YHTD 04

Chapter 04

 I Might Not Love You

I remember years ago there was a popular Taiwanese idol drama called In Time With You (I Might Not Love You). In it, the male and female leads had been friends since their school days. They refused to become lovers, because their bond was as close as family, and they believed that friendship lasts longer than romance.

My relationship with Third Master (San Ye) was almost the same. I had always carried the lofty ambition of being his best friend for life—we shared everything, never keeping secrets. I never once thought about “tainting” this pure friendship. But reality turned out to be like one of the drama’s famous lines: When I say, ‘I might not love you,’ what I really mean is… I love you.

1

Both San Ye and I were students in an experimental “curriculum reform” class. It was quite unusual: starting from middle school, selected students were sent ahead to high school to receive early education. So, in my third year of middle school, I was already taking high school classes. Through several class reshuffles, San Ye and I always ended up in the same one.

We were classmates for four years.

The first clear memory I have of him was about a week after the new semester began. Back then, I would often go with a few close friends to the rooftop of the cafeteria to eat.

One day I was late getting my food. As I climbed up to the third floor, I suddenly decided to go back down to buy a drink. I rushed down the stairs—but that day, the cleaning lady must have been slacking off, because the steps were greasy. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have slipped and landed hard on my butt.

It was like a free amusement park slide, complete with obstacles—both thrilling and painful. I slipped down five or six steps before I managed to grab the handrail and stop myself. After checking that my wrists and ankles were miraculously unhurt, I looked up—and saw San Ye.

He was standing just three steps below me. If I hadn’t managed to stop, I probably would have crashed into him, sending him down the stairs in a “fun” human-slide combo.

Clearly, he had witnessed the entire spectacle. He was stunned. We locked eyes for three seconds. I thought he would ask if I was hurt, since he surely recognized me as a classmate.

But instead, he bent down, picked up the half-spilled bag of chicken strips I’d dropped, frowned as he looked inside, and asked:
“Want to go get another portion?”

Since in my head I had already imagined the “normal” scenario where he asked, Are you hurt?, I blurted out in response:
“It hurts so much!”

He just said, “Oh,” and then pointed to the landing.
“Then squat here for a bit. I’ll get it for you.”

Numbed by pain, my brain stopped working. I really did squat down, handed him my meal card, and even added, “And a bottle of Coke, thanks.”

And just like that, we got to know each other.

I thought this was our first conversation. But San Ye later told me it wasn’t that romantic:
“Our first talk was actually on registration day, at the reporting desk. I asked you where to get the forms, and you enthusiastically handed me one and explained what to fill out.”

I had absolutely no memory of this. I kept asking, “Really? We talked that early? The first day of school?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You were already chatting with half the class that day. You were so outgoing.”

He emphasized the word outgoing in a way that made it sound… not quite like a compliment.

Being sharp, I guessed it probably wasn’t meant as praise.

2

San Ye was quiet by nature. At that time, our little group of friends liked to wander around the experimental building during evening study breaks—the same group who used to eat on the rooftop.

Since we were “special” students sent early to high school, we weren’t taught in the main academic building. The principal had set aside two classrooms in the empty lab building for us. The desks were lab tables—extra wide, with sinks in between rows (though the taps didn’t work).

We were as carefree as those wide tabletops. Brainwashed by our homeroom teacher, we all believed that getting into this class meant one foot was already in Tsinghua or Peking University.

Now, looking back, I blush at how naïve we were.

Back to our night strolls: it was early autumn, the nights were mild, and the whole building was eerily quiet. We, the “fake high schoolers with one foot in Tsinghua,” would walk in the cool breeze and sing as we went.

The song I remember most was Boundless Oceans, Vast Skies. But years later, whenever I told others I knew that song, I realized our version was different.

We sang it like this:
“Boundless oceans, vast skies, after being brave,
With persistence we’ll break the lock of fate.”

We howled it out, off-key and dramatic.

San Ye would just quietly follow along.

I asked, “You don’t sing?”

He only smiled and said nothing.

I assumed he just couldn’t sing. But years later, when he entered a singing contest and even placed, I finally understood that smile back then.

It probably meant: You silly humans, I won’t stoop to join your madness.

3

I’ve always been talkative. When I was little, my mom even took me to see a doctor. A white-haired traditional Chinese medicine practitioner diagnosed me with ADHD and prescribed treatment. He pricked my finger joints with ten silver needles to “release blood.”

Supposedly, I became well-behaved after that. My mom praised his skill for years. But only I knew the truth: I was just scared out of my mind—it hurt too much!

I think I became friends with San Ye because he gave me a sense of steadiness and calm, so unlike the loud boys who could outtalk me. That’s why during activity periods, my favorite thing was to hang out with him—play ping pong, or sit on a cement ledge listening to music and chatting.

He rarely spoke, just sat silently as I rambled on—about the sky, the moon, the stars, from poetry and literature to life philosophy.

There are many differences between boys and girls. Even though I had lots of girlfriends, playing with a boy meant I could talk more freely, without overthinking. The topics were wider, too. So in my flamboyant way, I once told him:
“You’re my number one friend in the entire universe.”

I think San Ye really liked that title.

One night, we were heading to the school gate to catch the shuttle bus. He walked ahead of me. When I caught up, I slapped him on the back, thinking he’d be startled. But he just calmly turned and said:
“I felt you when you were still a meter away.”

I thought he was bluffing.

Then he said, “You have a scent.”

I raised my arm to sniff, but smelled nothing.

He explained, “You can’t smell your own scent. But I can. Everyone smells different.”

I could understand that part. For example, when my dad comes home and takes off his shoes, the stench is strong enough to knock out our dog—but my dad himself never notices.

So I asked this “dog-nose” of a boy:
“You can smell everyone?”

“Uh… not everyone,” he replied. “But I can smell you.”

“Why?” I pressed.

He walked me to the bus, smiled, and said:
“Because I’m your number one friend in the entire universe.”

Back then, San Ye was such a pure and kind child.

Nowadays, if I ask him, “Can you still smell my scent?” he’ll usually sniff theatrically, then kick me and say, “Go wash your feet.”