Uncertainty

Sometimes we need to admit that two people in love can walk in different directions.

I learned this in my current relationship, where my boyfriend is typically ambitious and high-achieving. As far as I know, his career is central to his life, and he can put other things aside: relationships, family, health, hobbies, etc. I, on the other hand, am haunted by scepticism about traditional values in life, self-discipline, wealth, fame, respect. I try to break out of the trap now and then, aspiring to something more exciting, not only because I get tired of a set route fast, but also because I need to experience things and learn from them. My discretion comes from trial and error, while his depends on plans.

I soon sensed the difference in our life goals. I don’t mind adjusting to the simple life in the UK. My future isn't guaranteed; visa policy can change at any time, and I see no room for promotion at work. But meanwhile I gained plenty of private time so I can manage my own life pretty well: work out regularly, improve on cooking, read, run, attend friends’ parties and enjoy shallow interaction with new people, take pictures, watch films, write blogs, talk to my housemate about the poems we read lately… I learned to fully enjoy myself lying on the grass on a Sunday afternoon, and grabbing a coffee on Saturday afternoon after the gym. I learned to approach people kindly in public spaces and exchange short, warm greetings with strangers.

I learned to go on solo trips and solo raving; I learned to manage my finances, though they’re still a mess. I learned to keep the shared house clean, and I learned to say what I want directly, even though I still overthink sometimes and can be self-conscious.

I have been away from China for three years. Three years can change a society a lot. I lost contact with most of my old schoolmates. From the fragmented posts on their last few social media updates, I can tell they're living a contented life, but my naïve nature limited my interpretation to this harmless level. There could be more profound pain and anxiety gnawing at them, but I can’t tell; they remain quietly happy.

When your imagination is shaped in another language, you are waving goodbye to your old motherland. I questioned myself lately a lot more than before, mainly on “does he love me and do I love him? What is love? So far I’ve tasted love’s various forms but not yet reached a conclusion – the most mysterious god. I don’t think I “love” him, but I don’t want to give him up either – a weird balance. His existence has been diluted to the thinnest shade of shadow, like a spiderweb patch in the corner. It’s almost invisible unless you bump into it, and it’s annoying more than anything else.  

I used to be an expert in breaking such nastily dishonest, horribly artificial peace—no conversations, so no conflicts; no exchange of thoughts, so no collision of values. Someone is waiting for a comet to ignite the bomb ahead; no one wants to be the criminal themselves. I was quite accustomed to being the criminal. My normal SOP is: asking the question “What do you think we are? Are we gonna go on to the next step?”I get negative or vague feedback from the other person; time passes and my patience drains; my tolerance runs out, and I quickly decide to leave; then I go through a prolonged period of loneliness, followed by self-reconstruction and self-improvement, and then I meet someone new.

I've thought about it, and I'm ready to change my SOP this time. It’s not because this person is so cherishable, but because I'm tired of the old way of doing things. I might not be the one to break the deadlock, and I won't expect anything. This isn't pessimism; I am tired of asking for small things in a relationship and still having that person refuse to offer anything after a million rounds of negotiation.

 Coming back to China sometimes throws me into a long-faded childhood dream. Among the few moments I can recall from adulthood is the smoke break outside the airport I always travelled to and from during university. The distance between my hometown and my university city is as obscure as the distance between England and China – England, what a romantic name to replace the UK, which sounds more like a cold collective of political entities. Josh has never liked the UK. He finished his master’s and later his PhD here, but never developed any sentimental attachment to this land. When we first met, I asked him whether he shared a house with other people. He said he only rented with Chinese people. Back then it was nothing more than a statement of fact, which I only later realised was actually a silent reproach of living there.

Aurora doesn’t look like the type of girl I usually see in England. She is pretty much a typical local Chinese girl, dressed in gentle, lovely beige and cream, her long black hair flowing down like a waterfall. She is warm and sweet, always turning the lazy Susan towards the person next to her and kindly relinquishing the chance to take the first bite of a new dish. She is not good at drinking, so she shyly declines invitations to drink; then, with that sweet smile, she raises her teacup and says: “I’m sorry, I don’t drink. Let me toast with tea instead.”