Chapter 8 – Tornado

35

A senior from the Student Union introduced me to a part-time job doing market promotion. When I mentioned it in the dorm, Xiang Lei was very interested and wanted to join too. Liu Chong teased from the side: “Don’t you have a man already? Why are you still hustling so hard? Don’t you need to focus on taking care of the family?” Xiang Lei laughed and replied, “We’re striving together!”

The so-called market promotion was essentially cold outreach—handing out promotional materials to street shops. It tested both how thick-skinned you were and how much hardship you could endure.

Xiang Lei was shy. Every time he walked into a store, his face would turn red beforehand. What surprised me, though, was how resilient he turned out to be. On days when the cold wind was brutal, I often felt too lazy to go out and do the tasks, but Xiang Lei never hesitated. He’d always urge me: “If we’re going to do it, let’s do it well. Otherwise, we might as well not do it at all.”

That Wednesday, the weather was unusually good—no wind, so it wasn’t as cold as usual. After two afternoon computer lab sessions, I returned to the dorm to wait for Xiang Lei so we could go out and complete our tasks together.

Half an hour later, Xiang Lei finally came back, listless. I urged him to hurry up, but he suddenly said, “Can you talk to Sister Zhang for me? I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m quitting.”

Only then did I notice Xiang Lei’s expression—wilted, like an eggplant beaten down by frost.

“Xiang Lei, you bastard, don’t tell me you got dumped again?” He Fei, sitting on Zhou Yunzhi’s lower bunk, smirked as he took a drag from his cigarette and teased.

In the eyes of the guys, Xiang Lei was always getting dumped. Even brief online or phone flirtations felt like full-blown relationships to him, and every failed meetup felt like a breakup. So, what was actually his first real relationship seemed to the dorm brothers like his nth—with n likely greater than 10.

“The honeymoon phase isn’t even over yet! How could he get dumped?” Liu Chong chimed in.

Everyone in the dorm burst out laughing.

Xiang Lei didn’t say a word. He just climbed onto his bed, pulled the blanket over his head, and stayed there.

“Xiang Lei, you’re really not going?” I asked.

“Yeah,” came the muffled reply from under the blanket.

Seeing this, the guys didn’t push further. Someone from the next dorm barged in, shouting about starting a game of Shengji¹A popular Chinese card game similar to bridge, often played with four people in partnerships.. Soon, two desks were pushed together, and a crowd gathered around them.

As I packed up my materials and left the dorm, a thought struck me: If it had been me, Liu Chong, or He Fei—someone who usually joined in the fun but suddenly shut everyone out, climbed into bed, and buried themselves under the covers—the others would’ve bombarded us with questions:

“Is he sick or something?”

“If you’re sick, don’t fucking tough it out!”

“Did you get medicine? Want us to grab some for you?”

…

36

During that day’s computer lab session, Xiang Lei found that he couldn’t log into his QQ no matter what he tried, so he decided to switch to an old, long-unused account. Luckily, he had backed up his important contacts’ QQ numbers in his email; otherwise, he might’ve lost touch with many of them for good.

Xiang Lei added Wu Liang’s QQ. Unexpectedly, Wu Liang was online and quickly sent a message: “Who is this?”

Xiang Lei decided to mess with him: “Who do you think?”

Wu Liang replied instantly: “Gay? Stats?”

Xiang Lei felt a pang of discomfort but still didn’t reveal himself, instead sending back: “19/178/66.”

Wu Liang: “Handsome? Got pics?”

Xiang Lei’s heart sank a little. He replied: “Average. No. Do you have a boyfriend?”

Wu Liang: “No.”

Xiang Lei’s fingers trembled over the keyboard, no matter how hard he tried to steady them.

Xiang Lei: “What kind of partner are you looking for?”

Wu Liang: “A BF, a lifelong love.”

Xiang Lei felt weak all over, his chest tight.

Xiang Lei: “You really don’t have someone?”

