We were sitting next to each other on an old bus, traveling through a strange city with streetlights blurred by the rain. Cold grabbed our ankles and left our lips trembling. She began to cry; tears ran down her pale cheeks like a stream.
For the first time in my life, I leaned toward her and tried to hold this girl in my arms. Such a fragile flower, I thought; my fingers slightly shivered. A part of my heart started to collapse and sink; my eyes watered; not a single word could be uttered. There was this inescapable truth punching me in my face, choking me and tearing me apart with inexpressible bitterness.

I loved her. I felt it in my bones.

It was September 2011 when I first met her. And it was March 2015 when we separated. I still remember standing there in the darkness, barefoot, listening to my mother’s endless weeping. I remember the phone being smashed onto the ground, the girl’s postcards being trampled upon, and my father staring at me with his face so disappointed that I almost felt dizzy.

In China, sexuality is not talked about. And I was too much a coward to even try it.

There are two things I cannot forgive myself for. The first happened in 2014, when I was walking with her on a street in my hometown. Summer was approaching, and the breeze caressed the faces of every pedestrian. “Come closer,” she said. And then, suddenly, she leaned in and tried to kiss me.
I pushed her hard. I turned my face away. I hurried to retrieve my territory.

What if somebody saw us? What if they told my parents? What if? Fear filled my heart. It was not until she started crying that I realized how much harm and pain I had caused. When I finally understood and tried to grab her, she pulled away from me with so much strength that I knew in that instant something irreparable had broken.

I shouted her name, yet she refused to look at me. But for one second I saw her eyes; they were so heart-broken that I can’t stand to think of it even now.

Then she was gone, turning into a phantom, a withered dream, a rose buried in the memories of summer.

The second unforgivable incident happened in late 2015, a couple months after we broke up. I was just getting up when my parents told me they wanted to talk to me. My father’s words passed through the frozen air and into my ears, along with the TV noise in the background.

“What’s your sexuality?” he asked. My mother leaned on the wall with her eyes fixed on the ground.

I could hear the whispers in my head; every second that passed struck me like a dagger. Once again I was a helpless kid playing alone in the corner, all my toys broken.

“I’m straight,” I answered. And out of the corner of my eye I noticed how my mother breathed out and collapsed.

“How about that girl?” he persisted.

“I don’t know.”

“I know sometimes teenagers make mistakes.”

“Right,” I said.

“Did she start all of this?”

“I don’t know.” I hesitated. “Probably.”

“I understand.” He stood up. Suddenly, the room felt like a post-war battle. “Stay away from her,” he commanded.
I agreed. And that was the end. I had betrayed her, betrayed myself, betrayed every moment we had ever had together and every feeling I had ever felt in my soul.

I ended up in a boarding school in Massachusetts, thousands of miles from China and my home. It was a school with a Gay and Straight Alliance Organization. Countless times I stared at the words “Pride Club” in the student handbook, wondering.
I once heard a mother joking with my dorm parent about her daughter, who identified as a lesbian.

“You know what? I never worried when she invited boys to our house,” the mother said, laughing. “But every time a girl came, I would have to make sure they slept in separate beds.” The two women laughed together, while the daughter blushed by her mother’s side.

I felt something melt in my heart, as if winter was suddenly over. I didn’t cry, but there were tears slowly filling up the giant hole in my stomach.

I began to reflect and think; gradually, a lot of things came to light.

Who we are is not about choices. Instead, our identities are handed to us by the world, by God. Life is not a box of chocolates. Instead, it’s an unbreakable wall. We can choose to punch it and kick it, to cry and shout and scream. But the wall will stand, waiting. Waiting for us to realize it is unbreakable, for us to accept it. And all we can do is accept it, and learn to love ourselves as we are.
Be brave, because only bravery can enable us to protect the people we love.

I miss that girl. I miss her every single night and every single day. Before I die, I want to see her again and tell her that I finally have my shoulders ready. She can lean on them and cry for as long as she wants, or rest on them whenever she feels tired. We can hold hands and walk down the street. We can talk all night. We can get a car and drive to the north. We can sit on a couch, talk about getting married and adopting some lovely kids.

I want to tell her I’m ready, even though it’s already too late.