Ninth floor of the Peace Hotel at night. On the open-air bar terrace, wind in my hair, I ordered a bottle of wheat beer and put on the soundtrack from the TV series Blossoms Shanghai. Paula Tsai's "In the Night Wind" drifted through my earbuds. A couple behind me murmured to each other in hushed tones, the ambient chatter of the crowd leaking through my deliberately low volume. Then my phone screen lit up — a message from someone I once liked very much, and still hold a particular feeling for. He said he wouldn't be able to meet me on this trip.
This trip, beyond attending the wedding, had another important reason: I wanted to see friends in a foreign city. I've always felt that meeting someone for the first time — or reuniting — in a different city is a romantic thing. Old impressions come rushing back in layers the moment you see that person again.
Whether the feelings remain as they were is debatable. But the anticipation was real.
When I read the message, all I felt was exhaustion. I realized — no, I recognized — that there is a kind of affection that is "draining." Because you like the other person so much, you're willing to compromise so much, too much, disproportionately pouring your mental energy into them at the cost of your own.
(I use "compromise" here rather than the Chinese equivalent, because I think the English word more precisely captures the com + promise — the expectation and emotion it contains.)
Mm. Liking someone does take different forms. Understanding how emotions project onto another independent being — and the shadow of yourself that reflects back — is hard. Let alone figuring out how to cope with the loss that follows unmet expectations.
A massive, silent roar churns inside, deafening — yet when you lean in, you hear nothing at all.
The night wind sweeps through, gently lifting the flutter and the regret of that fleeting instant, scattering them like wisps of pollen carried off by the current.