Why Are Those Days Gone Forever
Luna Tian
Prologue
Lately, I often wake up in the middle of the night.
Outside my window, the small European town is unusually quiet. Occasionally, a car passes by, its tires crunching softly over the cobblestone road. I turn over in bed, hoping to fall back asleep. But once my eyes open, it’s like someone has switched on an old television in my mind—playing fragments from a time long gone.
I’ve been trying to hold on to those memories. On my phone hangs a keychain filled with drifting pink stars and a tiny transparent house. I’ve been meaning to get an old flip Nokia phone, just to store the numbers of a few old friends. On my desk sits a scrapbook—photos of friends, a few handwritten letters, candies mailed from China. These things might not mean much to others, but to me, they keep those days alive. I’m not sure how to describe the feeling. I once heard a term—Golden Age Syndrome? I don’t know if that’s what I have. All I know is, sometimes, while drinking with friends who talk about work, houses, and future plans, my mind suddenly drifts back to summers in Guangzhou—sweaty days when nothing could scare us.
I miss Guangzhou. I miss Beijing. I miss every place I’ve lived and worked. I miss the late-night BBQs, my friends, and the endless grasslands. When I was little, I didn’t drink alcohol—I drank orange soda. Bubbles rose one by one from the bottom of the cup, and I thought that was the sound of happiness.
What I long for isn’t a specific place. It’s the past itself. I always say I’d trade all the days I have left just to go back twenty years—for ten days. I miss the bluest sky I’ve ever seen. The ceiling fan spinning slowly. The TV playing The Same Song. I was still a child. My friends and I would sit on the dorm balcony at night, eating watermelon and listening to the wind blowing in from far, far away.
II. My Childhood
I grew up in Guangzhou, in the factory compound where my mom worked. It was a huge place—with dorms, a cafeteria, gardens, tall cooling towers, and thick pipes that steamed all year round. The cement ground was always warm. The walls were greyish-white, covered in old ads, faded slogans, and chalk scribbles from children. After school, we often sat by the dam. I always carried half a watermelon in my arms, scooping it out with a metal spoon while chatting nonsense with classmates. The sun set slowly, stretching the day out like a worker reluctant to clock out. We’d sit there, waiting for dinner, listening to the hum of machines from the factory. It was a little loud, but oddly comforting. I don’t eat watermelon much anymore—maybe because I finished my lifetime quota as a kid.
On weekends, we went to the nearby skating rink. I could barely skate and kept falling, but still insisted on going. During the day, we roller-skated. At night, my mom would sit in the kitchen smoking and playing mahjong, or curl up on the sofa watching Korean dramas. Sometimes I’d join her, sitting by her side under a fuzzy blanket, cracking sunflower seeds while the characters fell in love. Sometimes she’d even let me join the mahjong table, just to fill in a fourth hand. “Come on, little cat,” she’d say, “we need you to make a full table.”
Yes, my childhood nickname was Little Cat. My sister was Big Cat, the white cat at home was Second Cat, and I became Third Cat. When my parents’ friends came over, they’d eat my dad’s braised beef and ask, “Little Cat, what do you want to be when you grow up? An engineer like your mom? Or maybe a journalist like us?” I had no idea back then. I just thought the grown-ups were fun, and the word journalist sounded cool—like those people on TV who take photos and write reports from the scene.
I remember my first day of primary school. I wore a pink shirt sewn by my mom with her brand-new sewing machine. Even at that young age, I’d already learned to use the machine myself. I made a red scarf and wore it proudly. On the collar of my shirt, I stitched a small acrylic bunny. I wore my favorite agate necklace—strung for me by my sister—held my head high, and felt unstoppable. I made a few new friends that day, and before class even began, we agreed to go to the seaside together after school. I found some beautiful seashells. I still remember the sunlight that afternoon—so bright, I didn’t want to blink, as if something magical might happen at any moment. Maybe even a spaceship would fly by to take me to the Andromeda galaxy.
In our primary school classroom, there was an old, bulky television set. Occasionally, the teacher would play programs for us. The ceiling fan creaked as it spun, slow and rhythmic. When it was my turn to be in charge of the TV, I would tune into the news channel. My classmates teased me for being a little grown-up. While they preferred cartoons, I lay across my desk watching News Probe, drawn to the serious programs rather than the animated ones.
Anchors like Qiming and Chai Jing, and the heartbreaking stories they told—those reports felt like keys to a world far beyond our own. I also loved watching The Same Song on CCTV-3. I never quite understood why, but every time I heard that melody, I wanted to cry. It felt like the song carried something the child version of me couldn’t put into words—something buried deep inside.
Back then, I truly believed that I would walk with my classmates across thousands of rivers and tens of thousands of mountains. I thought we would stay together, in this place I would always love. Everything was still intact. I had a home, a circle of friends, and a daily life wrapped gently in the folds of time. We all believed that those days would last forever.
III. The Millennium Years
The memory of the millennium feels to me like a faded class schedule—covered in sweet-scented ink and filled with strange little noises.
