If I were to be told when it started, I would have to go back a long way.
Back before the crowded city nights and long walks alone, before the sharp reality of heartbreak and the quiet strength of growing up. I was just a child then—living in Ham with my family. Back when my grandmother was still alive. She had this gentle way of making everything feel safe, like nothing bad could happen as long as she was sitting on her floor mat, humming old songs.
But she left us before I even finished pre-school. And after her funeral, my father did what most adults do when grief quietly eats at the corners of their life—he started over. He sold everything. Said Shanghai had better schools. Said we could make new memories. Maybe he was right.
As promised, he got me admitted to the Middle School affiliated with Shanghai University—it sounded fancy, didn't it? I thought maybe I'd reinvent myself. Maybe I'd become one of those calm, mysterious girls who wears glasses and speaks in poetry.
But instead, I met him.
Oh—wait, I should introduce myself. You don't even know me, right?
I'm Mao Miyamora. And this… is my story.
He… his name was Dan. Jiang Dan, actually. And no, it wasn't love at first sight. It was something worse. Slower. Quietly obsessive. Like turning the pages of a book you weren't supposed to read but couldn't stop.
Maybe he never noticed me. Or maybe he did, and simply didn't think I was worth remembering. But from the very first time I saw him in that dull gray school uniform, leaning over his table during break, laughing with his friends—I couldn't stop watching him.
That's where it started. My... stalking.
I hate that word. It sounds so ugly, doesn't it? But what else do you call it when your eyes are always searching for one person, in a crowd of a hundred others?
You can judge me. I won't mind. I'm a girl, after all, and I was watching a boy without telling him. That's supposed to be embarrassing, right?
But I'm also the narrator of this story.
And the reader.
So maybe—just maybe—I get to be a little brave.
Canteen – A Memory
I still remember the first time I stood behind him in the canteen line.
He was taller than me by a few inches, and the sun from the open window made his hair look a bit golden at the ends. He ordered steamed buns and a drink I hated—milk tea with red beans. Ew.
I didn't speak. I just stared at his back and pretended to check my wallet.
He turned around once—probably looking for a table—and his eyes brushed past mine. I nearly dropped my tray. My heart did this ridiculous flip, and I laughed at myself silently.
> "Get a grip, Mao."
"He didn't even see you."
But a small, traitorous part of me whispered—
> "But what if he did?"
Sports Period – A Glance
We had to sit by the benches during PE because it was exam season and the sun was cruel that day. I had my water bottle clutched like a shield, and my bangs were stuck to my forehead with sweat.
He jogged past with a group of boys, all loud and shouting about a football match. His T-shirt stuck to his back. He laughed and kicked the ball once, missing it.
It rolled to where I sat.
My breath caught.
He jogged up, smiled politely, and said,
> "Sorry. Can I get that?"
I froze.
Literally froze.
I nodded—probably too stiffly—and handed him the ball.
> "Thanks," he said casually, before running off.
That was the first time he spoke to me. Just one word.
But that night, I wrote it in my journal three times.
> He said thanks.
He said thanks.
He said thanks.
Teacher's Staff Room – The Mistake
I once went to submit a homework notebook. And as fate would have it, he was standing at the door of the same staff room, talking to our math teacher.
I paused. Unsure whether to go in or pretend to be in the wrong corridor.
He looked at me—just briefly. Our eyes met. And in that second, I imagined he'd recognized me. That maybe, after so many silent days, he finally saw me.
> "You need something?" the teacher asked.
Dan had already turned away.
> "Uh, yes. Ma'am, I came to submit my notebook."
I handed it over and fled.
That night, I stared at the ceiling and whispered to myself—
> "Even if he never remembers me, I'll remember this day."
I had so many of these fragments.
Tiny collisions that probably meant nothing to him.
But to me?
They were my whole world.
And maybe that's why I clung to them. Because even if it was one-sided, even if I was just a silly girl with a quiet obsession—I was sincere. So very sincere.
And somewhere, deep down, I believed…
> One day, he would remember me too.
Even now in high school, my eyes still find him before anything else—like they've memorized his silhouette before I even realize it.
I tell myself it's just old habit, something left over from middle school, but the truth is... I still look for him.
Sometimes we pass by each other in the hallway, and for a second, I think he might look back—but he never does.
He probably doesn't even remember my name... but I remember his voice from that one time he asked for a pencil in class, like it was something sacred.