上一次在深夜為了你寫文章是在春天，而4年後一個寒流來臨的春天，我又再次在深夜為你寫下些什麼。
我以為我和你的故事結束了，我真的，真的已經準備好要進入下一個階段，但卻毫不留情地在這一刻發現自己根本還沒準備好。年初的一個小小的插曲，我因此認為劍拔駑張的氣氛已然和緩，似乎我們可以再重新成為朋友，但這樣熱烈的意圖很快的就被否決，因為彼此都已經在不同的軌道上前進，再興風浪受傷的不知道是誰。但我們的故事總是事與願違，永遠不在我安排的道路上前進。
就在我排除了這樣的想法後不久後，共同朋友傳來了你想要再次成為「摯友」的提議。
詫異，對於擁有一樣想聯絡的想法，第一時間是詫異的。原來直到現在我們居然仍有相同的想像，但漸漸的這樣的詫異變成無言，因為這是「我。們。之。間」的事，與他人無關。自此之後我的思緒開始混亂紛呈，而當心理無法承受，生理就開始接手。
我不斷嘗試著讓自己深吸氣、吐氣，試圖平息那些在腦袋裡日漸膨脹混亂的情緒。指甲死死地抓著手，很痛，但痛才能讓我的思緒持續清晰。我在內心尖叫，我想逃跑、想現在立刻跑到某個人身邊，但發現自己不能告訴她，因為這樣的情緒重量不應該放在她身上。但你呢？是的，從前我會告訴你這些情緒，但諷刺的是這些情緒是你造成的。
這是我們的故事，但是我事與願違。
我想說清楚，你想要＝ ＝
我們存在著互相理解卻無效的溝通，面對各自的煩惱，我們並不是要想著如何一起解決，是否接住情緒了也不得而知（太久了，但我想是有的吧），或許我們曾經有想要一起解決，但最後的我們只剩下「你想怎樣就怎樣」的無奈與封閉。我們沒有辦法真正的深入交流，就只是彼此的垃圾桶而已。
我不敢踏出那一步，而你，理解卻不打算劃清界線
看到朋友轉述你的話，有關我的特別情感與我們之間因此展開的漫長對話，在某個人生的節點裡結束的這件事。讓我真正明白，這段關係會變成如此疲憊不堪，是因為我不敢踏出那一步，而你，縱使明白也沒打算畫清界線。
沒有回應的你，就是沈默的拒絕
為什麼我會這麼任性的掩耳盜鈴？為什麼我會逼迫自己相信我愛的是「喜歡你的那個自已」？為什麼我就如此鴕鳥心態？為什麼我相信沒有聽到那句「我不接受」就代表一切都還有可能？
或許只是自尊心作祟、自卑心拖後腿。或許我就只是不願意相信自己的失敗而已，因為事實上，沒有回應的這漫長的時間裡，你只是用了一個迂迴的方式沈默拒絕了我的心意，而我就只是在自欺欺人而已。錯從來不在你身上，是我給了自己錯誤期待，是我傷害了自己。
於是我大哭了不只一場，哭自己的執著、哭自己的傷痕、哭我們之間的那些故事。同時間，這篇文章也不斷刪改，從最初的標題「各自安好，我們都好」我寫下這樣的文字
我會努力忘記那個因為喜歡而偷偷淋雨的自己、忘記那個被丟掉的腐爛楊桃、忘記灑進唐人街圖書館的暖陽、忘記公園裡酷暑和冰涼的啤酒、忘記你的炸雞、你的一切。
直到現在，標題改了好幾次後，我清晰認知我只是在期待而已。期待你會不一樣，期待我會勇敢，但所有的期待都沒有一個更為具體的目標，所以活在幻想的我事與願違。在《致10年》裡，我寫下「如果那時候再更勇敢一些，就不會這樣歹戲拖棚了」的字句，但事實是這樣的。
如果意識到我的心意的那刻，或是之後的每一個瞬間，每一個我們遠離或是親近的瞬間，在每一個可以選擇期待或是現實的目標的瞬間，我選擇了後者，這個故事就不會是如此了。
但我沒有辦法改變過去，改變不了這個故事已經發生的所有情節。那些期待和現實都過去了。我唯一能做的，是讓這個故事結束。沒有如果，因為時間不可逆，我不能也不會再用這樣的句式結束我的自白。
但要如何結束這個自白呢？意識到都是自己的錯的是丟臉的，畢竟我最初寫的可是憤怒小作文呢。
就先這樣吧。這樣已經充分足夠了。
偷懶讓chatGPT幫我翻譯成英文版XD
The last time I stayed up late writing an article for you was in the spring. And now, four years later, in a spring cold front, I find myself once again writing something for you in the deep of the night.
