Chapter 17 – Love-Driven and Gazing Across the River

90

Xiang Lei returned to the dorm and found that Liu Chong had assembled a computer, so he borrowed it to go online for a while.

As usual, there were a bunch of messages on QQ. Xiang Lei skimmed through them, most of which were from Shao Yiming and Xu Menghu. Seeing Shao Yiming’s messages, Xiang Lei felt two emotions intertwine—regret and guilt. But just the sight of Xu Menghu’s blinking avatar made Xiang Lei’s heart skip a beat instantly.

Xu Menghu’s earliest message was: “But maybe you don’t realize that, spiritually, I’ve already fallen completely in love with you! I can confirm it’s purely spiritual love because, no matter how much I think of you, I never have the slightest impulse to touch your thing or fuck your ass. Tell me, what should I do?”

Xiang Lei noticed that the timestamp of this message was right before he logged off at the internet café on the day he went home.

Forget it. So-called shallow fate usually ends like this—just passing strangers in each other’s lives.

He closed QQ outright. This thing seemed to bring him nothing but illusions that were always just out of reach.

On the campus BBS, “Sword of Sorrow” hadn’t been updated in a long time, and the thread had already fallen to the ninth page. Someone had posted about an alumni meet-up for the new semester, but among the replies, Xiang Lei didn’t recognize any familiar IDs.

Opening the gay forum he frequented, on a whim, Xiang Lei began updating his diary. He wrote from after lunch until before dinner, recounting his entire summer vacation experience. Between the lines, he couldn’t hide his happiness.

Then it suddenly occurred to Xiang Lei that Xu Menghu would definitely see these words, so he immediately wondered whether he should delete them. He felt he had no reason—nor any desire—to flaunt anything to Xu Menghu. But then again, was there any reason to hide what was happening in his life?

After much deliberation, Xiang Lei still didn’t delete the words he had spent the afternoon carefully writing.

The next day, Xu Menghu posted a thread in the forum’s admin section. The title and content were identical: “Let this name and my ocean-deep affection be deleted together.” There were three or four replies, all expressing shock and confusion. But under Xiang Lei’s diary, there was no comment from Xu Menghu.

Xiang Lei felt a little disappointed because of this.

He clicked into the section Xu Menghu moderated. Nearly a year had passed, and “Memories Like Smoke” was still pinned at the top of his board when “Give Me a Cigarette” applied to delete his account.

Is he online?—As if possessed, Xiang Lei logged into QQ again.

He was. The avatar of the shades guy was quietly lit up. Xiang Lei saw that “Give Me a Cigarette” had changed his username to “The Crying Lion.” His signature read: “Nothing left to lose. In the height of summer, a lion’s tears will never fall like autumn rain—they’ll pour down in torrents.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Xiang Lei thought for two minutes before typing this question, feigning ignorance.

“The happier you are, the more I suffer. Why waste your fucking breath?” After a long pause, The Crying Lion replied.

“You belong to the grasslands; I belong to the forest. At most, one of us is just fantasizing,” Xiang Lei said.

Xiang Lei waited for a long time but got no response. When he checked again, the avatar had already turned gray.

91

After our class rep announced the first-year comprehensive GPA rankings, we all spontaneously agreed on one thing: our department’s academic performance was a carbon copy of China’s sports achievements—female students dominated, while male students lagged behind. The top ten in the department didn’t include a single guy.

But the truth was, Xiang Lei ranked second in the entire department.

One difference between university and high school was that in high school, Three-Good Students¹“Three-Good” Student: an honorific title awarded to students who excel in three disciplines: academics, ethics, and physical fitness. were basically picked by teachers based on grades. Who would’ve thought that university also had something like this, except it was decided by anonymous class voting?

During that class meeting, Xiang Lei’s name was written on the blackboard. Each person could vote for five people, and with 30 classmates casting 150 votes, Xiang Lei ended up with only four.

Among all the names on the blackboard, Xiang Lei’s was the only one without a full tally mark next to it. In fact, it might as well have not been written there at all.

Objectively, Xiang Lei’s academic excellence was undeniable, but the results made it seem like if there had to be a “good” student, Xiang Lei could only qualify as a “One-Good Student.”

Being roommates, I still ended up voting for Xiang Lei, but the final outcome wasn’t really surprising.

