The days leading up to the college entrance exams weren’t as grueling as you’d expect. There was no burning the midnight oil, no unbearable hardship. Our routine was simple and unchanging: we’d meet at the tail end of Platform 2 at the subway station and head to the library together.
During our study sessions, we hardly spoke. Occasionally, we’d whisper about a tough question or call over a particularly bright classmate to help. The library back then felt like a little community. There were familiar faces everywhere—some I knew by name, others simply because we saw each other daily. I still remember a couple who used to kiss openly, seemingly oblivious to the world around them. When I finally met the girl, they had already broken up.
Lunchtime was always rushed, just enough to keep someone from stealing our study spots. But it was also the one time of day we could talk freely. Talking to him felt fulfilling. He was calm, thoughtful, and his advice was always precisely what I needed, as though he could see through my tangled thoughts to the heart of the matter.
The hardest days weren’t before the exams—they came after.
I hadn’t expected much from my results, but they still managed to disappoint me. When I opened my transcript at school, his message came through. He’d done well, and I was genuinely proud of him, but I couldn’t bring myself to feel happy.
I left school and went to his house. We sat on the couch in silence. Then, out of nowhere, he started to cry.
“I feel like it’s unfair to you,” he said. “You worked so hard for this, for us to go to college together, and now… I can’t even be happy about my own results.”
He doesn’t cry often. That was one of the rare times.
For the next week, I couldn’t eat or sleep. I was stuck in a fog, resentful of everything. I knew I needed to figure out my next steps, but my brain refused to cooperate. I said things I didn’t mean—things that were cruel and childish. I told him to leave me, that something inside me wasn’t right.
But he didn’t leave. Instead, he said, “I’ll go with you to see a doctor. I’ll eat with you, sit with you, stay with you until you’re better. I’ll stay with you for as long as it takes. I’ll stay with you forever.”
I never went to see a doctor, but somehow, I got better. Eventually, I got into college. It was while studying psychology that I realized I’d been exhibiting early symptoms of depression. But what kind of support could pull someone back from the edge? That part, no textbook ever explained.
Aside from the strange, cult films we both loved, I also had a soft spot for Pixar movies. Nearly every one of them has made me cry. The first one I ever saw was Monsters, Inc. The bond between Boo and Sullivan (Kitty) touched me deeply. Back then, he was a little chubby, and I always teased him about looking like Sullivan.
But I don’t think I ever told him this: I saw myself as Boo. Life was only happy with him around. He was the one who pulled me out of my nightmares.
Huang Pin Yuan’s Stay and Live With Me probably captures my feelings from that time best. My favorite version is by Deserts Chang—it’s understated, yet so moving.
"I want to stay and live with you,
Sweat a little together, and sing some songs.
I want to stay and live with you,
The story doesn’t need to be long,
Just as long as it’s enough."
Because of his unwavering presence, I found the courage to stay.
