I arrive at the house and meet my student. A typical science student. Good at Maths and bad at English. He doesn't reply when I said hi. I assume he's an introvert, given the fact that he remains silent and distant to me until I give him a placement test. He gets a solid zero. I crack a smile, knowing that plenty of challenges await me as my student is not only low competent but also rebellious.

Pretending to be a friendly and professional tutor, I look at him: "We've got a long way to go, but don't ..."

He doesn't let me finish: "First I wasn't sure because of your long hair, but the moment you said hi, I recognize your voice. It's been a long time, but I know it's you. Seriously? You really think this is a good way to pursue a boy? Like this?"

I study his expressions carefully to make sure I am not tutoring a lunatic. His eyes are filled with a sense of mockery, disdain, and perhaps a little... curiosity, as if what he said is real.

"I don't understand. Me? Pursue you? Why? And you met me? Where?"

"A month ago. You had short hair back then. You approached me like we're friends..."

I grin and cut him off: "Listen, whatever you are thinking, just stop. I've never met you before. Moreover, how could my hair grow this fast only in one month? I will never pursue a boy, let alone a boy like you. You? You?"

He exclaims: "I should be the one saying that. What's wrong with me? Why not?"

The urge to retaliate inside my head suddenly goes out of control. I smile: "I – never – have feelings for those – who – suck – at English"

He stares at me for a couple of minutes, his chest heaving like there's a prickle up his spine. Luckily there are only two of us in the room. Should I apologize and surrender to keep my job?

When I think this eerie silence will go on forever, he opens his mouth: "What's the lesson today?"

I stammer: "We... will start with the basic tenses first."

...

Mid 2020.

From that day onwards, my life starts to kick into gear. Again. I study at my university, cram for final exams, and tutor my student. Months have gone by since our first meeting. Much to my surprise, except for that day, he no longer shows any sign of defiance against me. He takes my advice and tries to memorize what I teach. We both know it'll be meaningless if he passes the entrance exam yet fails the graduation one because of English.

...

On days when there is a power cut, we would go to a coffee shop to continue our lesson. He's made a lot of progress, to the point that he's more confident with his tests right now. I sip my coffee and look at him: he's always twisting his pen and stroke his hair while doing exercises.

Suddenly, he lifts his eyes from the papers, fixing them into the bright blue sky reflected on the window panel: "What's your favorite book?"

I can tell that I'm baffled for a moment. He continues: "Well, we've spent months studying together but I don't know anything about you."

I squint my eyes and pretend to give him a vigilant look: "You know my name, my university, and my address already."

Once he's outside, he becomes indescribably excited. "I mean other, other things."

I reply: "Will you be there, it has a translated edition, you should give it a go. I really like the idea of having a second chance to go back in time and undo my mistakes."

He shrugs his shoulders and asserts that one day he will read the whole book and tell me his viewpoint, in English of course.

Then we talk about our favorite songs, our favorite games, our favorite corners in the city. It turns out we're both beachgoers and coffee shop patrons.

I think he's friendlier now probably because I pose no 'threat' to him.

...

Sometimes he pays a visit to my university, explaining that he wants some "insight" into his upcoming uni life. Then he rambles on his plan once he's a freshman: that he would live alone, that he would study and pursue a career he's passionate about, that he would no longer dance to anyone's tune, that on his days off, he would wander around the city, with a camera inside his backpack, in search of some aesthetic-looking cafes or some quiet places to admire the beach. A nice coincidence, I think to myself.

One day I contact his parents for a day off, telling them I'm sick. Later in the evening, I receive a text. Glancing at the streets downstairs from my balcony, I caught sight of a silhouette waiting for me on a motorbike. When I open the door, he tosses a paper bag of medicine and chicken congee in my hand. I thank him and urge him to come home, seeing that he has classes tomorrow. After a while, he calls to confirm that he arrives home.

"Thank you, I mean it."

"No need to. We're not strangers. I'm only taking care of my teacher until she's got herself a boyfriend."

"Don't worry, it won't be long."

He smirks: "How can you be so sure? Now that we're talking about it... what is your type?"

"I hope that person can stay by my side for a long, long time."

"That's all?"

"What about you?"

I hear his hesitant voice on the phone: "Me? If... I like a girl, that girl makes me feel happy whenever I see her."

"I'm sure one day you can find a girl like that."

He never lets this deep, contemplating mood go on for too long: "Sure I will, but I don't think you're lucky like me"

"Just you wait..."

We chat for a little while, mostly about his entrance exams. I've discussed with his parents and we've agreed that I will quit my job soon, as he should be spending time on "more important" subjects.

...

Oftentimes I ponder over the cut-out letter I received from that attacker: What is her purpose? What does it have to do with him? Does she want me to meet him? What for? I never let my guard down, but for a long time I couldn't see any strange or ominous sign, so the letter soon fades into oblivion.

...

On the D-day, I wish him luck. He replies with a smile emo. A month later, when I am having lunch on my campus, he sends me a text:

"The result is out"

"And?"

"Wanna know? Let's meet up. I have sth to tell u"

I can tell my heart skips a beat at the last line.

5 p.m. I hastily hop on my motorbike to our rendezvous – WaterGod – the coffee shop we used to study together. Standing in the parking space, I can see, through the glass wall of the café, there's only one customer sitting under the retro yellow light from an old fixture, eyes glued on her laptop. I thought I was late, turns out he's not here yet. I stroll down the grey brick path leading to the sunlit patio outside the café. The quiet ambiance in the patio seems to contrast sharply with the chaotic noise from the crowd in the nearby intersection. I hate seeing disorganized groups of people on the streets, as this is evidently an ominous sign – some trouble, some robbery, or some accident has happened.

If only I didn't catch a glimpse of his damaged motorbike, I would have entered the coffee shop, cold and heartless like I always do. I immediately rush to the crowd, only to discover he's lying there. Streams of blood are soaking his hair, slowly making their way down his forehead. He frowns impatiently, as if to tell me he's in great pain. His mouth is murmuring something, which is overwhelmed by the jarring voices in the air. Someone is yelling for help while I hear a voice shouting that an ambulance is on its way. Never have I witnessed a car crash before, and never have I wanted to get an experience in this way. I constantly grasp for fresh air, forcing my shaking hands to press his parents' number. After that, I fix my eyes on him. I don't know what's more disturbing: the sight of blood, or the fact that he's in a coma, or the possibility that this accident could ruin his life forever. I keep staring at the hideous scarlet puddles near his white shirt until sirens blare in a distance.

And then, there is nothing.