Prologue: A September Love Letter

It’s September once again. I wonder if the osmanthus tree outside the classroom window is brewing up another autumn fragrant enough to linger for miles.

It was in a September like this, when I wasn’t ready to embrace a new relationship, that you walked into my life. Back then, I had no idea that you would be the one to walk alongside me for the rest of my days.

We were both young then, the bright moon hung high, stars glittered in the sky, and the phoenix trees lining the campus paths were growing freely and wildly.

I first saw you outside the cafeteria, across from the girls’ dorm. It wasn’t a particularly romantic encounter, but the way you looked that day has been etched in my heart ever since.

The moonlight was especially enchanting that night, and the sweet scent of osmanthus flowers wafted faintly through the air. I was wearing a long white dress, walking down the steps in front of the dorm. When I looked up, I saw a boy in a white shirt standing beneath the phoenix tree at the cafeteria entrance. People were coming and going, but somehow, I knew right away that it was you — even though I had only seen your photo before.

We had our first meal together that very night. Even though I had asked you for a favor, you were the one who offered to pay. Before eating, you carefully picked up a pair of disposable chopsticks, rubbed them together after snapping them apart, then handed them to me, saying it would help avoid splinters.

Despite it being our first meal together, you ate with the appetite of a general — confidently and unrestrained. That day, I didn’t have much of an appetite. I joked, “I probably won’t finish my food. Want to help me with the rest?”

To my surprise, you didn’t hesitate. You simply scooped my leftovers into your own bowl. I was stunned — because up until then, the only person who had ever done that without minding was my dad.

Even I didn’t realize it at the time, but that day, you had already planted a small seed of love in my heart.

After that, you often went to the little shop below my dorm to eat freshly cooked instant noodles. You’d frequently call me down to watch you eat. And then, one day, you invited me to share a bowl with you.

You said, “Before falling in love, I thought it was kind of gross for couples to eat from the same bowl. But now, it just feels warm.”

The fourth cafeteria’s specialty was stir-fried cabbage with shredded pork. The country-style chicken stew outside the west gate was delicious and affordable. The shredded potatoes at a restaurant near the south gate were perfectly done — and they even offered a huge bowl of rice for free. You knew all the best places to eat, and you took me to every hidden gem around campus.

Even after you graduated and left, I would still visit those little eateries, savoring the memories of us eating together.

When I graduated, you became my personal chef, preparing lovingly packed lunches for me to take to work. I loved fish — you didn’t — but you learned to cook crucian carp tofu soup, steamed perch, and braised carp just for me. You loved potatoes — I didn’t care for them — but because of you, I learned to love shredded potatoes and your hometown’s unique mashed potato dish. Even though our food preferences differed, we both had healthy appetites. Watching each other eat always made the food seem tastier. Whether at home or in a restaurant, every meal with you made time feel so gentle.

“What is love?”

“Love is eating countless meals together and still never tiring of each other’s company.”

I once wrote that line in You Are My Ideal Person on Earth. Maybe because our first meeting was outside the cafeteria and we shared a meal right away, it laid the foundation for us to be lifelong “dining companions.”

Time flies like a white horse through a gap. Youth slips away in a blink.

Now, nineteen years after we first met, you’ve gone from being my upperclassman to my boyfriend, to my husband, and the father of our daughter. Your roles have changed, but one thing hasn’t — you still love me as dearly as ever.

I’m so grateful that twelve years of marriage haven’t dulled our passion. Instead, time has only deepened our affection. Mr. Lin, I’m so glad I met you in that September nineteen years ago. Thank you for choosing to be my lifelong “meal partner” — and the one who shares my bed and life. It was only after meeting you that I realized the word “husband” is perhaps the gentlest word in the world.

It’s September again, and I imagine that same osmanthus tree outside the classroom is reminiscing too. Maybe it remembers a young man who once picked a sprig of blossoms and gave it to the girl he liked — and how that single flower scented the entire springtime of her youth.