In 1999, when I first fell for someone, home internet was still dial-up.
Back then, going online felt like a ritual.
You had to make sure no one needed the phone, then sit at the computer and double-click the connection icon on the desktop. The modem would make a sound that's hard to describe now, like two machines arguing from far away.
Beep—beep—chirp—squawk—
Then two little computers would appear in the bottom right corner of the screen.
Connection successful.
Every time my mom heard that sound, she'd yell from the living room: "Chen Bo-Hsun! Don't use it too long! Grandma needs to make a call later!"
"Got it!"
I always answered like that.
But I never really knew what "don't use it too long" meant.
Because Lin Yu-Jie hadn't come online yet.
I met her in a chat room.
That year I was nineteen, a freshman in Taipei. She was eighteen, living in Kaohsiung, retaking the entrance exam.
I still remember her ICQ number.
Not that I tried to memorize it—those numbers were typed so many times when I was nineteen that they stuck like my ID number.
She first messaged me at 12:43 a.m.
"Why is your nickname 'Waste'?"
My handle was "A Waste."
I replied: "Because all the handsome guys were taken."
About ten seconds later, she sent:
"Hahahahaha."
That was the first time I felt a few black Chinese characters could carry sound.
After that, we chatted every day.
I knew she hated cilantro, loved Leslie Cheung, was terrible at math, and always got hungry studying at night. She knew I failed calculus in freshman year, rode a second-hand Wolf scooter, was often late to class, had a sharp tongue, and was actually a coward.
We never met in person.
Yet we seemed closer than anyone around us.
Every night at ten, I'd sit at the computer on time.
If that little ICQ flower lit up, my whole evening had meaning.
"Hey."
"What?"
"My cram school teacher scolded me today."
"Who? Give me the name."
"What are you gonna do?"
"Send a virus."
"Idiot."
"I'm serious."
"Chen Bo-Hsun."
"Hmm?"
"You're really an idiot."
I stared at that line and grinned for a long time.
Love at nineteen is strange.
She never said she liked me.
Neither did I.
We just cut our lives into little pieces every day and sent them from Taipei to Kaohsiung, then back again.
Sometimes photos.
Sometimes an MP3.
Songs took forever to download back then, but I was patient.
I'd send her a song and say:
"Put on headphones."
"Why?"
"Press play together."
"Three, two, one."
Over three hundred kilometers apart, in two different rooms, we listened to the same song.
That was the closest we could get to an embrace.
---
On New Year's Eve, I finally asked her:
"Want to meet?"
She didn't answer for a long time.
ICQ showed she was still online.
I stared at the screen, heart racing.
After about three minutes, she sent:
"Are you ugly?"
I almost fell off my chair.
"You can still back out."
"Hahahaha."
"So?"
"New Year's Eve."
"What?"
"You asked when we should meet."
I stared at those two words.
New Year's Eve.
December 31, 1999.
She said she'd come to Taipei.
I arrived at Taipei Main Station at 3 p.m. that day.
We were supposed to meet at 5.
I wore a new jacket, spent half an hour on my hair, and had a burned CD in my pocket.
Twelve songs.
Every one I had sent her before.
On the CD I wrote in black marker:
For Rain.
Because her English name was Rain.
At 5:10 she still hadn't arrived.
5:30.
6:00.
I started calling her phone.
No answer.
Cell phones weren't common yet; she used her mom's old Nokia.
At 6:40 I got a text.
Just one line.
"Sorry, I can't come."
I stood in the station hall and stared at it for a long time.
Then replied:
"It's okay."
It wasn't okay at all.
I was nineteen, liking someone for the first time, about to meet a girl for the first time, and learning that waiting could really make your stomach knot up.
But I still said it was okay.
Because I didn't want her to feel pressured.
That night I went to City Hall alone.
People everywhere.
Everyone counting down.
Ten, nine, eight, seven—
I stood in the crowd, staring at my phone.
Six, five, four—
I thought if she called now, I'd answer in the first second.
Three, two, one.
"Happy New Year!"
All of Taipei cheered.
2000 arrived.
The world didn't end.
Computers didn't crash from Y2K.
Only my phone stayed silent.
---
She disappeared after that day.
ICQ never came online again.
No replies to emails.
Phone turned off.
I still dialed up every night.
Beep—beep—chirp—squawk—
Connection successful.
First thing I did was open ICQ.
Her name was always gray.
Offline.
I started writing letters.
First:
"Are you okay?"
Second:
"If you don't want to meet, it's fine."
Third:
"Did I do something wrong?"
Fourth:
"At least let me know you're alive."
Later I stopped asking.
Just sent little things from life.
"Failed calculus again today."
"Got a new phone."
"Raining in Taipei."
"Your favorite singer released a new album."
"Found a really good beef noodle place."
"Saw a girl from behind who looked like you, even though I don't even know what your back looks like."
At the end I'd always write:
I MISS YOU.
Send.
After sending, I'd sit and wait.
Sometimes until 2 a.m.