Special scholarships, on the other hand, were determined through a series of democratic evaluations. Xiang Lei ultimately received an academic excellence scholarship based solely on grades, bypassing the investigations. This was enough to make him smug. When we teased him into treating us, Xiang Lei excitedly said, “No problem!”

That day, all the guys in the dorm were present. Xiang Lei immediately invited us to a nearby hotpot restaurant and then went next door to invite others. We saw He Fei snort, sling his backpack over his shoulder, and walk out of the dorm.

He Fei didn’t go—he didn’t even say a word.

None of us could really figure out He Fei’s mood. He never talked about Xiang Lei behind his back, but in front of Xiang Lei, he sometimes acted with outright disgust. Other times, though, unlike the rest of us, he didn’t seem to mind being associated with Xiang Lei in ways that might invite ridicule—like partnering up for a game of Shengji or actively helping him find part-time jobs.

He Fei was generally open and unrestrained with everyone—except Xiang Lei, toward whom his moods were unpredictable. That one “disgusting” before summer break had once again reduced their relationship to that of strangers.

After sitting down at the restaurant, Xiang Lei did a headcount but didn’t ask about He Fei.

At that moment, I suddenly came to a conclusion: for Xiang Lei, if he cared about his relationship with another guy, it probably wasn’t just about friendship anymore. If not, then that person simply didn’t matter.

Given that both his emotional and sexual interests were directed at men, it was easier to understand Xiang Lei by viewing him as a woman: when he interacted with a man, it was either indifferent or romantic—pure friendship was probably rare.

Saying Xiang Lei was “love-driven” might not be entirely accurate. His interactions with other men always seemed to carry an unconscious “love or nothing” attitude.

92

Xiang Lei had no time to deal with his relationship with one roommate because he had more people and things to face.

For example, Tao Zhuwen reappeared just when Xiang Lei was about to forget him again. The guy had actually gotten into Peking University. Unable to reach Xiang Lei online, he resorted to writing letters.

Upon learning that Xiang Lei had started dating Li Zeng, Tao Zhuwen lamented: “In the end, you can’t have it both ways.”

Tao Zhuwen invited Xiang Lei to dinner. Xiang Lei was initially hesitant but happened to see Liu Chong return to the dorm, so he immediately decided to bring Liu Chong along.

Liu Chong was, of course, overjoyed.

Tao Zhuwen didn’t object when he heard the arrangement over the phone.

At the dinner table, there was an unspoken understanding. Liu Chong didn’t dare apologize in person, and Tao Zhuwen didn’t bring up the past either. The three of them avoided personal topics and chatted about everything else, hitting it off surprisingly well.

Liu Chong deliberately seated Xiang Lei on the inside, allowing him to beat Tao Zhuwen to the bill by half a step.

Tao Zhuwen put up a polite fight, but Xiang Lei laughed and said, “This guy’s the young master of a Shanxi coal tycoon. Not fleecing him is already giving him face—don’t be polite.” Hearing this, Tao Zhuwen didn’t argue further.

At this point, Tao Zhuwen probably also wanted to say to Xiang Lei: “Let’s meet alone sometime.”

Xiang Lei suddenly felt a little awkward and chuckled sheepishly. “Sure.”

93

Another example: Shao Yiming kept calling. Though he never brought up that incident again, his voice was still full of remorse. Xiang Lei always made a point to ask about him and Wei Tong. Shao Yiming said he hadn’t visited Wei Tong in a long time, and if things continued this way, he might end up hurting Wei Tong deeply one day.

“Shao Yiming,” Xiang Lei deliberately adjusted his tone, “I have a boyfriend now.”

“You met him?” Shao Yiming thought Xiang Lei was talking about Xu Menghu.

Xiang Lei hesitated, then replied, “Yeah.”

“Then… congratulations.”

A long silence followed.

As if reminding the other that he was still on the line, Shao Yiming’s breathing occasionally came through with slight static, sounding like sighs.

“Let’s talk another time. I’m hanging up,” Xiang Lei said.

“Xiang Lei,” Shao Yiming replied, “We’re still… friends, right?”

“Of course. Be good to Wei Tong.” After saying this, Xiang Lei felt it was so fucking hypocritical.

After this call, Shao Yiming came to visit Wei Tong over the weekend. As usual, Wei Tong invited Xiang Lei for lunch. Xiang Lei thought about it but didn’t decline this time. However, after lunch, he made up an excuse and left.

