He Held the World Before Me
The Love Left Unspoken
Theo's Story
1
There's this person who keeps pestering me lately.
Calling me "senior" all day long.
Dresses like a mess, collar always crooked.
Always saying things that are completely backwards and nonsensical.
Looks flashy too.
Definitely doesn't seem like a good person.
There's absolutely no way I'd ever like him.
My name is Qian Shuhan.
The year my dad was almost forty, he made a big fortune in real estate.
Overnight he became nouveau riche.
And me, still in eighth grade.
Suddenly transformed from a crow to a phoenix on a branch.
Shuhan Shuhan—virtuous and cultivated.
This name that had nothing to do with me.
That wasn't my original name.
My original name was Qian Duolai.
I heard that when I was just born.
My family was incredibly poor.
So poor the whole family had to squeeze into one bed.
So poor we wore clothes with patches on top of patches, patching them again when they tore.
So poor we celebrated New Year's by eating instant noodles with sausages.
So they hoped their child would bring good luck.
And brazenly named me Qian Duolai.
Meaning "money come a lot."
I used to complain about it all the time.
Saying it'd be better to be called Qian Duoduo or just Qian Lai.
Maybe at least it'd sound a little nicer.
No use—they refused to change it.
So I carried that godawful name Qian Duolai.
Spring after spring, autumn after autumn.
I got to middle school.
I don't know how many people had made fun of my name.
At first when I just started school, I'd get furious.
After hearing it enough times, I went numb.
Go ahead and say it—talking won't kill me.
When people heard my name, they could probably guess what kind of people my parents were.
I remember someone actually taunting me: "Hey, Qian Duolai, your parents must be crazy for money, huh?"
I rolled my eyes. Yeah, my parents are crazy for money. I'm crazy for money too.
If possible, who wouldn't want money to come a lot?
My name is lovely.
I don't care what people say at all.
Really, I don't mind one bit.
Not at all...
When I first started middle school, our family was still poor.
Not as ridiculously poor as before.
But you could still call it struggling.
On the first day of middle school.
I carried my Barbie princess backpack from elementary school.
Wearing my older cousin's hand-me-down clothes.
A pair of slightly unglued regular canvas shoes.
Just walked into the new classroom like that.
I arrived fairly early.
There were still plenty of empty seats in the classroom.
The homeroom teacher was a woman in her thirties, wearing flat-frame glasses.
With her hair in a low ponytail, lipstick on, and a large black mole at the corner of her mouth.
Wearing flat blue shoes.
She was at the podium, head down, writing something.
I walked up beside her and handed her my registration documents and file. She barely lifted her eyelids, scanning me from head to toe before withdrawing her gaze.
She didn't say anything to me. I carefully placed my documents next to her, and seeing no reaction, I started to walk away.
I'd barely turned around when she suddenly clicked her tongue in annoyance: "Where are you going? Aren't you going to fill out the form?"
After hearing that, I hurried back to fill out the form she mentioned. I pulled out a pen from my backpack and started writing while leaning on one side of the podium.
I was still feeling anxious, zoning out a bit while filling out the form, worried that I'd made a bad first impression on the teacher who'd be with me for the next three years.
When I finally finished and handed her the form, she took it without any indication she wanted to continue talking, so I started to walk away again.
I'd barely turned around when I heard her mutter something.
The voice wasn't loud.
But I happened to catch it.
She said.
"Where'd this manners-less poor girl come from."
My steps halted. I instantly flushed crimson, burning with embarrassment.
I felt like I had a target on my back.
I stumbled back to my seat in awkward steps.
Once seated, I didn't even have the courage to lift my head.
I really wanted to talk back.
I didn't know I needed to fill out a form.
I just wasn't dressed well today.
I really wanted to turn around and say I'm not a manners-less poor girl.
But I didn't say it.
Because what she said was true.
I really was just a clumsy, poor girl.
I sat there, completely deflated.
Wishing I could find a hole in the ground.
To crawl into and never come out.
I don't know how much time passed.
Suddenly I felt someone sit down next to me.
I slightly turned my neck, looking down at my new seat-mate.
It was a boy.
A somewhat unkempt boy.
A little chubby kid, and short too.
His collar was crooked, buttons misaligned.
The sleeves of his white dress shirt had black pen marks all over them.
Sweat was dripping down his chubby neck.
I don't know if he noticed me peeking at him.
