I love to be intimate with her. In front of her, my ferocity and cynicism disappear. The little dignity I have left is all for her. I try my best to help her do things: carrying her bicycle when she goes to and from work, bringing her a raincoat when it rains... She always says "thank you", but I really don't need her to thank me. She will never understand how much I hope that she could value my existence. I feel that she is different from other girls, and I would regret giving up on her.
On New Year's Eve, during the factory's gathering dinner, she left early. After finishing my meal quickly, I went to her office. She was reading an English book. I suggested playing cards, and whoever lost would have to fulfill the other person's one request. She won, and I asked her what she wanted me to do. Truly, I am willing to do anything for her. "Quit smoking!" She said quietly. I paused and asked her "Why?" She calmly replied that an 18-year-old boy should not smoke so skillfully, and quitting smoking would make me look worse. I was inexplicably moved and pretended not to care as I started because I was afraid of shedding tears even though I hadn't cried for many years. I would never let myself cry in front of her. She asked me when I started smoking, and I told her it was five years ago when my father passed away. I noticed her eyes dimming, and I felt that over the years, only she understood the pain of losing my father at a young age. From then on, she no longer treated me like an ordinary person, and this realization made me extremely happy.
One night when I was working the night shift, I brought her some late-night snacks. She was brushing her hair with her back to the door. This was the first time I saw her with her long hair down: her jet-black hair, delicate shoulders, pale and thin hands... Everything seemed so unreal. I stood motionless behind her, and then involuntarily tightly grabbed her cold hand, feeling a slight tremor. With a "clatter," the comb fell to the ground. She broke free from my hand, bent down to pick up the comb. That heart-pounding sensation almost overwhelmed me. She didn't look at me, quietly telling me that she was already married, and her son was already three years old. I remember running out, walking for a long time, as if only this way could conceal my tumultuous emotions. When I calmed down, I realized this should have been expected. A gentle, beautiful 26-year-old woman, how could she not be married? But in my heart, I blamed the man who became her husband: how could he let her become so pale and thin? How could he let her walk such a long road alone at night after her night shift? I couldn't control myself, continuing to care for her with my 18-year-old heart and frail shoulders, completely changed. She treated my 18-year-old sentimentality and fragility just like before, making me understand that steadfastness and persistence are qualities one should possess.
She transferred to our factory when I was 18. She had a pale face, and her long hair was always tied into an elegant braid. I thought she was very beautiful. One day, I invited her to watch a movie. The method was a bit old-fashioned, but it showed my sincerity. She smiled and kindly refused me, treating me like a younger brother who had made a mistake. That day, I learned that she was eight years older than me, but I didn't care because when I was 16, I once had a girlfriend who was six years older than me.
Since my father's death, I have never wanted to stay home during festivals. On New Year's Eve, stepping through the cold wind and celebratory firecracker sounds, I came in front of her building. I knew her whole family was enjoying their reunion, and she probably wouldn't think of me at this time, but I just wanted to see her. Her second-floor balcony was completely dark, like a black hole amidst the bright lights. I went upstairs, and the silence inside her door contrasted sharply with the laughter of her neighbors. I hesitated for a moment, then knocked on the door. When the door opened, she stood alone in the darkness, her pale face as surprised as mine. It was the first time I entered her home. She turned on the light, and the wedding photo hanging on the wall was very prominent. Her husband was handsome, and the photo showed her healthy and beautiful. Suddenly, I saw her husband's large black-and-white photo neatly placed on the side table. She turned around and looked at me, her pale face melancholic and moving under the dim light: "My son has never seen his father. My husband died in a car accident just three months after we got married." Before she finished speaking, she was already in tears. I hugged her tightly; in the midst of universal celebration, she helplessly sobbed in my arms while colorful fireworks lit up the night sky outside...
Finally, I realized that at the age of 18, I couldn't bear the deep affection of the woman in my arms, and at that moment, I truly grew up.
(Moving Old Story)
At the age of 13, I lost my father. His death took away his discipline towards me and my interest in homework. I entered the factory at 16. Before that, I attended a technical school for two years but didn't graduate because I was expelled for fighting. I liked working the night shift because my friends and I were used to sleeping during the day; I liked playing cards and dating because I had nothing else to do.