PART ONE

I am a late bloomer. By third grade, when all my classmates had formed little cliques, I still only clung to Yang Lan, who I’d known since I was five. To be honest, there were other reasons I was so attached to her—she was also my first sexual experience. (Sorry, Mom and Dad—when I came home in 2019 and you told me she wanted to add me on WeChat, I didn’t accept.) I’m 31 now. I think I can say this. I was a late bloomer—but emotionally, not sexually.

The home in Yinyuan Apartment was where we moved before I started elementary school, and before we left Changsha, all my memories were tied to that place. The provincial library next door—if there weren’t any parking spaces in the courtyard, my dad would always park there instead. Just a few steps farther was the Hunan Grand Theatre, where I watched movies, plays, and concerts. A bit beyond that was Yuying Elementary School, where I went to school. My memories before that are pretty blurry—I only vaguely remember a small shop under a different apartment building where I used to buy MiMi snacks. (I found them again here in the Bay Area—I bought 20 packs not long ago. All gone now. I like the blue shrimp flavor.) But everything that happened after we moved into Yinyuan, even the parts I can’t always recall clearly—I know they’re all still in my mind.

For a long time, it was always my dad who took me to school and picked me up. Later, one of his colleague’s kids (who I now suspect he asked to look after me) started walking with me. If I came home even a little late after school, my parents would start calling the teacher, classmates—everyone. It’s funny now to think: It was a walk of less than ten minutes. And yet I spent so many years walking it.

PART TWO

I remember very clearly—back in elementary school, I often walked home with Xiao He (please add me on WeChat) and Xiao Nianchun. We rarely took the main road on Shaoshan Road. Instead, we’d cut through the alley across from the school, right by the rice noodle shop, and pass through the back of the Hunan Grand Theatre, Tongcheng Hotel, all the way to the back entrance of the Provincial Library. There were lots of old buildings there. A hair salon my mom knew well only charged 15 yuan. There was also a nearby vegetable market—I loved the clay pot duck sold there so much that later on, every time I came home, my dad would go get it for me. When that place closed, he’d find other places to buy it. But I haven’t gone back to that corner in six years. I wonder if it’s still the same.

I often wonder why I’m so stubborn, so insistent, so unwilling to budge. It’s like—logically, many choices don’t seem that different. But to me, they feel completely, unmistakably different. Why did I leave? Did I really know what I was doing back then? Was what I gave up worth it? I don’t know.

We also once snuck into a construction site and went all the way up. But the elevator only went up, not down, so we got stuck there from the afternoon until it turned dark. We called out to people downstairs, but no one paid attention. Xiao Nianchun started crying, saying he wanted his mom. In the end, a construction worker—or maybe a security guard—happened to come up, and we quickly took the elevator down with him. Obviously, one of their parents must have called the teacher, because the next day, I got scolded by the homeroom teacher for over an hour. She said that as the class monitor, I failed to set a good example.

After that, I was never class monitor again. I didn’t join the Communist Youth League in high school either. I just left.

PART THREE

Before high school, I always liked girls more. Girls made me feel safe, close. Boys felt dangerous, like a collision. I didn’t like the feeling of unease—so I liked girls.

Girls were soft, they smelled nice, their skin was smooth. I liked hugging them, holding their hands. I wanted to kiss them.

Yang Lan was probably from the north. Back then, I didn’t know much about other people’s families—I just knew that she was tall, always a head taller than me. Her skin was a bit dark, and there were always some freckles on her face—but I thought they were beautiful. She had single eyelids, eyes that were steady but still soft, and full lips—not thin like mine. I knew I liked her, but I always avoided looking at her too closely. Now that I think about it, I somehow remember every little detail.

I used to cling to her all the time, the way I used to carry around a milk-scented bedsheet when I was little—wherever I went, I took it with me. I liked her. I wanted her to always be there. I would throw tantrums at her, and she would take it. I never really thought too deeply about my feelings for her.

But I knew what I wanted to do with her.

I was a late boomer, only emotionally, not sexually. I’m not sure why, no one ever taught me how, and why, but I knew what I wanted to do. I first realized it when I was five, it was maybe the same year I met Lan. I never felt sexually attracted to boys much, but toward girls who have the same biology as me, I was very curious.

Do they feel the same way? Or is it only me? If the feel the same that’d be the best, but how should I ask?

PART FOUR

Our home was assigned by my dad’s work unit. Everyone who lived in the courtyard was one of his colleagues. At the time, I didn’t understand what that really meant.

I was always clinging to Yang Lan. I was always going to her house, staying until dinner—sometimes even eating dinner there before heading home. I’d also often drag her over to my place to do homework together. My parents would invite her to stay for dinner, but she always said she needed to eat at home.My parents always praised her for being so well-mannered.I didn’t get it. Say what you want, I’m still gonna do what I wanna do.

In the wardrobe of my parents’ bedroom, there was a hidden compartment. I knew they used it to stash things. Whenever they weren’t home, I’d sneak in and check if anything new had appeared. Usually, it was cash, household registration booklets, bankbooks, or property deeds. Later on, something new started showing up—bundles of pirated DVDs, tied together with rubber bands, wrapped discreetly in black plastic bags. At first, it was music DVDs—albums by Britney Spears and Celine Dion. Then came videos of Western striptease dancers, nude Russian gymnasts, and The Silence of the Lambs (which, for a long time, I mistakenly thought belonged in the same genre as the others).