I'm in great shape now, both physically and mentally. So I think it's time to take out memories about you to clear the dust for the last time, lock them up in an attic somewhere in semi-darkness, and never let them out again.

It was in June when you left. I was annoyed, not because you were leaving, for that has been agreed since your first day here in China, but because you didn't tell me whether you were taking the morning flight or the evening one. Since you've gone, I did lots of push-ups and sit-ups, started a morning jog and played tennis harder than ever, hoping that frustration might evaporate with sweat or that bruises might substitute heart ache. None of them worked. Three months later, I began to miss you in spite of everything and anything.

Nothing escaped the eyes of my roommates. As if in irony, they started talking about you every night after 10 p.m., when lights were cut off in the dorm.

Jam left at 6 a.m., lots of seniors went to see him off. Jam would take over his family business in Hong Kong. Jam and Tris were more than schoolmates. Jam was different from Americans. Jam was ooh so handsome. Jam was writing a novel about ... Jam was...

All of a sudden, I realized how little I knew you. We've had a couple of squabbles in the past year, about trains and planes and performances, but those were childish games. We've held hands once, but that was in the classroom when everyone's left hand was holding the right hand of the one next to him/her, to form a ring and sing "Friendship Forever", and I was wearing thick gloves when you grasped my hand, so it didn't count. Then, whatever I missed most about you, the tilting head when lighting a cigarette, the stretching waist when leaning against the windowsill, or the blinking of an eye when finding something funny, silly or intriguing, did not belong to me. I was a bystander in a big crowd.

Shouldn't I hate you? You made yourself so popular and talked about weather with everyone you met, but you never spared a minute to hear me out. You came to the dorm so many times and found lots of anecdotes for your writing project, but you never turned to me for stories. You told them that you would be back for sure, but the last words you said to me were "I'll never see you again."

But no. I don't hate you, for I know you were right. We'll never meet again. The last time I heard about you was 3 years ago, from someone I envied immensely, and since then, I've moved several times myself, from one city to another, packing and unpacking. Nothing has ever happened between us and we've never made arrangements for anything to happen, either. At last, you became something beautiful and untouchable in my memory, like morning dews and forget-me-nots.

I needed to walk out of your shadow. I cleared my drawer and threw away those beautiful south songs and movies about weddings and funerals and started to read books other than history. I went to parties full of strangers and laughed loudly at the silliest jokes. I did part time jobs after office hours until I was exhausted. And now, here I am, feeling strong enough to start all over.

If you can't find me in my old den anymore, please don't be surprised. My new flat is full of sunshine, but don't come to steal the warmth.

Jam, I'll never see you again.