Chapter 71: May I Love You? (Part Three)

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Entertainment Around Us, No Pop-Up Windows
Story takes place: January 2006
Recommended song: Pchy – Only You (Love of Siam OST)
Disclaimer: This story is purely fictional; please do not read too much into it. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental!

Amid the sound of the waves, a clear, joyful laughter echoed, infecting passersby, compelling them to smile in happiness.
Zai and Han chased each other through the water, letting the waves soak their clothes, playing with reckless abandon. When they grew tired, they lay on the beach, catching their breath in silence. Turning to look at each other, they burst into laughter again. Zai got up, found a stick, and began to draw on the sand where Han was lying. Han sat up, watching Zai draw with earnest concentration, his eyes overflowing with boundless affection.

After a while, Zai finished. Han stood up to examine the doodle on the sand, which read, “Han, I want to be with you for a lifetime.”
Han’s smile bloomed after reading those words. “You always know what to say.” Then, he chased after Zai once more.

From afar, it was a scene straight out of a painting: the vast ocean, the radiant sky, playful youths, the crisp laughter. Happiness was so simple, perhaps just an afternoon spent with the one you love.

But happiness always comes quickly—and leaves just as fast. Zai’s mother noticed something unusual; she saw suspicious messages on Zai’s phone, she saw the way Zai looked at Han, she saw the smiles at the corners of their mouths.

At the school anniversary, Zai’s mother confirmed her suspicions.
Han stood on stage—always shy and introverted, but emboldened by Zai’s encouragement, he plucked his guitar and sang, “May I Love You?” Most of the students didn’t know Han, but they were moved by his clear and melodious voice.

There was something different in Zai’s gaze; sitting beside him, his mother could even hear the beating of his heart. When the song ended, Zai dashed onto the stage, offering Han a bouquet and an embrace. The audience cheered, while his mother’s face grew pale and weak.

Thus, Zai’s mother, in her old-fashioned and cruel way, sat down in front of Han.

“Han, you know our family only has one child, Zai, and…” Zai’s mother hesitated, unsure how to express her thoughts. “I know since childhood you’ve only had Zai as a friend, so you spend a lot of time together. But I think… I think you two shouldn’t be friends anymore. After all, you’re just a person, and Zai has a family. And that kind of feeling…” Zai’s mother couldn’t go on; she knew it was cruel, but she had to do it.

Han didn’t need to hear more; seeing the pained look on her face, he already knew what was coming next. In his mind, he replayed every moment spent with Zai, and seeing the tears sliding down her face, Han bit his lip hard, struggling not to let his emotions spill over. “Auntie, Zai and I… we’re just friends, just friends.” Zai’s mother looked up and saw the mist gathering in Han’s eyes.

After a moment’s hesitation, she steeled herself. “I hope you’ll always just be friends—maybe it’s best not to be friends at all.” With that, she stood up resolutely, refusing to witness Han’s sorrow, afraid her heart might soften, and immediately turned away.

Han didn’t move or lift his head. A teardrop fell onto the table, then another. After a long time, Han finally raised his head, tears streaming down his face, his eyes filled with desperate sadness, staring unblinkingly at the door to his home as the world gradually grew darker.

Escape was Han’s only option now. No matter Zai’s anxiety, no matter Zai’s frantic search, no matter Zai’s despairing gaze, no matter Zai’s tearful questions—Han avoided it all. Until Hui appeared, who quietly told Zai everything she’d seen. Faced with Zai’s puzzled gaze and questions about who Hui was, Hui simply said, “I just hope you’ll treat Han kindly. He needs someone who will truly care for him.”

After the argument with his mother, after the upheaval at home, Zai’s anger became uncontrollable. He couldn’t understand his mother’s actions; he couldn’t understand them, couldn’t understand himself. After the quarrel, a child’s rebellion is always powerless. Zai could only flee—flee from a home that lacked understanding, rushing to Han’s house.

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“Han, come out, come out, come out!” Zai cried out, and at last, Han, unable to bear it, came out from his room.

“Han, why are you giving up, why are you giving up because of my mom?” Zai’s eyes held helplessness and sadness, but also determination.

“Zai, you should know how I feel, right?” Han’s voice was calm and sad; the despair in his eyes was heartbreaking.

“Han, I know, I know everything—I know our love won’t be accepted, I know my family needs me, I know things will be difficult for us, I know, I know.” As he spoke, Zai grabbed his head and crouched down.

The pressure of reality was too great; Han and Zai were just kids. They could bear happiness, but not the price it demanded. Han knew, Zai knew—they had always known. But they were so happy, they hoped to forget the consequences. Now Zai’s mother had reminded them, cruelly dragging them back to reality. Powerless—only powerless.

Watching Zai cry, Han slowly crouched down and gently embraced him. Zai leaned against Han’s shoulder, unable to stop his tears.

“Zai, believe me, we’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.” Han whispered.

They cried until they were exhausted.

They stood up, looking at each other, seeing love, helplessness, and sorrow in their eyes. At last, Zai turned away, leaving slowly.

“Zai, I’ve always been alone—before, now, and forever. Believe me, I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay.” Watching Zai’s departing figure, Han whispered in a voice only he could hear. As he spoke, tears flowed again, running down to his lips, tasting bitter and salty. Han gave a bitter smile that wrenched the hearts of all who saw.