Wu Liang: “Do you have some kind of sixth sense? Fine, I’ll be honest. I do have someone. At first, I really loved him, but I don’t know why, I’ve started to realize he’s not the one I’m looking for. We’ll probably break up soon.”

Xiang Lei stared blankly at the screen, unsure how to respond.

Wu Liang: “What about you? What’s your type?”

Suddenly, Xiang Lei had had enough of the confusion. He felt anger rising.

Xiang Lei: “I like your boyfriend. I want to be with him. For a lifetime.”

Wu Liang: “?”

Xiang Lei wanted to cry.

Xiang Lei: “It’s good that you’re leaving him, because once I’m with him, he’ll never be left again.”

Wu Liang: “??”

Xiang Lei: “Goodbye!”

While the hatred still outweighed the pain, Xiang Lei quickly dragged Wu Liang’s account into the blacklist, decisively deleted the record, and then closed QQ.

After class, Xiang Lei slept through the noisy afternoon in the dorm, then went to the canteen for a serving of braised eggplant and two chicken drumsticks. On the way back, he suddenly remembered a line from The Triple Door²A bestselling satirical novel by Han Han, published in 2000, famous for its sharp critique of the Chinese education system.: “Not drinking after a breakup is like not wiping after taking a shit—it just doesn’t feel complete.” Xiang Lei couldn’t help but laugh. He detoured to a convenience store, bought four cans of beer, and drank three of them on the way back, leaving just one.

Back in the dorm, Xiang Lei popped open the last can, grinned at Liu Chong—who was on the phone with his girlfriend—and took another swig. Liu Chong glanced at him a few times, hurriedly ended the call, and asked, “Did you really get dumped again?”

Xiang Lei just smiled at him again, not saying a word.

But as he turned to climb onto his bed, the beer in his hand spilled onto the sheets. Frustrated, Xiang Lei slumped back onto the floor, draped his arm over the edge of the bed, buried his face in the crook of his elbow, and suddenly burst into loud sobs.

No one knew how to comfort their roommate, who they saw every day. Everyone present just watched in silence. Maybe Liu Chong’s question had carried a hint of concern, unlike He Fei’s teasing earlier that afternoon, and that was why Xiang Lei—usually so reserved—now cried so openly, without regard for appearances.

Xiang Lei had always been like this. He could shoulder great sorrow alone without issue, but the moment he caught even a fleeting glance of sympathy or heard half a kind word, he’d immediately reveal the hopeless vulnerability buried deep inside.

Xiang Lei couldn’t understand it. How could someone who used to tremble and his heart race at the slightest touch, who closed his eyes so tenderly with every kiss, who gazed at him silently when he woke, who once shed tears of happiness just from being with him—how could that same person just stop caring so suddenly? Which was the illusion—the past or the present? Had this all just been another figment of his imagination, another character he’d conjured up for himself?

In his online diary, the sweetness he’d boasted about just yesterday still felt warm. Thinking of this, Xiang Lei had no idea how to update his tomorrow. Should he fabricate a fairytale prince’s happily-ever-after?

He’d drunk. He’d cried. Fine. That made it complete.

But it had been so fleeting that Xiang Lei couldn’t even be sure if it had been a real relationship at all. All he knew was that, from now on, the name “Wu Liang” would never hold any special meaning for him. Someday, his stubborn longing and blind pursuit would surely return.

37

When the lights went out that night, Xiang Lei got a call from Wu Liang.

Wu Liang said, “This afternoon, a stranger added me on QQ.”

Xiang Lei immediately replied, “That was me.”

Silence followed. Half a minute later, Xiang Lei said, “Goodbye,” and hung up—probably the shortest call of his entire college life. He climbed into bed alone and suddenly felt the sadness rush back.

From that moment on, time stretched endlessly forward, and the two boys who had once been inseparable never crossed paths again in any way.

