You Have Everything I Dislike

At the beginning of our relationship, we did not know much about each other’s true nature, but we always wanted to make some sort of romantic gesture for one other.

For example, I would write a letter to the third master once a week. These letters were not about literature and art; on the contrary, they were filled with all kinds of gossip I had heard from both the east and west of our area. Such exchanges were just like the chatter of old ladies often idling at the doors of houses in our hometown, melon seeds in hand and all.

I wrote to him about the stray dog at the entrance of our cafeteria. It looked like a dirty teddy bear. Every time I fed him my leftovers, he would flash me a look of pure contempt.

I even told him about the flock of sparrows in our building downstairs. They were the size of big fat geese, so a net was unnecessary to trap them. With only a bit of bird food in hand, we would have no issue catching one.

As well as that time when one of my classmates had eaten too much watermelon during one particularly windy night. When she slept that night, her feet were left outside the quilt, facing the full brunt of the cold night air. Needless to say, she wet the bed afterward.

I bought a lot of pretty girly, pink stationery and colorful envelopes. I affixed them with stamps, and slid them into the green box at the entrance of our school, patiently waiting for it all to journey their way into the hands of the third master.

Unexpectedly, I never received a reply.

A month had passed since, and I could not resist raising the question. 

“Did you read the letters I wrote to you?” 

“What letters?” the third master asked in surprise.

The letters written by my young, girlish heart have been sent in the mail for four years at this point already, and they have never even made it into the hands of the third master. Until now, I still have no idea which corner of the world those letters are secretly hiding in.

If the letters would not be delivered that way, then I could just switch to express delivery instead.

It was the third master’s birthday, and I had prepared a box of stuff for him. I couldn’t remember the specifics, but I do recall the third master saying that there were no crispy noodles in Xiamen. So, I stuffed several packs of Neoguri noodles into a box, as well as a notebook I carefully filled with photos.

I took pictures of my daily life on my phone. Periodically, I would go print these photos and paste them attentively into the notebook. Then, I would write and draw what I did, ate, and thought about that day using my coloring pens. 

I even woke my roommate up one morning in the middle of washing my face to ask her to film me brushing my teeth.    

Surprisingly, the third master liked this daily “log” of mine very much. 

When he graduated from college, he put the notebook in his “important documents” pile and sent them home. I heard that the third master’s mother — A.K.A., my future mother-in-law — accidentally came across it one day, and her expression was “wonderful” at the time.

The third master sent me a box of presents for my birthday too. A teddy bear was one of them. I had been holding it in my arms to sleep for several years. The rest were some very expensive, not-much-of-use gadgets, which I had long thrown to who knows where.

There was also a collection of his handwritten love letters; each page was very poetic and picturesque.

Lastly, it included a hand-drawn map of Xiamen University, which I pasted on the wall right beside my bed. Whenever I called him, he would tell me where he was standing at that moment and where he was going; I would trace his path on the map with my finger.

Later, we stopped doing these romantic things on birthdays again. We would try our best to be in each other’s company instead.

It is indeed true how easy it is for long-distance couples to have quarrels, especially when that relationship isn’t that stable in the first place. The third master and I, as a couple, were a prime example of this, often quarreling over very small things.

The two of us fought on the eve of National Day, and I insisted on breaking up. Although I cannot remember what it was about by now, it was clear that this particular quarrel was very fierce at the time.

“I’m so fed up with you — let’s break up. I don’t want to argue with you anymore,” I resolutely told him. 

The third master readily admitted his mistake. “Well, it was my fault, please don’t be angry.”

And just like that, I broke down and cried, “I’m not angry. I just can’t stand being long-distance anymore. Don’t you think we fight a lot like this? But when you’re here with me, you can just hug me, and no fight will happen.” 

The third master didn’t say anything. 

When I had cried enough, he asked, “Is a hug really enough? Then why don’t I go over there tomorrow?”

I was stunned. 

“…Are you serious?” 

“Well, I’m looking through airline tickets and buying one right now,” he replied.

I suddenly forgot all about my anger, and the tears stopped flowing. “Okay, I’ll wait for you to get here, then we’ll break up… You go book your flight in the meantime — I’ll find you a place to stay.” 

The two of us got busy with our own work, and our original breakup crisis was eventually resolved.

It was the first time in my twenty-something years on this world that I felt so important to someone else.

Although the third master was to fly over to accompany me for a few days to coax me, we still could not exactly afford the money or much of the sky. So, quarrels in the relationship were still commonplace in the first two years.

Every time I quarreled with the third master, I would always end up saying some rather excessive choice of words. Regarding this, the third master’s attitude was “no response, no excuse.”

“Did it ever cross your mind that whenever I get into a fight with you, it’s also wrong not to answer my messages and calls! It’ll only make me even angrier!” 

“Well, your anger comes and goes rather quickly. You’ll run out of steam eventually when I keep silent during your scolding sessions. Otherwise, your temper will only flare up if I try to talk back. In the case that you start shamelessly crying after playing hardball, then I can’t really do much after that,” he said.

I calmed down when I realized he was thinking about me so much. Just when I was about to admit my mistake and say, “I was wrong,” he opened his mouth.

“Anyway, I already took several screenshots of your messages and recorded our phone calls. Once you settle down, why don’t you just admit your mistake in front of my ironclad proof?” he told me, proud.

Me: “…”

Our relationship had never been peaceful, but when we two “firecrackers” got together, we unexpectedly cooled each other off.