When they met again, they still greeted each other and attended class together, but the smiles were gone, replaced by deep sadness in their eyes. With half of their lives missing, everything felt hollow. Often, they felt illusions—wanting to share joy with someone close, only to turn and realize they were alone. The loneliness in their eyes betrayed the reluctance in their hearts—both Han and Zai felt it.

Han finally made up his mind to leave. Before departing, he wanted to see Zai one last time, to see his home, his classroom, the path he walked, and his sad eyes.

Han walked through places filled with memories—classrooms, school buildings, stairwells, the gate, the road home. Every smile and frown of the two seemed so happy, so sorrowful.

Finally, Han arrived at Zai’s house. He didn’t call anyone, but sat quietly on the bench in front, gazing at the house with sadness as memories of the past flooded in.

He recalled that night many years ago, that unforgettable birthday evening, the warmth, the sweet yet painful “don’t want to part.” Han smiled sadly and softly began to sing. That “don’t want to part” was the first step in their friendship, the beginning of their sweet days, and a prophecy of their fate. Han sang gently, his voice hoarse, filled with longing and sadness.

Standing at the door, seeing your reluctant expression makes me sad. If only I could pause time, so we wouldn’t have to be apart. I want to hold you gently, no words needed to feel our hearts together. I love you, no words needed; even the sky is crying at this moment. I really don’t want to be apart.

As he sang, tears fell, but Han kept smiling as he finished the song. Inside the house, Zai leaned against the door, his body too weak to stand, sliding to the floor, listening to Han say “I love you,” listening to Han say “don’t want to part,” unable to stop his tears. Zai clenched his fist so tightly that his nails dug into his palm, drawing blood, but he didn’t let go.

Han left, leaving only a sorrowful silhouette behind.

The last place Han went was the lakeside—the lakeside where he had confessed and left beautiful memories.

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Sitting on the bench, quietly gazing at the lake, memories surged like waves. Han smiled—a sweet smile.

Behind him, Zai ran breathlessly to catch up. Seeing Han’s back, a sense of peace washed over him. Zai quietly sat beside Han; Han turned to look at the person next to him, then gave a bright smile.

The two sat there in silence. Memories always seem to surface in moments of quiet—the crisp, magnetic voice Han used to sing “May I Love You?” still seemed to echo, and Zai couldn’t help softly joining in.

The door slowly opened, you walked in. The moment I saw you, I knew you belonged to me. You walked towards me, your face lowered, so beautiful, shining with dazzling light. What is it about you that makes you feel so familiar, my heart racing—you’ve taken over my heart. I need to be careful, muster my courage, from today, may I love you? This obvious feeling is a first in my life—I don’t want to miss it; perhaps love insists on coming. I’m willing to give you my best.

Han listened to the familiar melody, familiar lyrics; it felt as if Zai’s voice and his own overlapped—memory or reality, he couldn’t tell. His smile was tinged with bitterness. After singing, Zai looked at Han, and neither spoke, quietly savoring the peaceful moment. After a long time, Han stood up hesitantly. Without a word, he walked away.

“Han.” Zai couldn’t help but call out.

Han stopped, but didn’t turn around; they stood in silence for a while. Finally, Han spoke: “Zai, I love you, but we can’t be together.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, tears fell. Han smiled while crying; Zai cried while smiling.

Han stepped forward, walking slowly into the distance. The setting sun cast a golden glow over them, Han’s shadow stretching longer and longer. The camera pulled back, revealing the autumn park bathed in sunset, beautiful and tranquil.

The film ended.

The entire audience rose in applause.

Jiang Yihan turned around and saw tears in everyone’s eyes. A film lasting 150 minutes felt anything but drawn out; it was like a clear spring, showing happiness in its simplicity, sadness in its simplicity. Everything unfolded calmly and naturally, yet it tugged at the heartstrings.

Jiang Yihan and Kim Jaejoong glanced at each other, noticing both their eyes were red, as were those of Park Youngho, Kim Xiaoxi, and Han Jihye beside them.

Indeed, Park Youngho used his camera to paint a magnificent picture, telling a simple yet sorrowful story. The actors, with their superb performances, delivered the most genuine and moving emotions. Three different relationships—Han and Zai, Zai and Xi, Han and Hui—offered three perspectives, letting people realize that first love can be sweet, can be bitter, can be difficult, can be happy, can be painful; life only offers one first love, and hopefully it leaves everyone with a memory, sweet or sour, that is uniquely their own.

The applause continued endlessly—ten minutes of clapping made Jiang Yihan’s heart swell. An indescribable feeling filled his chest. From the tense anticipation before the film, his mind blank; to the expectation of his own performance, curious about what the film would turn out to be, how the audience would respond; to the complicated feelings during the screening—watching himself act, living another person’s life—a strange sensation, uncomfortable at times; until, in the end, the applause and tears in everyone’s eyes gave Jiang Yihan a sense of achievement and an inexplicable excitement.

An actor is a very special profession. Every actor is a “liar”—they live the life of a thousand faces, portraying different lives. If they are good enough, they can fool all the audience into believing it’s real. When an actor feels they have convinced everyone, a sense of pride naturally rises—a rush of heat to the head. And when an actor convinces the judges, that’s when the awards come.

At this moment, Jiang Yihan felt just that—he had fooled everyone in the hall, lived another person’s life, and moved them all. Suddenly, Jiang Yihan felt that being a “liar” was actually a pretty good profession.

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