Occasionally, Xiang Lei would feel that the way he’d uncovered the truth hadn’t been honorable. But then he’d remind himself that it was relative—even if he hadn’t played along to test Wu Liang, it wouldn’t have changed the outcome he’d ultimately faced.

For over a week afterward, Xiang Lei couldn’t help but reminisce about the brief time he’d spent with Wu Liang. Sometimes, it frustrated him. He felt he should resent those memories.

Later, he realized he wasn’t actually missing Wu Liang—just his first real relationship. Because whenever he recalled those embraces and kisses, he’d unconsciously erase the person they belonged to. Who it was didn’t seem to matter at all. Xiang Lei, with his vivid imagination, could easily replace Wu Liang with anyone else—Pei Yong, for example.

Xiang Lei concluded that, a week ago, he hadn’t been in love with Wu Liang. He’d been in love with love itself.

38

Out of habit, Xiang Lei tried logging into his old QQ account—and to his surprise, it worked. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

From start to finish, it had all felt orchestrated, as if someone had scripted it. There were moments when the whole thing reeked of mockery—times when you were deliriously happy, only to have it ripped away through some cruel twist of fate.

Xiang Lei didn’t update his online diary. Reading through it from the beginning, he couldn’t bear to tack on such a discordant ending so soon. Besides, when this chapter of his life eventually faded into memory, it might not even affect his mood on some random afternoon in the future. Why force a harsh, bitter conclusion now?

Suddenly, Xu Menghu’s avatar—the one with the sunglasses—started blinking.

“Hey, you good?”

“I’m fine.”

“You and him?”

“Yeah.”

“Ha!”

“???”

“Don’t bullshit me. I can tell you’ve been having a rough time lately.”

“You really trust your instincts that much?”

“Of course. That’s why you’re back so soon!”

“Fine. You win. We broke up.”

“No fucking way! Hahahaha!”

“You’re happy?”

“Yep. But it’s weird—I haven’t seen any new diary entries with your usual ‘scorned lover’ tone.”

A flash of disgust hit Xiang Lei. Remembering how Xu Menghu had ghosted him repeatedly, he impulsively closed both QQ and the forum without even leaving an angry message, then logged off and left.

He wandered around the campus lake for nearly an hour, but for once, his mind was eerily calm.

Back in the dorm, he joined a game of Shengji. Mid-game, his phone rang.

Xiang Lei: “Hello?”

The caller cut straight to the point: “That guy’s name is Wu Liang, right?”

Xiang Lei froze, unable to place the voice: “Who is this?”

The caller ignored him: “From Polytechnic University, yeah?”

Xiang Lei racked his brain but still couldn’t identify the voice: “Who are you?”

Again, no answer: “You got his number?”

Now Xiang Lei was sure it was a complete stranger: “What do you want?”

The caller finally stopped pressing: “Alright, never mind.”

The line went dead. Only then did Xiang Lei think of Xu Menghu—but this definitely wasn’t the same voice as last time.

From the dorm across the hall, a song started playing. The moment Xiang Lei heard the intro, he handed his cards to Zheng Dongming behind him and headed to Room 208. He asked Yao Wenbin what the song was and who sang it. Yao Wenbin looked surprised: “Seriously? It’s Jay Chou’s ‘Tornado.’ How do you not know this?”

Xiang Lei recognized the intro. Suddenly, he remembered listening to it on loop half a year ago, though he’d only retained two lines:

Love comes too fast, like a tornado;

Love leaves too fast, like a tornado.

39

“Think about it—physical contact isn’t really a big deal. But can two men actually create that chemical reaction called love?” Liu Chong dangled his head over the edge of his bed, his feet propped against the wall.

Xiang Lei and Wu Liang’s whirlwind “romance” had left more than just Liu Chong with doubts. Many people concluded that, at most, same-sex attraction was just an intense but peculiar physical pull. Trying to force some kind of spiritual dimension onto this basic, primal sexual urge only made it seem even weirder.