He scratched his head and looked at me.
Our eyes met.
I saw with crystal clarity a stream of snot running from his nose.
He smiled awkwardly.
Then pulled a crumpled tissue from his pants pocket.
And wiped his nose.
I snapped out of it.
Pretended to be composed and withdrew my gaze.
One hand propping up my head.
On the first page of the newly distributed math book.
I took out my pen.
Gripped the pen tightly and wrote forcefully.
"I hate middle school."
The result of pressing too hard was that the brand new page was instantly torn.
For some reason, I let out a long breath.
After starting middle school.
I studied aggressively.
My family didn't have extra money for study guides.
So I wrote and reworked every single piece of material the school handed out until I'd exhausted it completely.
I've always lived by one saying.
What you're studying now is books; what you'll be counting later is money.
I threw myself into the sea of exercises like a starving person.
Like a gold miner.
Wishing I could dig up every handout like gold.
I was always the first to hand in homework.
Every day I charged ahead like a proud rooster overflowing with energy.
When poverty reaches its extreme.
Academic performance was the only thing I could show off.
The only sword I could wield in a bet.
My lifeline in a sea of drowning.
But my new seat-mate clearly didn't share my philosophy.
He spent every class either spacing out or blowing his nose.
During one self-study period, after he'd sneezed sixteen times, blown his nose ten times, and yawned three times.
I finally hit my limit. I slammed my pen on the desk. The sound was like a surging wave, startling a flock of birds, and everyone around turned to glance at me.
I didn't care anymore.
Nobody was allowed to disturb me while I was studying.
I glared at him fiercely.
At that moment, I suddenly thought of that cartoon "Big Ear Tutu" I used to see at the pharmacy when getting IV drips as a kid—when Tutu's mom got mad, flames would shoot from her back.
I used to think that cartoon was misleading kids.
Who gets so angry that flames shoot out of their back!
Right then and there, I was certain.
There had to be a massive fire blazing behind me.
He looked at me blankly. His nose was red—probably from blowing it too much. He still had a tissue clutched in his hand, clearly at a loss. He probably didn't even know what I was mad about.
Honestly, looking at this little chubby kid's confused and pitiful face.
The fire behind me seemed to quietly go out.
I figured maybe this kid had rhinitis and wasn't doing it on purpose.
But inexplicably, I still glared at him, then snorted and turned away.
Looking back now, I still can't figure out why I was so angry. I ended up chalking it up to teenage rebellion—that period was just one where I was furious every day, wanting to knock everyone over.
I was a bully who picked on the weak and feared the strong.
Nobody in our class was easier to pick on than this snotty little chubby kid who was a head shorter than me.
This chubby kid basically had no temper. I'd never seen him get angry. Every day he just had that gleeful look on his face.
I was always working hard swinging my pen, while the chubby kid next to me just zoned out. He didn't talk much either.
Other people saw he was easygoing and kept borrowing things from him—stuff they never returned. The chubby kid never got mad about it. Next time someone asked to borrow something, he'd still hand it over with a smile, nice and quick.
Being this easygoing, you're going to get picked on.
But I couldn't be bothered to care. He chose to lend things himself.
What did that have to do with me?
2
The first big exam of seventh grade—the midterm.
I took first place in my class by a landslide, a decisive number one.
I triumphantly picked up my report card and examined it from every angle, admiring my show-off-worthy grades, nearly giddy with pride.
Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly spotted the chubby kid next to me.
He was sitting there dejectedly, with his report card on the desk, his two chubby hands rubbing together.
By the looks of it, he hadn't done well.
No wonder—he spent every day spacing out. How could he do well?
But he looked this upset—how badly must he have done!
My curiosity was suddenly piqued. A strong impulse drove me to peek at the sad-looking chubby kid's score next to me.
I casually scooted my stool toward the middle a bit, pretended I needed to pick something up off the floor, and when I leaned toward the chubby kid's side, I snuck a lightning-fast glance at the score on his paper.
Class ranking: 41.
In the moment my head was lowered, a lot of thoughts crossed my mind.
How many people were in our class again?
I think it was... 41.
I sat back up, sighed, and patted the chubby kid on the shoulder.
With this score, the chubby kid was going to have a rough time at home.
The chubby kid clearly didn't expect.
The fierce girl seat-mate who always ignored him to suddenly pat his shoulder like that.