I walked past ten subway stations, through countless underground passages. I so wanted to find the boy who played the piano that night. Though I already knew who he was, knew he might never appear in the subway tunnel again. But I missed the tears of that night. I missed his slender shoulders, his fingers playing the piano like scallions, and his gaze hidden behind his bangs, still radiating a sense of melancholy.
I was exhausted, couldn’t walk anymore; the breeze of the subway felt like a taste of heaven. Empty, unreal. At 2 AM, opposite me sat a beggar in ragged clothes, drinking from a bottle of XO. His beard concealed his true age, and in the dim light of the subway tunnel, there were just the two of us. I wasn’t scared, just watching him. He raised his bottle towards me, grinning widely. That smile was so radiant, catching me off guard. His life was in full bloom at 2 AM, but I couldn’t cry. I hugged my knees, my head buried between my thighs, warming myself. This was a self-comforting posture I had learned over the years.
When dawn broke and the sun came out, I would go back, pretending nothing had happened, to attend my composition class and clean the auditorium.
I heard footsteps, growing louder then fading away into the distance. Yes, those who have left won’t come back; those songs that make you cry with every listen; those responsibilities you can’t pick up once dropped; those mistakes that are just mistakes; those times you can’t get back. These are the words I read on the first page of your diary. Forgive me for plagiarizing you once again. I always follow in your footsteps, drink the mint tea you’ve left, eat the bitter chocolate you’ve tasted, plant the cacti you like, and even love the person you love deeply. I am a despicable plagiarist. The past is like old wounds, occasionally attacking me, like old friends. I am willing to confess.