I once had a serious debate with Xiang Lei. I firmly told him there was no need to fixate on some self-imposed identity. If love truly had no boundaries, how could he be so sure he’d never feel anything for the right woman? By limiting himself to a specific group—searching for so-called “true love” within a marginalized community—he was subconsciously ruling out the possibility of falling for a woman someday. That wasn’t objective.

Xiang Lei stubbornly shot back: Why should he subconsciously rule out the possibility of falling for a man someday? I told him it was because I didn’t believe love could exist between two men. I was convinced love had limits. Xiang Lei, of course, couldn’t claim he didn’t believe in love between men and women—after all, I could easily recite countless timeless tales of heterosexual romance. Even if Xiang Lei cited historical examples, all he could prove was that homosexuality had existed since ancient times. Over thousands of years, there might’ve been occasional anecdotes, but not a single enduring masterpiece. Xiang Lei knew I’d easily sum it up like this: Between men, there’s only physical attraction. If there were genuine, deep emotional love, history would’ve preserved at least one respectable example by now.

And, well—Xiang Lei and Wu Liang’s situation seemed to prove my point.

At 20 years old, we probably didn’t grasp the power of societal conditioning, so we never brought it up.

I thought my argument might not change Xiang Lei’s sexual orientation, but at least it should’ve convinced him. Turns out, I was wrong. Later, Xiang Lei told me he’d secretly resolved to find his own love, hold onto it, and prove me wrong.

The Xiang Lei we knew shared our disdain for the My Fair Princess craze from a few years back and couldn’t stand the weepy melodrama of Auntie Qiong Yao³Qiong Yao was a highly influential Taiwanese novelist and producer famous for her romance stories.. Terms like “eternal devotion,” “love till the end of time,” “until the seas run dry,” or “till mountains crumble and heaven meets earth” made him cringe. Yet, deep down, he seemed profoundly influenced by them—because Xiang Lei believed in everlasting love more fervently than any of us, especially the kind that existed on the fringes.

Xiang Lei told us many of his online friends didn’t believe in real love. Some said they’d grown numb; others called lifelong commitment an unattainable myth. Xiang Lei couldn’t relate. He didn’t know whether that mindset was a form of degeneration or transcendence. He even said that even if he went through 100 breakups, even when his hair turned white and his strength faded, leaving him with nothing but longing for love, he’d still believe in it—everlasting love. The only regret might be that, in this lifetime, he’d never actually find it.

Outwardly, I laughed at Xiang Lei’s naivety, but inwardly, I was moved by it. I wonder how those who mocked him alongside me truly felt inside. I’m sure I harbored the same yearning—I just wasn’t willing to admit to holding such a belief, let alone express it so unabashedly.

Xiang Lei said that while watching My Fair Princess, he’d curse the cheesy, goosebump-inducing dialogue one moment, then find himself irresistibly drawn to the idea of wandering the world with love, family, and friendship the next. More than once, he’d even embarrassingly shed tears over the plot. He’d refused to watch the hit Taiwanese drama Meteor Garden, but when Wu Liang sang “I’ll take you to see the meteor shower, let your tears fall on my shoulder” by his side, he’d been so overwhelmed with emotion he didn’t know what to do with himself.

Before he could even savor it, the sweetness had crystallized into memory in an instant.

During a nap, Xiang Lei thought of Wu Liang again—but this time, it wasn’t about reliving sweet moments. He simply thought of the person. He realized Wu Liang’s image was already fading: his smile blurry, his voice indistinct, his hairstyle and figure no longer clear.

When he really thought about it, they’d only properly looked at each other a handful of fleeting times.

Xiang Lei suddenly found it all a bit laughable. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.

What a shame. Just like that… it was over.

• 1
  A popular Chinese card game similar to bridge, often played with four people in partnerships.
• 2
  A bestselling satirical novel by Han Han, published in 2000, famous for its sharp critique of the Chinese education system.
• 3
  Qiong Yao was a highly influential Taiwanese novelist and producer famous for her romance stories.