After He Abandons Me on the Road

The summer I turned eighteen, the cicadas' relentless chorus stirred a restless ache in my chest. Sunlight filtered through the spaces between the phoenix tree leaves, casting dappled shadows on the ground. It was then, for the first time, that I clearly realized I had fallen in love with Jim Luke. He was the son of my father's closest friend. When he was five, his parents died in an accident, and he was sent to live with my family. Officially, he was my older brother, though we shared no blood relation. I still remember how he looked when he first arrived—wearing a faded blue shirt, washed countless times, his eyes timid but brave—especially when he stood in front of me to shield me from the neighbor's dog chasing me. This childhood refuge, like a seed, took root and sprouted within my heart, growing into a towering tree named love. This love spreads like wild vines, winding tightly around my heart; though I know it's untimely, I cannot cut it free. I started secretly following him to school, lingering outside his classroom window, just to watch the focused profile of his face; Silently handing him water as he plays basketball, watching his sweat-drenched yet steadfast figure; Quietly leaving a warm cup of milk for him as he studies late into the night, gently closing the door behind me, afraid to disturb him. Jim Luke wasn't a fool; he quickly sensed my feelings. The distance in his eyes grew more apparent, and the occasional smiles he once gave me gradually disappeared. "Blair Scott, we can't be together." The first time he rejected me so plainly was on the school rooftop. The wind carried his voice, making it sound somewhat fleeting, yet his tone was as indifferent as if he were discussing the weather. I clenched the edge of my clothes, my nails digging into my palm. The sharp pain almost brought tears to my eyes, but I stubbornly lifted my head to look at him: "I don't think it's impossible, Jim Luke. I've liked you for a long time." He remained silent for so long that I thought he might relent, but instead, he simply turned his back on me, leaving a cold shadow behind. To make me give up, Jim Luke began changing girlfriends frequently—one every month, each stunning in her own way. He would deliberately bring them in front of me, holding hands, embracing, even kissing, with an unmistakable air of showing off. Once, he brought his new girlfriend home for dinner; the delicate girl leaned coquettishly against him and bossed me around, ordering me to pour her a glass of water.