What was he like at seventeen?
He remembers that year, on his birthday, his dad bought him a skateboard. He tinkered with it at home for quite a while, thinking he had figured out some tricks, then took the skateboard to school, ready to show off.
During a break, he took out the skateboard and glided through the hallways, swift as the wind, his school uniform jacket billowing behind him. He certainly made an impression.
Then, he caught a glimpse of the girl he had a crush on. Wanting to impress her, he got carried away and tried a trick—
He wiped out.
And the fall was anything but graceful, arms and legs splayed in all directions.
His hair, meticulously styled with half a can of gel, was completely messed up. He quickly got back on his feet, pretending nothing had happened, but then he heard a ripple of stifled laughter around him. Only later did he realize that his pants had torn at the crotch, exposing him as he turned around—a truly humiliating moment.
Worse still, the skateboard shattered a glass window of the classroom next door.
Yet, back then, he was fearless. After a brief moment of embarrassment, he accepted all the strange looks and admitted that he had failed at showing off.
Later, when the teacher from the neighboring class came to scold him, he owned up to his mistake. As a result, he was dragged by the ear to the office and had to call his parents.
His father came and was berated by the neighboring class teacher.
What was his father's response?
His father, without losing his dignity, apologized and paid for the repairs. However, he refused to admit that skateboarding was wrong. He believed that kids should be active and that physical fitness was just as important as academics. "If young people are raised like hothouse flowers, that's the real problem," he argued.
After a heated exchange, just before the teacher from the other class could roll her eyes, his father led him away, not even bothering to return to class. He called it:
"The kid took a hard fall. We're going to get him checked out at the hospital."
He still remembers the scene vividly—holding his skateboard, basking in the envious stares of his classmates as he followed his father out of the school.
Once they left, his father gave him a good scolding, but not for causing trouble; rather, it was for his lack of skill. "Showing off without the skill to back it up and making a fool of yourself—that's on you," his father said.
"Does it hurt?" his father asked after the scolding. He nodded, grimacing in pain.
"Good. It should hurt more, so you'll learn your lesson."
Despite his words, his father took him to the hospital for a thorough check-up and explained everything to his mother when they got home. His father even decided to keep him home for two more days.
When he finally returned to school, he had become a bit of a legend. Wild rumors had spread everywhere, so much so that he didn't even know where to begin to clear things up.
Surprisingly, out of this chaos came a stroke of luck. The girl he had a crush on came to him with a love letter. His friends made such a big deal out of it that the whole school knew by midday.
Thinking back now, those moments of glory, freedom, and happiness have faded, replaced by memories of worries and anxieties.
Worried about his father's reprimands, his mother confiscating the skateboard, embarrassing himself in front of his crush, gossip spreading around the school, the teacher from the other class potentially holding a grudge, and the mountain of homework that would pile up from missing two days of school…
In those days, he could experience multiple emotional highs and lows in a single day. It seemed like he had endless energy and boundless enthusiasm.
So, that was what youth felt like.
What about him at twenty-five?
"Mom, remember to bring your ID."
"Mom, there's no need to pack those flowerpots. We can't take them with us."
"Mom, we have to leave now. This isn't our home anymore."
The house was a mess, utter chaos.
He still remembers the stunned look on his mother's face when she learned she couldn't take her beloved peony with her. She kept asking repeatedly, "It's just a flower, isn't it? It's my flower. Why can't I take it?"
He didn't have the energy to comfort her.
He needed to stay calm; he needed to be rational because now, he was the head of the family.
Everything happened so quickly. They didn't even have time to pack their belongings properly. They only managed to grab their documents and the small stash of emergency cash his father had hidden in a humidifier. Then, like stray dogs, they were driven out.
Rushing to a relative's house for refuge, they encountered closed doors everywhere. He and his mother walked all afternoon but couldn't find a place to stay.
He knelt at his uncle's door for two hours, but his uncle never showed. His aunt cautiously peeked out from the balcony and tossed down a note.
The note was blank, with five hundred yuan inside.
Staring at the blank note, his mind was a jumbled mess. Despite the mountain of urgent issues to deal with, he had no idea where to start.
At that moment, he began to miss his previous worries.
His eyes started to well up, but realizing his mother was right beside him, he quickly wiped them dry, straightened his back, and tried to stay strong.
Did he resent his father?
For a long time, he refused to believe what had happened.
The father he remembered was always tall and strong, strict yet loving, always watching him with focused, hopeful eyes.
How could such a father disappear without a trace, leaving them defenseless in the line of fire, never to be heard from again?
During those sleepless nights, he imagined countless possibilities, made countless excuses for his father, and even considered the worst, most terrible scenario. But there were no answers, never an answer.
There was no time to grieve, no time to panic. More storms lay ahead, waiting. Thrown into the fray with nothing but his bare hands, his confusion, fear, and uncertainty were all irrelevant. They dissolved into a vast emptiness overnight, leaving him with just one focus:
To get through today. Don't think about tomorrow, let alone the day after.
Step by step.
The seventeen-year-old him was real.
The twenty-five-year-old him was real too.
But the point is, whether at seventeen or twenty-five, everything had already been locked away in the depths of his memory, refusing to look back, not daring to look back.
There was no time, no strength. He had to hold on to today. The power of memories was too overwhelming, too fierce, easily destroying the strength he had built with all his might.
All those bright and vivid, those dark and dismal memories, were all the same.
It wasn't until many years later that he finally understood the ending of "Spirited Away," why Haku told Chihiro not to look back as she walked away.
Because once you look back, the power of the "past" will completely crush you, and you'll never be able to move forward again.
But today, he finally looked back.
He needed to look back. He believed he was strong enough now to do so.