IN THIS LIFE, STILL YOU

... 02: Hello, Elise ...

Elise looked like this: tall, slim, pale, quiet, soft-spoken, calm and courteous, with a deep-rooted sense of inferiority. The kind of student teachers would praise her profusely in front of the class for her achievements, but then shake their heads behind her back and call her a “bookworm.” She spoke gently to everyone, and even when she got angry, she still felt the need to apologize. In short, she was just like one of those "left-behind children"

(*) "Left-behind children": children left in their hometowns by parents who go away to work. They are often cared for by relatives or sometimes left to fend for themselves.

As for me, my name is Ethan Storm. Don’t be fooled by my arrogant tone - I’m actually quite decent.

You could say I was born into wealth - thanks to my parents. A harmonious family, privileged since birth. My grades were decent. In high school, Elise ranked first in her class, and I ranked second in mine - sometimes third, fourth, or fifth, depending on my mood. I was more socially accepted than she was - the type both teachers and friends liked.

Well, how else could Elise have had a secret crush on me for ten years?

By now, I’ve known her for over a decade. I wouldn’t say we were close. Back in high school, my impression of her was just a name - someone I vaguely knew existed in a different class, but I wouldn’t have recognized her if she walked past me.

After all, a guy like me - with wealth and status - rarely notices anyone else.

I had the looks, manners, and popularity. Teachers liked me, friends liked me. Honestly, I thought no one could compare to me. I believed Ethan Storm was a man among men - above all others.

But now, the only one truly "above all" is Elise.

Ethan Storm, so proud and arrogant, look at you now.

No one came to Elise’s funeral. Her parents had passed away when they were younger than she was now. Her father died when a cement block fell at a construction site and destroyed the spine of their family. Her mother, devastated, eventually jumped off a building, leaving behind a seven-year-old son and a small sum of money.

Last year, I accompanied her to bury her grandmother, who had suffered from dementia for years. I never informed her coworkers or friends - because in all the years I’d known Elise, I never heard her mention a single friend.

Even though I had mentally prepared for it, I never expected it to be this lonely.

Only now do I realize - I came into her life far too late. No matter how lush the tree of Ethan Storm might grow, it couldn't save Elise's barren life.

Dressed in a suit and leather shoes, I sat next to her black-and-white portrait and silently broke down. All these years, Ethan Storm missed every single glance Elise ever gave.

We entered high school together at age 15. I was in Class 21; she was in Class 25. As I said, for all three years, I had no impression of her at all.

Back then, my pride was sky-high. I believed someone might excel in one area, but no one could surpass me in every aspect.

So I never paid any attention to the name Elise.

But according to what Elise once told me, she had known about me long before I ever noticed her.

I asked how early she knew of me. She refused to say.

The next time I remembered her was in university. I was the type who went wherever the crowd was. I studied Architecture, and even before classes began, I’d already joined clubs.

During freshman orientation, there was a party. Someone mentioned a girl named Elise from the neighboring Civil Engineering school. She was from the same province, very pretty, but quiet and not in any clubs.

I got impulsive, asked an old high school friend for her contact info, added her on i********:, and five minutes later she accepted.

I didn’t even greet her - I thought she accepted because I’d written my name when I added her. Otherwise, how would she know who I was?

So I messaged her: “Come eat.”

A while later, she replied: “What?”

By then my excitement had cooled. I sighed and said, “Club orientation event, Gate 3, waiting at the old hotpot restaurant. Come eat.”

She didn’t respond.

Half an hour later, she showed up late.

But Elise wasn’t the type to liven up the mood. She just sat quietly, eating. She didn’t join the conversation. When others complimented her, she just blushed and smiled. Only when I asked if she wanted beer did she nod. Later she told me she felt extremely uncomfortable that day - like she didn’t belong, disappointed and downhearted. I asked if she regretted coming.

She thought for a while, then smiled and said, if she had the chance again, she’d still shamelessly come.

That was the first intersection of our lives.

By then, Elise had already liked me for four years.

The next time was in sophomore year. Nowadays, people might call me a social expert. I had connections even in schools eight blocks away.

Back then, a friend from the Civil Engineering school came to me for help. Their group had offended some Student Union members and now needed documents approved—which would be rejected for sure. They asked me to help smooth things over.

Those Student Union types - “wave a chicken feather as a token of authority ” - always making a fuss. I didn’t want to get involved. I asked who was in their group.

They said Elise.

Something short-circuited in my brain - I agreed.

Days later, for the first time in two years of being i********: friends, Elise messaged me to say thanks and offered to treat me to a meal.

