Later, I asked him, “What defines love?”
He was driving at the time and replied, “I suppose it’s when you feel a little more than just liking someone.”
Such a commonplace answer. I smiled, watching the red light across the street. Then another question occurred to me: “If love is feeling more than just liking someone, then what is it when you feel more than love?”
“More than love?” He turned to look at me, then smiled gently and said, “For me, that’s you.”
— Jiao Yang
The second semester of my senior year was the most difficult time I spent in college.
Endless job fairs, interviews of every variety, the headache of thesis defenses, and farewell dinners that wouldn’t end until someone collapsed—everything was pure chaos. We were all like spinning tops, rotating endlessly without control.
Until the moment everything stopped.
On the evening of June 23rd, A-Fen, who slept in the bunk above me, became the first person from our dorm to leave Nanjing.
She was heading to Xiamen, a distant place I knew only by name.
I never imagined there would come a day when I would run after a train with tears streaming down my face until the train accelerated and disappeared into the distance.
I had always been a happy, healthy child.
I had never truly understood what farewell meant.
Until this moment.
From now on, we might never meet again.
From now on, even if we do meet, it will only be brief encounters followed by another goodbye.
Perhaps by then, we won’t feel as sad as we do now, either because we’re no longer as important to each other or because we’ve grown stronger.
But right now, at this moment, you’re leaving, and all I can do is walk along the platform, crying.
Goodbye to our last moments of youth.
We can no longer live like children.
We have graduated.