Not everything has a happy ending, I know. Not every relationship ends up like fairy tales, and I am aware of that too. Since a very young age, I clearly know that there is no such love that lasts long. I know everything about love, every single detail, every tragic ending, and every night crying over someone in bed. I know it all, yet when my eyes met his - those dark brown eyes that I knew I could never see through - I took a leap in the dark, letting myself drown in the unknown, scary, fierce love.

Was summer in Shanghai always like that, or did it become more sultry, muggy, and I could still barely breeze after the first rain washed down the city because of the sight of him? Stumbling out of a party at 1am, the streets were clamorous as always. The tarmacked roads were still wet from the rain, and I saw drops of water falling from the leaves onto the ground. 

But the rain never stopped people from enjoying the luxury of downtown Shanghai. In those parties filled with loud music and bottles laying on the ground, I know they didn’t come for the drinks, or merely to spend extra money just because they were too rich. They were desperate people, desperate for sex, companionship, and maybe a fling of love. 

I knew them too well. How could I not? I worked in one of the clubs every night, and when those men came in half drunk from the pregame, I could see it in their eyes. The desperation. Desperation to find a glimpse of love.

Silly men.

Everyone came to find someone to love and to feel loved, but they were too scared to actually love people. It was always about money, sex or something else. It was never love.

Yet I saw him standing across the street, as always. He was a bartender right across from my club, and every night when I saw off a group of my customers, I saw him working, or just staring into the air with a glass half filled with whiskey. And for some reason, he looked back that night.

Our eyes met.

I did not know how I got the gut to walk up to him and start a conversation. I did not know how we ended up talking until the sun arose. And obviously I would not know how we spent the rest of the week talking about the most random topics, sipping expensive whiskey, and just watching the sunrise.

It felt so fast, yet so slow at the same time. By the time we met for the fifth time of the week, he still did not take me home. We stood apart by a “friendly” distance, talking, laughing. I wondered if he ever thought about having sex with me. It confused me, as I looked into his eyes and the only thing I saw was the reflection of myself. It was not a pleasant sight: my hair was messy because of all the dancing, my makeup all smudged, and my eyes blood-shot from drinking too much at work. 

He was like no other man who only wanted to get into my pants. Was it love, or was it something else? I couldn’t tell, but I did not want to ask.

I often wondered if he ever loved me, but how could I doubt his feelings when he drove me home every night, speeding on highways with us screaming and laughing along with the classic music blasting in the air, when he brought me to dinners with friends and families, when he never laid a hand on me even though I was wasted and half clinged to him, or when he wiped my tears after a romance film?

But did he love me, when we sat in silence in his car outside of my apartment building, when he never introduced me as his girlfriend, when he was not even interested in any further physical touch, and when he knew I craved love, but never made it official even though I cried so hard over a fictional couple?

I didn’t know, and I never got the chance to know. It was just a summer fling. I should’ve known it well enough. He disappeared on a summer night, a night like we first met when the rain washed down the city, washing away our memories together. 

It should’ve been a nice, long romantic film, like the one I cried about, but it ended up just like a youtube ad that people skipped almost every time. 

How could I call it love? How could I not call it love?