I still remember how ballpoint pens back then had a distinctive smell—something like syrup mixed with plastic. Some tiny erasers were scented too—fruity and soft to the touch. I kept them in my pencil case and never had the heart to use them. There were those mechanical pencils that cost just 50 cents; with one click, the lead would pop out. A dangling charm would swing back and forth as I wrote, making a soft click-click-click sound. I often paused my homework just to watch that little trinket sway—it danced a private dance only I could understand.
I used to love cross-stitching. Threading needle through canvas one stitch at a time, the embroidery floss weaving back and forth between my fingers—I’d find myself holding my breath, like performing a secret ritual. I stitched cats, little houses, and exaggerated, almost unreal roses, and gave them to my best friends. The shimmering threads turned into hearts and butterflies. I never hesitated to share the patterns. When a classmate was sick, I’d visit them in the hospital and say, “Don’t be scared. When you get better, bring your IV tube—clean and dry—I’ll teach you how to braid a shrimp or a goldfish.” And they’d start looking forward to it. They weren’t afraid anymore.
These little crafts were taught to me by Aunt Wang, a woman with magical hands who worked at the hospital with my mom. I was a strange child—good at school, but never fond of listening in class. I’d chat with my deskmate, pass notes, and tell scary stories I made up. Eventually, the teacher had enough of my frequent absences and sudden stand-ups in class. She told my mom to take me to the hospital, and the doctor diagnosed me with ADHD and Asperger’s.
Even so, this odd little girl had many friends. I was never bullied. I had a happy childhood. Maybe it was because of my free-range parents, or Aunt Wang with her crafts, or the snacks and hundred-yuan bills always in my pocket. Or maybe it was because I wasn’t a complete troublemaker—and because I had classmates who were kind, almost angelic.
Those days of weaving tiny trinkets were probably the first time I truly understood what focus meant. Looking back now, I realize I’ve always loved doing things that slow you down, things you can build piece by piece into a complete picture.
I still remember registering my first QQ account. It was in the school’s computer lab, on an old machine running Windows XP. The desktop was blue, the icons neatly lined up. I set up a glittery avatar for myself, added a pink background and cartoon wings. On BBS forums, I posted in Comic Sans and added moody little poems to my signature, like “I’ll wait for you at the edge of time.” My first ID was Sakura Grass, named after a song I adored. Back then, I thought that was the peak of romance.
I’d walk hand in hand with my best friend Yueyue along the sandy road behind the factory, singing softly as we went:
When distant bells begin to chime,
The frogs start croaking lullabies,
On white sand shores beneath a crescent moon,
I love you sweetly in my dreams.
At home, there was a poster of Leslie Cheung on the wall—my mom’s favorite singer. Next to the TV, plastic VHS cases stacked neatly, each labeled by hand with her beautiful handwriting. We often rewatched My Fair Princess, or tuned in to The Same Song to see familiar singers appear again and again. Every Friday night, my parents’ friends came over for dinner. The table filled with homemade dishes, and sometimes they’d play a music compilation on VCD.
People used to talk about the New Century, about how China would only get better. The way they said it felt sincere—full of hope, firm and glowing, like the ringtone of a first-generation flip phone: bright and unmistakable.
We even used different colored pens to circle important names in the phonebook. When the phone rang, I’d rush over, excited to pick up the receiver—sometimes tripping on a cabinet along the way. But I loved guessing who was on the other end—maybe it was my favorite aunt, or maybe a boring uncle. Shouting “Hello?” into the receiver made me feel, for a moment, like a real grown-up.
That was a time when the future still had shape—crystalline and clear. People would ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” And I truly believed the future was something you could choose, a staircase you could climb, step by step.
Not like now—now it feels like everything is sealed shut, like the cemented lid of a well. You can’t see the bottom, and you can’t see the light.
IV. What the Neighbors Taught Me
When I was a child, I didn’t really like language class. I found it too much of a hassle—writing an essay took forever, and then the teacher would mark it up and ask me to rewrite it again and again. Math, on the other hand, felt so much simpler—there were rules, answers, and clear rights and wrongs. I did fairly well in school, especially in math. During exams, I was often the first to finish.
But the uncles and aunties who came to our house—my parents’ journalist friends—always steered the conversation back to language and the news. They loved asking me questions.
“Little Cat, what do you want to be when you grow up? An engineer like your mom? Or a journalist like us?”
Back then, I didn’t really have a clear idea. But something about the way they spoke felt different. It wasn’t the usual grown-up lecturing—it was as if they were discussing something important with me.
My dad would say:
“Being a journalist is great. Don’t you love reading Southern Weekly? And you adore Chai Jing—you remember every word she says, right? There’s a lot of injustice in this world, and someone needs to speak up about it. That someone could be you.”
I’d reply, “But I’m not good at language. I like math.”
They would all laugh, then begin tutoring me with surprising seriousness. One read Memorial to Yueyang Tower aloud. Another pulled out old articles they’d written, showing me how to craft headlines, how to write a lead paragraph. They told me:
“Language isn’t just for writing essays. It’s how you tell the world what you see. You need eyes, yes—but you also need a voice. And a heart.”
One uncle read a line aloud:
“Though of humble station, I dare not forget my concern for the country.”
