How to pass a night overflowing with longing?

     The night I think of you is already a little chilly. I remember our first meeting, the same path, the same cool night, the same camphor tree, the same moonlight, only you are no longer by my left. Bitterness fills my heart and wells up in my eyes.

    On my way home, I recall those beautiful memories, but they are already lost. What made us strangers?

    By the camphor tree downstairs, I can still see your figure standing there, and I can still feel your warmth in my left palm. But, my dear, what has made us strangers now?

    The overpass at the intersection, the night view of the square, the soy milk shop we used to frequent are all forbidden places for me. My dear, if you still come to this overpass, pass by this square, and go past that soy milk shop, will you still remember me, the one you once held hands with? Even if your arm is now linked with another's? My dear, what has made us so unfamiliar and distant now?

    Do you still remember the straw rings? One for you, one for me. Do you still remember your promises? Promises always make people believe them, even though I always thought they were clichés and always acted with disdain. My dear, what made your promises impossible to keep? What made your vows fall apart? Or were they merely fleeting fireworks?

    My dear, I don't believe in fate, I don't believe in idealistic notions of destiny. Perhaps we really were just passersby in each other's lives. You left without a trace, while I left with a piece missing from my heart. The rebirth of that piece is obscure, dark, and fraught with repeated setbacks. But it could have been exchanged for something more worthwhile, something wiser. My dear, unfortunately—it wasn't you.

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