“This is Xiao U,” my child said. “One of our four.”
He took my hand gently, almost hesitantly. “It’s very nice to meet you,” he said, his voice soft with shyness.
He studied computer science—like so many young men of similar background, choosing a path that promised certainty in an uncertain world. At the time, it was a field that all but guaranteed a future. We spoke only briefly, yet he left an impression: reserved, gentle, with a touch of boyish awkwardness that made him quietly endearing.
I saw him again on the night of the competition. I arrived early and found a seat with a clear view of the stage. As the performers entered, I waved eagerly to my child. Not far from me, another hand lifted in greeting toward the same figure—it was Xiao U. He noticed me, and we exchanged a small, knowing smile.
That night was electric with anticipation. When the results were announced, my child’s group placed fourth—the best they had ever achieved. In the rush of celebration, I saw Xiao U run toward them, their hands meeting in a sharp, joyful high-five before they fell into an embrace. At that moment, I thought: how rare, and how precious, it is to be accompanied by such friendship in life.
Not long after, I returned home. In the months that followed, Xiao U would sometimes appear beside my child during our Facetime calls. Across the distance, we would exchange brief greetings—he, always polite, always smiling faintly, raising a hand in quiet acknowledgement.
Then one day, my child mentioned something to me in a casual manner.
“Xiao U said that he envied our relationship. He says that he wishes he could interact with his mom the way we interact with each other.”
I paused. “Why? Doesn’t he speak with his mother?”
“They don’t get along. They hardly talk.”
“And his father?”
“He left when Xiao U was very young.”
The revelation lingered with me. There had been nothing outward to suggest it—nothing in his shy smile or gentle manner. And yet, behind that quiet presence lay a history marked by absence. From then on, I found myself thinking of him with a certain tenderness. From time to time, I would ask about how Xiao U is doing, hoping that he’s navigating university life well despite his life at home.
Later, I heard he had fallen in love. My child told me he was happy—radiantly so—but increasingly absent from their circle, his time now belonging almost entirely to his girlfriend. Such is the nature of young love: intense, all-consuming, sweet in a way that feels almost unreal. I was happy for him.
Time, as it does, slipped forward. The following summer, my child left the country for a study abroad program. At first, I called often, attentive to each detail of their new life. But as their days settled into a regular rhythm, I stepped back, allowing them to grow in the new environment.
Then, one night—late in their day but early in mine—the phone rang.
I answered at once. On the other end, there was only the sound of their despair.
“What happened?” I asked, my voice tightening with concern. “What’s wrong?”
Through broken breath, they said,
“Xiao U’s gone. He took his own life…”
The words seemed to fall into silence, without meaning. In my mind, I saw only his face—his shy, luminous smile. How could such a life simply vanish, as though extinguished?
Later, when my child was in a better state, I learned what had happened. At the end of the semester, his girlfriend had ended their relationship. Unable to bear the loss, he chose to end his life.
No one understood. His friends were left in grief—and in guilt. Perhaps they should have reached out more. Perhaps they should have noticed something. But how could they have known? He seemed so happy. And after the breakup, why had he not turned to them, if only to speak, to share the weight of his pain?
Months later, my child and their friends went to visit his grave. They brought flowers, only to find that the site was already adorned—fresh blooms laid with care, alongside records he had once loved.
As they stood there, a middle-aged man approached.
“Are you Xiao U’s friends?” he asked.
“Yes,” they replied. “We went to college together.”
“I’m his father,” the man said quietly. “I come here every day, and twice a day on weekends.”
And in that moment, a sorrow too large for words seemed to take shape: a father mourning his son, burdened not only by loss, but by all that had gone unsaid, all that had never been given.
I cannot help but believe that, wherever he is now, Xiao U understands—at last—how many people cared for him, how many loved him, how deeply he is missed. Far more, perhaps, than he ever allowed himself to imagine.
If his father had stayed…
if his mother had listened…
if love had not left him when it did…
if, in that final hour, he had spoken to a friend…
Might he still be here?
But life does not yield to such questions. There are no answers in “if.”
And so he remains, suspended in memory:
An oval face,
a pair of long, quiet eyes,
and a shy smile—
lifting, once, in a small and gentle wave.
About the Author
Born in Hunan, China, and raised on the vast Gobi Desert of Gansu Province, Moon Tan developed a distinctive lens through which she views the world. Having lived in numerous cities across both China and the United States, she draws richly from these diverse experiences in her writing. She now resides in Shanghai.
© Moon Tan 2026 Copyright
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Article Information
Category: Fiction / Essay
Tags: College life / Suicide / United States