I didn’t fully understand it, but the words seemed to leave a mark somewhere deep inside. Later, someone else quoted:
“Having done the deed, he left without a trace, hiding his merit and fame.”
Another flipped open an English poetry collection and pointed to a line:
“Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”
He said it was the epitaph of a young poet—simple and quiet, yet like a pebble resting on one’s heart.
I was still too young to understand most of what they said. But I remember the look in their eyes when they told stories—as if they were holding something precious. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to learn, but I knew one thing for sure: they genuinely hoped I would understand the world, not just live in it.
That was the first time I realized that language wasn’t just a school subject—it was a kind of power. It could travel through time, across distance and silence, and bring a real story into someone’s view. It could give a voice to pain that would otherwise remain unseen.
Maybe that’s when I began to change. I stopped wanting to be just a kid who could solve problems with neat answers. I started to ask questions—the kind without any.
And now, after everything I’ve lived through, here in a life far away from home, I think I finally understand what those words meant:
“Though of humble station, I dare not forget my concern for the country.”
V. The Place Only Dreams Can Reach
And then, I grew up.
But I never felt like I truly arrived anywhere. It was as if I had been gently pushed off a path that was supposed to keep going forward—only to find I’d been walking in circles all along. I looked back and realized: I hadn’t moved ahead, just drifted further away.
The factory was eventually torn down. The little house we lived in—gone too. In its place now stands a commercial complex. I once tried finding it on the map, zooming in again and again, but I could no longer locate the dam where we ate watermelon, the old skating rink, or the balcony where my mom played mahjong. That whole world had vanished like a dream I didn’t want to wake from, swallowed whole by the enormity of reality.
I often think of Chai Jing. She was my favorite journalist growing up—soft-spoken, yet unwavering. I remember her sitting with people under the sun, talking about pollution, children, and choices—like she was talking about life itself. But what happened afterward? She was labeled a “public intellectual,” attacked online, pushed into silence. Then she disappeared from the screen without a word.
And Lu Anke. I loved his documentaries. He spent time with children in mountain villages—through New Year celebrations, school days, songs. The way he recorded life so quietly once made me believe the world could be treated gently. But later, he too was deliberately erased by state media, vanished from mainstream view. Even his name became sensitive.
I don’t know when it started—but I stopped believing that journalism could change the world. I stopped believing that speaking up meant someone would listen. That deep-rooted sense of hope I was once taught to carry—it felt like someone had snuffed it out in a single breath.
Sometimes, I go back to the screenshots and archived reports I saved long ago. I read the familiar paragraphs, crying as I scroll. Especially when I hear the melody of The Same Song—the tears come without warning. It’s not just a song anymore. It’s a fragment of time I can never return to. A time when I still believed in a better tomorrow. When I still believed a single melody could bring voices together. When I still believed we were heading toward a future filled with blooming flowers and freedom.
But now, that future never came.
And I know—it never will.
VI. The Golden Age Is Not a Disease
Some people say I’m “sick”—that I’m too nostalgic, that I refuse to face reality, that I’m trapped by something they call Golden Age Syndrome. But I’ve never believed I was sick.
I just remember things too clearly.
I remember the creaking ceiling fan.
I remember the click-clack of charms swaying on my mechanical pencil.
I remember Qiming’s furrowed brow when he spoke on TV.
I remember how sweet the watermelon was that summer.
I remember my mom watching Korean dramas, muttering, “This woman is way too naïve.”
I remember the kids who once ran with me deep into the factory compound, on our silly little adventures.
And I remember the dreams we never said out loud.
What I’ve lived through—these memories—are my greatest treasures. Why would I ever want to forget them?
I used to think memories would fade, would lighten with time. But the truth is the opposite. Some things grow heavier. Like stones sinking to the bottom of a lake, impossible to retrieve—but you know they’re there. You can feel their weight, always.
In these years, I’ve been to many places. I’ve lived in countries where I don’t speak the language fluently. I’ve made new friends. I’ve learned how to cook, how to write letters, how to slowly tell my story. Sometimes, I talk to them about China—about my childhood home, my school, the factory compound. I tell them how we truly believed in the future, back then. I don’t expect them to fully understand. But as long as someone listens, I can keep telling it.
I know I can never go back to that place. The little house we lived in is long gone. Even the streets look different now. My classmates are scattered across cities—some I’ve lost touch with, some I don’t even know the names of anymore. But I remember we once shared watermelon. We once promised to go to the beach after school. We once truly believed things would get better someday.
Now, I no longer say “Tomorrow will definitely be better” so easily. But I still hold hope. I hope that the things we didn’t forget—the words spoken, the choices made, the tears shed and laughter shared—will, someday, be remembered by someone, somewhere.
I’m not living in the past. I’m carrying the past with me.
And that’s what keeps me hopeful.
If one day I could say just one thing to that little girl in the pink shirt, I’d say this:
Little Cat, enjoy the moment. This is the best time you’ll ever have. But don’t be afraid—when you grow up, you’ll become a wonderful adult. You’ll still be doing the things you love. You might not like the world you end up in, but you’ll definitely like the person you become.