The Things I Didn't Know
I didn’t know what was ahead of me then — but I can still feel the hope that filled my iPod, my bedroom, the little bits of that immigrant heart.
They say that when a story is about to end, we are always reminded of its beginning.
It’s the “Shall we go” that hit my eardrums before my suitemate rushed into my room, dressed to the nines for commencement events. I glanced at the mirror and was almost certain I saw my freshman year self, in shorts unlike everyone else who wore pants, readying for Camp Yale. Or it’s how well I slept on that Metro North ride after months of suppressing my feelings to scramble together my senior theses. The slumber was matched only by that bus ride four years ago, after a week of physical exhaustion in the New Hampshire mountains on the First Year Outdoor Orientation Trip. There was so much I didn’t know then, in the beginning of it all.
To be fair, I do enjoy knowing. I will always remain gossip-hungry, even if not intellectually curious. But I’m realizing how much I appreciate not knowing.
I saw a post on Xiaohongshu. I almost scrolled past — some confession, some stranger’s grief. But I paused for the poster who accidentally learned that her first love died of cancer last year. She wonders, wouldn’t it be nice if she never asked “How’s he been?” to that mutual friend? Then he would’ve lived on, young and bright and lively as she had known. In her memory. Forever. Instead, she was forced into a reality with him permanently, consciously erased.
The question she asked was so small. A reflex, really, and now she can never un-know. I would rather let things sit in the ambiguous duality. Not observe, not know whether the cat is alive or dead, not collapse the wave. Because before you ask, every possibility is still true. He is here and there and somewhere in between, and you get to choose which version to hold.
People will forever live in your head, just as how you last met, if you never hear of them again. I love the eternity in that — both the eternal separation and the eternal presence. As long as you don’t know, you can hold onto their impression, no matter how faint, as a permanent companion. Not knowing allows for the illusion that your first love might show up in your life again, that things can still happen. There is never a full goodbye, not according to me. No definitive endings as long as I don’t know.
The gift of not knowing is hope. Thinking back to the moment when I got shivers while listening to “Long Live” in my bunk bed in suburban Los Angeles just after coming to America — I didn’t know what was ahead of me then — but I can still feel the hope that filled my iPod, my bedroom, the little bits of that immigrant heart.
I didn’t grow up the way my elementary school-self imagined, otherwise I’d graduate from Wuhan University to design tunnels. Nor the way my middle school-self planned, as I didn’t end up on a campus of the University of California. And while I’m happy with where I am, I’m glad I didn’t know. Because then, you can convince yourself that you’re capable of anything and able to meet anyone, linger in moments that you never thought you’d have, and indulge in the surprise when the unexpected comes to life.
On my college apps, I mentioned I don’t want to come out of college knowing exactly what to do with my life. Indeed, those are the shoes I’m in. While the unknown looming ahead makes me anxious, what comforts me is that I know, someday looking back, I will appreciate this moment, and the hope that fills it.
Hence, for as much as I find it amusing that a psychic once told my mom I would get married and divorced four times, I don’t believe in fortunes. An uncertain future is the most interesting of futures. One in which anything is possible, with infinite paths ahead of us.
So are there now. Infinite paths, waiting for our next move. For the past weeks, I’ve been wondering what I’ll pen down, about the end of it all. On move-out day, my gaze caught a patch of scratches on the granite tiles in the Timothy Dwight College foyer. Deep grooves accentuated by the shadows from the last light of a setting sun. I never noticed those marks before, four years of walking past them. I don’t know why but it made me think, for the first time — because I’ve been shitting on New Haven for so long — am I really ready to leave this place?
I know I will hold on to these bright college years dearly. Yes, even you, Yale Hospitality. I want to thank everyone around me for putting up with my delirium these past four years, but I also want you to know that I meant everything I said.
To those who I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye, there is no need. I’m always here. Take it slow. There’s still a lot I haven’t put into words yet.