Confession
As evening approached, they finally arrived at the Shiliupu Wharf. The summer sun had not yet faded, and long queues stretched along the riverbank, with tourists in groups or couples eagerly waiting to board the boats. The air was filled with moisture and the faint aroma of food, while distant noise drifted on the breeze, making it as lively as a never-ending market.
Upon boarding, a brightly lit restaurant comes into view. Several rows of buffet tables are already laden with food: golden-brown roast chicken, freshly baked pizzas, steaming steaks, refreshing salads, and a dazzling array of desserts. Chilled juices and wines are neatly arranged to the side. The gentle clinking of plates and cutlery, the laughter of children, and the rustling of chairs and tables blend together, filling the entire cabin with a festive atmosphere.
As she finally sat down, Panqiu realized the boat was slowly setting sail. The force of the river water seeped through the deck, and her feet felt as if they were floating slightly. Even though it was just a gentle rocking, it brought a wave of dizziness. She subconsciously gripped the knife and fork beside her, and her mind suddenly flashed back to the evening of the orientation party—the rooftop terrace of the psychology department building, the coolness of September, the sky turning from light blue to deep purple. That night, her first conversation with Ethan: the suspension bridge effect, emotional misinterpretation… When people are unsettled and their hearts are racing, they are more likely to mistake nervousness for attraction. Thinking of this, she couldn't help but drift off, a self-deprecating smile playing on her lips.
Now, the June night breeze in Shanghai carries a humid heat, the air thick with the mingled smells of food and river water, and the noise of tourists echoes in my ears. Lin Yue's voice sounds beside me, tinged with concern and a hint of inquiry: "What's wrong?"
Pan Qiu snapped out of her reverie, shook her head, and quietly suppressed that lingering thought.
Time flowed slowly on the boat. At first, the river was still bathed in the daylight, with distant high-rises edged in pale gold. As the sun set, the orange-red afterglow gradually spread, turning the river into a canvas painted with vibrant colors. The cruise ship left the crowded docks of Shiliupu, passed through the waters between the Bund and Lujiazui, and gradually came to rest in a wide-open area in the middle of the river—a stop specially arranged on the itinerary.
An announcement softly informed visitors that the deck was open to tourists. Soon, people flocked to the deck with cameras and wine glasses. Pan Qiu and Lin Yue followed suit.
A gentle river breeze caressed my face, and the sky was painted in layers of deep red and violet hues, the distant silhouettes slowly blurring in the afterglow. Looking out, there was more than just one boat on the river: scattered sightseeing boats dotted the water, their lights flickering in the ripples like chains of light, stringing together a stage for the night to unfold.
As the sun slowly set, the skyscrapers along the shore seemed to have a pre-arranged agreement, lighting up simultaneously. The Oriental Pearl Tower, the Shanghai World Financial Center, and the Shanghai Tower—familiar landmarks—appeared in dazzling neon lights, almost unreal. Giant light screens flashed the words "I Love Shanghai," exaggerated and enthusiastic.
A warm breeze swept in from the river, dispelling the daytime heat. As Qiu gazed at the scene, a strange lightness welled up in her heart—a "tourist's joy" she rarely experienced before. She realized that moments enveloped by lights, night winds, and noise could be so simply heartwarming. She smiled inwardly: she was only twenty, after all, and still felt a glimmer of hope for "sweet romance" on nights like this.
Just then, Lin Yue spoke up, his voice low and firm against the backdrop of the river breeze: "Pan Qiu, I like you."
This statement, without any prior context, resonates perfectly at this moment.
Pan Qiu froze, her gaze still fixed on the brightly lit riverbank, but her heart felt as if it had been gently nudged. She didn't flinch, nor did she offer a perfunctory response; instead, she turned to look at him and earnestly replied:
"I don't deny that I have feelings for you," she stated first, her tone calm yet sincere.
“But… I think everyone’s expectations for love are different.” She paused slightly, as if carefully choosing her words. “What you want is probably a very youthful and passionate kind of love, right? Like having someone cheering you on from the sidelines when you’re playing sports, or handing you water. You want someone to be there for you and immerse yourself in that youthful atmosphere.”
At this point, she smiled and said, "But my intuition tells me that's not what I want. I don't think that being attracted to someone means you have to start a passionate relationship where you're inseparable every day."
The river breeze ruffled her hair, and she fell silent after she finished speaking.
She wasn't opposed to starting something with Lin Yue, but her background in psychology made it clear to her that a healthy relationship must be built on a synchronized pace. If the expectations of both parties are not aligned, even if they begin, it will only wear each other down. She didn't want to prolong the testing of the waters with ambiguity, nor did she want to fall into a "high-intensity clingy relationship" because of a fleeting attraction.
In her view, clear and explicit communication sets boundaries for the relationship and shows respect for both parties. Intimacy thrives, rather than depletes, only when expectations are aligned.
She knows that if you get along well, the relationship might last; but if you're destined to be out of sync, it's best to cut your losses in time. As a psychologist, she believes that autonomy and clear communication are the starting points for all healthy relationships.
Lin Yue listened, his heart sinking slightly. Her words were methodical, without a trace of evasion or ambiguity, but rather clearly and firmly drawing a line. Such a response was almost tantamount to rejection—he did indeed yearn for a lovely girlfriend, a partner with whom he could share the joys of youth. Pan Qiu attracted him, but she was clearly not that kind of "lovely."
But it was precisely because of her clarity and sincerity that he was even more reluctant to let her go. She appeared gentle and indifferent, but in reality, she possessed an inner strength, as if telling him: she would not lose herself for anyone. This kind of Pan Qiu was hard to let go of.
The night wind blew by, and the two fell silent for a moment, with only the sound of the river water lapping against the side of the boat and the interplay of starlight and lamplight overhead.
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