I thought it was a group invitation, so I met her at the agreed place. She came alone.

She didn’t explain, I didn’t ask.

She ordered five dishes, didn’t drink, poured two glasses of water, scarfed down two bowls of noodles, paid the bill, and left. In over 30 minutes, she said maybe a handful of sentences - including “goodbye.”

Later, when we were together, she told me she couldn’t sleep that night from overeating, went to the clinic at 1 a.m. for digestion pills, and sat in bed until dawn feeling better.

That one i********: message - “Are you free? I’d like to treat you this weekend” - had crushed all the courage she’d built over the years. She didn’t even dare talk to me.

After that, we remained lukewarm throughout college. Occasionally messaging, hanging out. After graduation, I got a job. One day while chatting, I realized her office was close to mine. We agreed to rent a place together. After work, we’d eat dinner. Whenever I asked, she was always free. It felt like she never slept - just worked endlessly.

Until one day, she came back drunk from a work party, eyes red, and knocked on my door. She told me she had five hundred thousand in savings and asked if I’d be willing to try dating her.

I didn’t care about the money - five hundred thousand meant nothing to me. But for Elise, who grew up with nothing, it meant everything.

She always felt she and I were worlds apart, and the only way to reach me was through money. Lots and lots of money.

By then, I’d known Elise for over ten years.

Three years later, she left this world.

I still don’t know what triggered her illness. Maybe it was because I agreed to be with her. Maybe that’s when the taut string in her heart finally snapped - every pressure and pain she ever endured all burst out, corroding her already fragile soul.

At first, she grew sluggish. Lost interest in eating, in getting up, in going out.

Sometimes, she’d scroll through travel photos and tell me, “I really want to visit Edinburgh.”

I’d be at my desk working and absentmindedly reply, “Yeah.”

Then I’d forget.

Much later, in winter, I remembered and asked, “Didn’t you want to go to Edinburgh?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Forget it.”

Soon after, she began feeling random aches - her arms, back, thighs.

Maybe it wasn’t that bad yet, because she told me. I took her to the hospital—nothing showed up.

I suggested a private clinic. She shook her head, saying, “Forget it.”

Then came the insomnia, the fear of darkness, loss of appetite, weight loss. When I finally discovered she was secretly taking meds, Elise weighed only 105 pounds.

A girl who was 5'7" tall - reduced to skin and bones.

Then came the end.

That night, I hugged her urn and cried myself to sleep at the funeral home.

I was woken by a school bell. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming - or reliving a memory...

The classroom was bustling. Students were heading out the door, and a few boys at the front were changing into their sportswear. I figured this scene must be during a P.E. period.

But I only froze for two seconds before bolting up and running straight to Class 25.

I rushed to Elise’s classroom.

It was empty.

Up on the rooftop court, a boy was bouncing two basketballs as he came out. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t recall his name.

I asked, “Where’s Elise?”

He jumped in surprise—though I wasn’t sure if it was because I was asking about Elise or because I suddenly started talking to him.

I asked again, more firmly, “Where’s Elise?”

He blinked and replied, “Downstairs... in P.E. class.”

Then I remembered - in our senior year of high school, our two classes shared P.E. periods.

I used to look for her class just to play basketball nearby.

As soon as he finished speaking, I turned and dashed away.

The boy tossed one of the basketballs to me. “Hey! That’s your ball!”

Clutching the ball, I took off- covering ground in three steps for every one. I tore through the sports fields like a headless fly, zigzagging all over the place.

As I passed the basketball court, I heard someone calling my name.

It wasn’t Elise’s voice.

“Ethan Storm! Over here! What the hell are you doing?”

I glanced over. It was Ollie, calling me over to join a basketball game.

I ignored him. That i***t kept shouting.

Then he came over and grabbed me by the arm.

As he tried to drag me back to the court, I saw Elise.

Across the tennis court, the girl stood leaning against an empty ping-pong table, memorizing French vocabulary.

I shoved Ollie off me and walked, shielding my eyes from the blinding sunlight, straight toward her.

Elise looked the same as ever. A plain white T-shirt. Clean canvas shoes. Fingernails neatly trimmed. Her hair a little too long, thick and dark, with her bangs falling low over her forehead so I couldn’t quite see her eyes.

My pace slowed the closer I got. A few meters away from her, I don’t know why, but I tossed the ball in my hands—it just so happened to land right beside her feet.

Elise shifted slightly, lifting her head to look toward me.

I took a deep breath, then let my gaze drop coldly, quietly taking her in.

“Hi, Elise.”