Seven Day Writing Challenge Day One:I Can‘t Say Goodbye

Luna Tian

Question1: If tomorrow were the end of the world—or if your life were coming to its end—what is the one thing you most want to do right now? Or how would you plan the remaining time you have?

I think…I’m not ready to leave this world.
This world I love, and hate, so deeply.
A world of war, of oppression, of suffering—and yet in this hell, are the people I love most.

I can’t say goodbye to everyone in just one day. I would try my best. Try to say farewell, try to stay calm. Then, silently, I would fall asleep in my lover’s arms, with tears in my eyes.

Before writing this, I was watching balayage hair videos online. I have an appointment with a hairstylist tomorrow, and I’ve always wanted to try balayage, but never found the chance. If tomorrow is the end, I hope I get to dye my hair the way I like before it comes.

These days, I’ve also been working hard on an assignment. One that feels truly meaningful to me. I’m writing a proposal titled:
“Reframing the Power of Narrative: Supporting Foreign Journalists in Swedish Investigative Journalism to Increase Minority Visibility.”
But this isn’t just an assignment—I’ve been reaching out to organizations, brainstorming with friends about how to make it real.
As a foreign journalist, I’ve encountered so many structural obstacles here—language barriers, identity barriers, limited career pathways. Unless we dismantle these walls, there will be no real opportunity. No change in how marginalized communities are portrayed in the news.
The proposal isn’t finished. I deeply want to finish it.

There’s also an unfinished paper. An unpaid credit card bill. Two upcoming meetings next week.
And the class on May 8th—that one really excites me. If I miss it, I’ll be so disappointed.

This question brings me back to a long time ago, in China. I was being interrogated by the police.
They asked me to sign a document. I looked up and asked,
“If I sign this, can you let me go quickly? I have an online exam tomorrow. If I can’t submit it in time, I’ll fail the course.”

That’s who I am.
Even in the face of so-called “bigger problems”—financial insecurity, threats to my safety, health uncertainties—I still get upset over “small things”: a task left unfinished, a broken manicure, a dress that looked terrible, a hair color gone wrong.
But to me, these aren’t really small things.
They’re part of my life, part of what keeps me holding on.

Reality pulls heavy on me. But that pull keeps me grounded. It keeps me loving life, loving the act of living. It stops me from letting go.

If tomorrow were goodbye, I’d stay up all night to finish my proposal. Then, I’d go dye my hair.
I’d want my lover beside me, and my best friend too.

In Sweden, my best friend is a Nigerian classmate.
She makes the most amazing jollof rice, jollof spaghetti, swallow, egusi soup, eba, and ewedu.
She once promised to teach me how to make egusi, but I never got the chance. I still want to learn.
I’d invite her, and her Ghanaian friend, to my new home. We’d cook all that food together. And afterward, we’d sit and eat with my partner.
When we’re done, I want to play one last round of UNO and Skitgubbe.
It’s been so long since we’ve played.

If there’s still time, I’d video call my old friends. Catch up. Reminisce.
We used to have Zoom hangouts, where we’d chat and laugh and gossip about old teachers and classmates.
I miss those moments so much.
I’d also call my mom.
I want to see our cat again—his name is Wangcai, a typical Chinese “lucky name.”
I want to see my sister and her mischievous little boy—my nephew—again.
He’s always causing trouble. Sometimes we jokingly call him “that thing.”
I’m not particularly fond of his antics—he’s in second grade now and constantly breaking things.
Once, he touched my cat’s thigh and said, “Wow, this cat’s thigh is so strong. If we deep-fried it, it’d be delicious!”
My mom kicked him away in horror.
Still, I want to play mahjong with my mom, my sister, and my brother-in-law again.
I want to flick my nephew’s forehead one more time.
I want to see my fellow journalists—my comrades in arms—again.

If it weren’t for writing this today, I might’ve forgotten all these things.
Forgotten how I used to travel from city to city by train.
Forgotten how I wandered, how I was once carried to a warm bed by kind strangers.
Forgotten how I stood in front of Southern Weekly’s building, laying down flowers.
Forgotten the snow in Hakodate with my closest friends.
Forgotten how, at 19, we boarded the train to Tianjin, taking photos and writing reports for our very first journalism assignment.
Forgotten the shape of their backs in the sunset, the massive blades of wind turbines, the first video I filmed, the first story we published.
Forgotten the time a green snake fell from a tree and hit our camera during a documentary shoot.
Forgotten that night we watched the World Cup together on a rooftop.
Forgotten the wind at Victoria Harbour, the candlelight in a park.
Forgotten the milk tea inside a Mongolian yurt.
Forgotten the first time I held a baby lamb—soft and tiny in my arms.
I thought about how one day, someone might eat this lamb, and I couldn’t stop the tears.
Forgotten the first time I submitted a piece of writing, and the first time I got rejected.
Forgotten the friends from my writing group who always encouraged me.
Forgotten my very first job as a teenager—selling phones in a tiny mobile shop.
One day, the boss disappeared. The shop shut down. I never got paid.
But I stayed friends with my co-workers, and I still recommend people to their repair shop.

I realize now, buried in all the memories I didn’t want to face—are all the pieces that made me who I am.

And that’s why I can’t say goodbye.

I’ve come close to death before. I’m not afraid of dying, nor of the unknown.
I just can’t bear to say goodbye to this world.
Yes, it’s broken.
Yes, it’s cruel.
But I still want to live.
The day I left my homeland, I acted brave.
But after I settled down, I sobbed uncontrollably in the middle of the night.
Because I missed everything.
I miss it still.

Every time I graduate, I feel the same way.
I miss my classmates. My friends.
But exile means I may never see them again.

Even now, I cry as I write this.
I miss every single friend.
I miss the ocean. The grasslands.
When I hear the words “Oh wind that crosses the wilderness, please walk slowly,” I can’t help but sob.
I remember Swedish summers—the long days, the endless sky—watching my friends play ice hockey.
The sky so brilliantly blue.

Now, looking back at my 25 years, I feel proud.
There are still so many people I love. So many things I want to do.
And more than anything, I’m proud that I am still alive.
Life is truly a magnificent miracle.

At 25, I have dreams completely different from those at 17, yet somehow aligned with the dreams I had at 9.
At 9, I lived in a strange city, and every night I would sleep with a newspaper from home beside me, clinging to its scent.
I dreamed then of learning journalism someday.
Now, at 25, I’m really doing it.
Living in a place I love.
Learning what I love.
I love writing. I love my Swedish classes.

I am young, and I am strong.
It feels like my life is endless.
But if you told me it ends tomorrow—I wouldn’t be able to accept it.
Still, I would accept it.
I’d first finish what I have to do.
Then…
I would try to say goodbye.
But I know I can’t. Not in one day.
I can’t just let it all vanish.

If you told me everything ends, and nothing would be remembered,
I would cry my heart out.

Then I’d do everything I could to write it all down.
To leave evidence of all this—good and bad.
Just thinking about it brings me to tears.

I’m not ready to leave this world.
This world I love and hate so much.
This world of war, of oppression, of pain.
This hell that still holds the ones I love.

I can’t say goodbye to everyone in one day.
I’ll try.
I’ll try to stay calm.
And then—
I will sleep, quietly, in tears, in the arms of the one I love.