I thought our story had ended. I truly, truly believed I was ready to move on to the next chapter. But in this very moment, I am confronted with the cruel realization that I was never really prepared. At the beginning of the year, there was a small, fleeting episode that made me believe the tense atmosphere had softened—that perhaps we could become friends again. But that hopeful thought was quickly dismissed because we had already moved forward on different tracks. If we stirred things up again, who would end up getting hurt?
Yet, our story has always defied expectations, never progressing along the path I had envisioned.
Not long after I abandoned this idea, a mutual friend conveyed your message—that you wanted to reconnect as “close friends.”
Surprise. My first reaction was surprise at the fact that we had both entertained the same thought. It turns out that even after all this time, we somehow still shared a similar imagination. But gradually, my surprise turned into silence, because this is our matter—it has nothing to do with anyone else.
From that moment, my thoughts became chaotic, swirling in a tangled mess. And when my mind could no longer bear the weight, my body took over.
I kept trying to take deep breaths, exhaling slowly, attempting to calm the expanding storm inside my head. My fingernails dug hard into my hands—it hurt, but pain was the only thing that kept my thoughts clear. Inside, I was screaming. I wanted to run away, to immediately rush to someone’s side, but I realized I couldn’t tell her. This weight shouldn’t be placed on her shoulders.
But what about you? Yes, before, I would have told you these feelings. But the irony is, these feelings were caused by you.
This is our story. Yet it has once again defied my expectations.
I want to make things clear. You want to reconnect— but what does that even mean?
We shared mutual understanding but ineffective communication. When faced with our own worries, we weren’t thinking about how to solve them together. Did we even truly support each other’s emotions? (It’s been too long, but I think, at some point, we did.) Maybe we once tried to figure things out together, but in the end, all we were left with was a resigned, closed-off “Do whatever you want.”
We never really had deep conversations. We were nothing more than each other’s emotional trash bins.
I was too afraid to take that step forward. And you—you understood everything but never intended to draw a clear boundary.
Reading my friend’s message relaying your words—about my “special feelings” and the long conversations that unfolded because of them, about how our relationship ended at a certain turning point in life—I finally understood. This relationship became so exhausting because I was too afraid to take that step, and you, even though you understood, never intended to set clear boundaries.
Your silence was a rejection.
Why did I insist on deceiving myself? Why did I force myself to believe that what I loved was “the version of myself that liked you”? Why was I so desperate to escape reality? Why did I believe that as long as I never heard the words “I don’t accept”, it meant that there was still hope?
Maybe it was just my pride getting in the way, my insecurity holding me back. Maybe I simply didn’t want to acknowledge my own failure. Because in reality, during all that time of silence, you were rejecting me in the most indirect way possible, and I was just lying to myself.
The fault was never yours. I was the one who gave myself false expectations. I was the one who hurt myself.
And so, I cried—more than once. I cried for my stubbornness, for my wounds, for the stories we had written together.
At the same time, I kept editing this article.
At first, the title was “Let’s Each Live Well, We Are Both Fine.” And in that draft, I wrote:
I will try my best to forget the version of myself who once stood in the rain because I liked you, forget the rotten starfruit that was thrown away, forget the warm sunlight streaming into the Chinatown library, forget the scorching summer in the park and the cold beer, forget your fried chicken, forget everything about you.
But now, after changing the title countless times, I finally realize—I was just waiting.
Waiting for you to be different. Waiting for me to be brave.
But all of my expectations had no real direction. I was only living inside my fantasies.
In “To the Past 10 Years,” I once wrote:
“If I had been braver back then, this wouldn’t have dragged on for so long.”
But this is the reality.
If at any point—at the moment I became aware of my feelings, or in any of the moments that followed, each time we drifted apart or drew closer—if, at any of those moments, I had chosen reality over expectation, this story would not have unfolded this way.
But I cannot change the past. I cannot rewrite what has already happened. Those hopes and those realities have already passed.
The only thing I can do now is end this story.
No more “if only”—because time does not rewind. I will not and cannot end this confession with another hypothetical sentence.
But how do I bring this confession to an end? Right now, I don’t know.
Realizing that all of this was my own mistake—it’s embarrassing. After all, my first draft was filled with anger.
But for now, this is enough. This is more than enough.
Yee’s 
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