Qin | The End

As Qin asked him to write her a letter as a farewell gift, a twinge maddened and mocked his self-possession.

He wrote fanatically for three days only to fuel the phantasm that the more he scribbled down, the less likely she'd be to move on and get over him. He sent her a six-thousand-word billet-doux crammed with exhaustive reminiscence of the past ten months garnished with crystallized euphoria and digressive rhapsodies, but all to no avail.

She didn't reply a word. Her insouciance crucified him, leaving him high-and-dry.

She left for college, without saying goodbye. He got on a train to the metropolis.

He couldn't quit her, still living in a world of make-believe. His daydreams were being inundated with her, and the thought of her was thronging into his head and clashing in his chest at unbearable nights.

From every possible source he pried for her new phone number and the mailing address of her college. He furiously dialed that number a hundred times or so. No one answered. Qin was eviscerating him, bludgeoning him with her cold violence to bow his head.

He started to keep a diary, intending to mail it to her some day. He was desperate to share with her all aspects of his new life: the condescending people he encountered, the tormenting process of preparing his new lessons, the bombastic pain from his insatiable desire, the excruciating self-guilt over addictive masturbation, the insipid philosophizing of the books he read, and even gooey lines from love poems composed by thingamabob.

When he completed the last page, he sprinted to the post office and mailed all of the diaries to the address, grasping at straws.

Don't do this to me, Qin! Let me see thy countenance! Let me hear thy voice! I know I'm not good enough but I deserve a shot from you right into my head. A bullet dealing a quick death crystallizes your mercy.

A week later, his mobile phone beeped.

He clicked the message and it read:

"Thank you, for everything."

That was the bullet.