On April 6, 2010, while heading home from Gong'an County in Hubei, I was lucky enough to meet a young woman at Hankou railway station. She was in her third year of university then: graceful, lovely, and gentle—a dazzling jewel.

A note: I entered the station and went to the entrance I remembered to wait for ticket inspection. That was when I noticed her. I gathered all my enthusiasm and courage to talk to her. What happened afterward was beyond anything I had imagined.

It was all so extraordinary. I went to the wrong ticket checkpoint and sat in the wrong seat instead of my own. That was how we met.

Us.

For three years we did not see each other, and our contact was intermittent. So much happened in those three years, but the hopes we held were always beautiful.

Three years.

So much happened in those three years. You graduated and started working. I emerged from a low point and entered a high point in my life. But all of this is only just beginning.

Yesterday.

We met again. I opened the door, but gave you neither a kiss nor a hug. Instead, I turned around and sat down in my room. You said it was so much like three years ago: I had left in the same way, with the same view of my back. I thought about it all with mixed feelings.

I acted that way because my life is so complicated. I do not want to affect a lovely young woman, draw her into my chaotic life, make her live amid lies, or have her share this mess with me. There are too many things I cannot bring myself to say. I do not want to hold anyone back.

Me.

It is not that I do not want this, or that I do not love you. How foolish I am: I lost my courage, just as you did—just like the reality you speak of.