Xiang Lei encountered those clear eyes again, but this time, they seemed tinged with sorrow. He realized he could still feel moved by them, so the moment he left, it felt almost like fleeing.

So-called shallow fate—every process was like this, standing on opposite banks of the same river, gazing at each other from inches away.

94

Before National Day, Xiang Lei had already planned his holiday itinerary.

According to him, a high school classmate had invited him to Xi’an. But none of us believed it. Almost everyone said: “Xiang Lei, it’s not a classmate, is it? It’s gotta be another one of your online gay friends—anyone could guess. You’re something, hooking up with guys from all over the country.” Xiang Lei was in a good mood and not only didn’t explain but even responded: “Damn right!”

At times like this, the one who found it most unbearable was, once again, He Fei. Almost everyone had noticed this by now, so seeing He Fei’s gloomy face those days wasn’t surprising.

On the first day of classes after the National Day holiday, Xiang Lei didn’t return, nor did he call to ask about attendance. The homeroom teacher asked the class rep, who then asked us in the dorm, but of course, we had no answers.

At noon, Liu Chong burst into the dorm waving a newspaper, shouting. We gathered around and saw a shocking headline: “Two University Students from Beijing Fall to Their Deaths on Huashan Mountain.”

Someone immediately yelled: “Holy shit! It’s not Xiang Lei, is it?”

I don’t know how others felt, but when I heard this, my whole body turned cold, and I nearly shuddered.

We saw He Fei snatch the newspaper and read the article under the headline carefully.

The 300-word article didn’t contain a single word confirming that Xiang Lei, who had lived with us for over a year, was one of the two victims. But neither did it have any words ruling him out.

“Should we report this to the school?” Liu Chong asked.

“Are you stupid? Can you confirm it’s Xiang Lei?” He Fei shot back.

Everyone habitually lay down for a nap, but five minutes later, everyone was talking about it again. The newspaper kept rustling in He Fei’s hands.

“Can we check call records on our phones? What about looking up that classmate’s number?” Liu Chong suggested.

“Why don’t you go ask the telecom company,” Zheng Dongming retorted.

“If they’ve already identified the victims as Beijing university students, the schools must’ve been notified. If it were Xiang Lei, we’d know by now,” He Fei said. “These news reports never give key details—fucking useless! Who knows if they’re even real?”

Before afternoon classes, He Fei pulled me aside and pointed at the newspaper headline. “Boss, look—it says ‘two university students from Beijing.’ Xiang Lei didn’t go with another student, so it can’t be him, right?”

I saw hope for affirmation in He Fei’s eyes, so without thinking, I slung an arm over his shoulder and said, “Yeah, stop overthinking it! Let’s go to class.”

The next day, Xiang Lei still hadn’t returned or called.

At noon on the third day, after class, we returned to the dorm to find the lock undone. He Fei rushed forward and kicked the door open. Inside, Xiang Lei was changing clothes, seemingly startled by the noise. He turned and stared blankly at the door.

We saw He Fei stride forward angrily, grabbing the collar of Xiang Lei’s half-buttoned shirt. His other hand jabbed repeatedly in front of Xiang Lei’s face, but no words came out. After a moment, he shoved Xiang Lei onto the lower bunk beside him.

I think I knew what He Fei wanted to say, so I patted He Fei’s shoulder and turned to Xiang Lei. “You could’ve at least called.” Then I grabbed the newspaper from He Fei’s bed and handed it to Xiang Lei.

Xiang Lei read it silently, his eyes fixed on the floor. He muttered, as if to no one in particular: “Couldn’t get a ticket. Barely boarded an extra train that kept stopping, then had to transfer in Zhengzhou…”

Xiang Lei must’ve thought no one cared when he returned. In truth, without that newspaper, none of us would’ve noticed his absence.

As I’ve said before, dorm friendships meant nothing to Xiang Lei. And in reality, apart from He Fei, no one felt they had any real connection with this gay roommate.

While Xiang Lei was still speaking, He Fei had already left the dorm and didn’t attend afternoon classes.

I began to suspect He Fei’s feelings for Xiang Lei. I think everyone in the dorm did, but no one joked about it.

It was as if we all felt sorry for He Fei. And even if he had inexplicably developed same-sex feelings for Xiang Lei, he and Xiang Lei could never be the same.

• 1
  “Three-Good” Student: an honorific title awarded to students who excel in three disciplines: academics, ethics, and physical fitness.