearly visible. Her ears were pierced when she was an adult. So lovely.

M looks happy and confident. It must be a blessing to grow up under the wings of a woman who has love in her heart.

Teacher Greenwald is a good person, but his curriculum planning is difficult to describe. IB biology is divided into two levels, except for a small group of people including me and M who challenge the difficult HL, most of them choose ordinary SL. The content of SL was not finished, and when everyone was frowning, Greenwald began to teach the content of HL, which caused both sides to learn poorly. The classmates proposed to change the plan many times, but he ignored it. M couldn't stand it any longer. After class, let us leave the classroom first. She communicated with the teacher and said that it might take a long time.

I turned back and went out the door three steps at a time. Sitting in the classroom, I couldn't solve my favorite math problem at all. It's almost halfway through the class, and M hasn't appeared yet.

There was a sudden knock on the door. A classmate went to open the door. He turned the doorknob, probed the probe, paused, then turned back and made a "stab in the neck" gesture at me. I heard my own rapid heartbeat. Miss Houston went out to take a look, and motioned me out of the classroom. The classmate whispered, M cried. I rushed out of the classroom like the wind and saw M leaning against the wall, sobbing audibly. I didn't have time to think, but my body rushed up first, pulling her into my arms with a strong arm. M is about the same size as me, and I can easily wrap her around. I put my chin on her shoulder, hugged her tighter, and said, "It's okay, I'm here." M hugged me back, patted my back lightly, and said, "He promised... not to teach... HL." At this time, all the students in the class walked out the door and stood beside M. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief and praised her for her courage. I smiled, but there was something I didn't say,

"M, thank you, you saved us all. Also, thank you for not pushing me away."

Taking it out on its own, it might not be a big deal. But when there was only one month left for the IB exam, and M had to prepare for the other five IB HL exams, the content had not been completed, the students were anxious, and the teacher still went his own way. In the end, she took the lead and chatted with the teacher for a long time. Changes made in hours can greatly improve our grades and change college credits. In this case, M's tears are not cheap at all. She is under too much pressure. At one time, I thought that M was an independent, confident, rational person who never showed his feelings, but later I found out that I was very wrong. People are vulnerable and emotional, and they should have the right to express them. I saw another side of M. Her tears fell into my heart, stabbing at the softest spot. I just want to hug her, no matter what the reason is, I just don't want her to cry alone, I want to be with her when she is sad, I want to hear her talk about anything, happy, helpless, painful, embarrassing. I thought about everything with M again. Why can't I keep myself from watching her in French class? Why do I always want to see her in the rehearsal room and take her home at night? Why do I keep trying to clarify that I'm not surprised when she scores higher than mine? Why do I always pretend to be real during rehearsal, with tears in my eyes? Is this love? definitely is. Before meeting her, I thought I was straight. But love is love, whether she is male or female.

For some reason, M never mentioned it again. When I discovered my true feelings for her, I buried it in my heart too. I don't deserve her. I looked at M at the graduation ceremony as the top ten in grade GPA to accept the award, and thought so. But on second thought, how can it be worthy? Family members scoff at homosexuality, and they should always be careful of homophobic patients in society. I have no ability to fight, nor can I protect M from those people. I plucked up my courage and asked M to take a picture with her friend. I didn't expect that I have kept that photo to this day, and I have also hidden that sentence for four years.

M and my university are 15 minutes away by car. A lot has happened over the years. My family was in a recession, and I did some unspeakable things. I got my driver's license soon after I became an adult, and I bought a car when it was cheapest, but with the car keys in my hands, I really couldn't think of any reason to visit her. I rejected the confession of a good friend, without the heart-wrenching entanglement, we are still friends. I've also heard many people fall in love, get married, and break up, but I'm not interested in any of these things. The epidemic that has been raging has affected my life to a large extent, but it has not changed my thoughts about M. That friend advised me that if I like someone, I should say it, even if I already know the result. My feelings for M only increased with the progress of my university life. I finally made up my mind and told her. If it's not crazy, I may not have a chance.

I closed my eyes, and the bits and pieces of M are vividly in my mind. Holding back tears, he typed one word after another. My heart was beating so fast, it was hard to write letters. The memory of two years ago is still clear, but M has praised my writing style, and I have to write it well. Writing and writing, I began to think, what exactly do I love about her? She does not have the appearance of the city, the hot body, or the gorgeous dress, but she has an independent personality, a free and easy temperament, and an honest character. There is a hint of coldness in the warmth, and a bit of cunning in the mystery. Can't stop. It took a month to write more or less, and the letter was seven pages long.

I chose a time when M was on vacation and clicked on her avatar. When I sent her the letter, my fingers were shaking and I was ready to be blocked. A few hours later, M replied: "I am flattered. I also admire your courage. Please give me a day, I have some words beyond words." I hurriedly responded: "It's okay. No hurry." a week.

I know M doesn't love me, but her silence always gives me a glimmer of hope. I think of Wilde's golden sentence in "Lady Windermere's Fan" "We are all in the gutter, but there are always people looking up to the stars", which is a romantic tragedy that cannot be loved. I seem to see her on stage again. I can't help it anymore, I sang a cappella song "Delete it" on IG story, the camera is facing the scrolling English lyrics, and for the sake of obscurity, it is accompanied by French subtitles that most people can't understand, to the effect of "You light up. My life. Thank you. But, I don't want to wait any longer. I love you. Goodbye." M saw. Still no reply.

I'm in the gutter, but I'm looking up at the stars. She is the brightest one.

It's been a few months since she replied to me. It was supposed to be settled, but the more I thought about it, the more painful it became. I want to cry, but I can't cry. Why is she hanging on to me? Is it really me, not worthy of her?

She was supposed to be a gentle person, but what she gave others was gentle honey, and what she left me was a gentle knife. And I, willing to let it pierce my heart, slowly stirred the blade in the flesh, pulled it out again, covered the large red area on my chest, licked off the blood on the blade, and reminisced about what she gave me, accompanied by Bloody sweet.

It might be a crush. I have never tasted the sweetness of love, but I always swallow the bitterness of love. And this kind of suffering is the end of our relationship before it started.