I once loved someone like this: the person who loves knows, and the person who is loved knows too. Is this unrequited love?
When in love, I would spend all day thinking about her. If she said something, I would wonder why she said it. Who was she saying it to? What was the point? If her gaze happened to pass by, I would feel joy, sadness, and frustration. I was afraid she wouldn't look, but also afraid she would. I was even more afraid of her seemingly indifferent sidelong glances, lightly sweeping over me. It was as if she knew everything, and as if she knew nothing at all. I felt like she was seeing right through me, and at the same time, she might be ignoring me. Finally, when I had a chance to speak to her, I would obsessively think about those few words, turning them over and over in my mind until they were completely exhausted. When I saw her from afar, my heart would flutter and itch. It was uncomfortable and comforting at the same time, as I speculated and guessed.
When in love, I would go to great lengths to find out everything about her, secretly savoring every detail of her actions. I felt like a spy, unable to let her know, yet afraid of arousing suspicion from others. I would casually bring up topics related to her, while pretending not to care. I would never mention her name unless someone else did, and even then, I would maintain a special silence. At this time, what I hoped for the most was for her to appear in a conspicuous place, so that I could have the freedom to watch her with everyone else and discuss her. Every time I learned something about her, I would mark a point in my heart. As the points accumulated, they formed clear lines, and the lines grew longer. Eventually, a distinct and familiar image of this person emerged.
When in love, sometimes my heart would be filled with a tide, like a river swollen with water. But sometimes it would feel empty, like stones laid out on a dry riverbed, reflecting the sunlight. Sometimes my heart would be soft and moist, like bamboo shoots growing after a rain. But sometimes it would feel stuffy and dry, like kindling that couldn't catch fire. I would doubt myself, examine myself, pity myself, and comfort myself all at once. I would look at myself and not know what to do. Sometimes, I would be impulsive and want to express my feelings to her, but I would be afraid of hearing the most dreaded outcome. So I would remain silent, but my vibrant heart would still beat. And so, I would be angry at her for not speaking, and I would hate myself for being so weak, always hoping for her to speak first. I would be confused about whether or not I should speak, and I would be ashamed of lacking the courage to speak to her first. And so it became like this, where I wouldn't say anything, but every part of my body would be speaking, endlessly.
Days passed, and still I didn't say anything. Years went by, and I still didn't say anything. That person was like a bottle of wine, hidden away. Occasionally, I would open it and take a whiff, feeling the fullness of its aroma in my lungs. At this point, it no longer mattered whether that person knew or not.
It would be best if that person didn't know, it would be even purer. In this purity, love belonged to me, I knew it was my love, and the memories of this love belonged to me as well. I would savor myself, sip by sip, and pour myself down.
It is only at this moment that I understand: this kind of love is not sad at all. There are no worldly attachments, no verbose endings, no vulgar splendor. It is simple, sharp, clean, and complete.
This kind of love is truly wonderful.