Sometimes 3.
Mom would get up at night, see the light on, and scold:
"Don't you have class tomorrow?"
I'd turn off the screen.
The room went dark instantly.
But the computer was still running.
Like my heart that wouldn't give up.
---
Three months later, I got her letter.
Sender: Rain.
I froze.
Mouse in hand, I couldn't click.
The letter was short.
"Bo-Hsun, I'm sorry.
I didn't mean to miss it.
On December 29, I was hospitalized.
The doctor said it's leukemia.
I wanted to wait until treatment stabilized before telling you, but my hair started falling out and I suddenly didn't know how to face you.
The Lin Yu-Jie you know is pretty, has long hair, smiles, argues with you.
I don't want you to see me like this.
Stop sending letters.
You should like someone who's actually beside you.
Also.
You're not a waste.
Happy New Year.
Even if it's three months late."
After reading, I sat for a long time.
Then grabbed my jacket and ran out.
I bought the overnight bus south.
First time I'd been to Kaohsiung.
I didn't know which hospital.
Only that her dad ran a hardware store near one.
So I asked place after place.
Like a madman.
Eventually I found it.
The next afternoon, I stood outside the hematology ward.
Through the glass, I saw Lin Yu-Jie for the first time.
She was much thinner than in photos.
Wearing a beanie.
Pale face.
She was reading with her head down.
I stood outside and suddenly started crying.
Not because she looked bad.
But because I finally understood what she had been facing alone here while I stared at a cold screen in Taipei waiting for her to come online.
She looked up.
Saw me.
Froze.
I took out my phone.
Dialed her number.
The phone by her bed rang.
She looked at me but didn't answer.
I waved my phone at her through the glass.
She finally picked up.
"Hello?"
That was the first time I truly heard her cry.
I cried too.
But still smiled and said:
"Lin Yu-Jie."
"What are you doing here…"
"To confirm something."
"What?"
"You really are ugly."
She laughed through tears.
"Chen Bo-Hsun, go die."
"But I still like you."
She went quiet.
I pressed my palm against the glass.
She slowly got off the bed and pressed her palm back.
A layer of glass between us.
No holding hands.
No kiss.
Not even really touching.
But that was the closest I got to love when I was nineteen.
Into the phone I said:
"I miss you."
Her eyes red.
"Idiot."
"Shouldn't you say I miss you too?"
She sniffled.
After a long pause she whispered:
"I miss you too."
---
Many years later, ICQ disappeared.
Dial-up disappeared.
That computer was thrown out as junk one day; I argued with my dad when I found out.
"It was useless long ago, why keep it?"
I couldn't answer.
There wasn't anything valuable inside anyway.
A few photos, some reports, a bunch of terrible-quality videos by today's standards, and one folder.
Named Rain.
Full of Lin Yu-Jie.
She underwent treatment for two years.
Those two years, I practically turned the Taipei-Kaohsiung bus into my commute.
After class on Friday I'd head to the station with a backpack, arrive in Kaohsiung at dawn, nap two hours at the station, then go to the hospital.
First time, she asked: "Don't you have class?"
"Saturday."
Second time: "Don't you need to study?"
"Studied on the bus."
Third time she stopped asking.
Just gave me a look when I walked in.
"You're annoying."
"I know."
"Bus tickets aren't free."
"They're not."
"Then why keep coming?"
I put breakfast on her table.
"Because internet fees aren't free either."
She paused.
"What?"
"My mom used to want to kill me every month over the phone bill from waiting for you."
She laughed so hard she almost choked.
First time I saw her laugh that happily during treatment.
Later her hair grew back slowly.
First a short black fuzz.
She minded it.
I thought it was cute.
Once I stared too long and she threw a pillow at me, embarrassed.
"What are you looking at!"
"Nothing."
"You were totally looking!"
"Really wasn't."
"Chen Bo-Hsun!"
I couldn't hold back my laugh.
"Like a kiwi."
The pillow flew again.
"Get out!"
I laughed so hard I crouched on the floor.
She turned her back, angry.
After a while I walked over and squatted by the bed.
"Yu-Jie."
"What?"
"It's actually pretty."
"Liar."
"Really."
She ignored me.
I reached out and gently touched her new hair.
She didn't pull away.
"At least I finally know what you really look like."
"What do you mean?"
"No long hair, no photo angles, no picking the best shot."
I looked at her.
"Still you."
She lowered her head.
After a long time she said:
"You're really good at lying to girls."
"I'm not."
"Definitely are."
"Lin Yu-Jie."
"What?"
"I've only ever lied to you since I was nineteen."
She finally smiled.
"Idiot."
---
In 2002 her tests stabilized.
The day the doctor said "remission," her mom cried in the exam room.
Her dad kept nodding.
I stood at the back, unsure what to do.
We weren't related by blood.
No legal ties.
Strictly speaking, we hadn't even officially confessed.
I was just the idiot who took the bus from Taipei to Kaohsiung every week.
So when her family hugged, I quietly stepped out.
The hallway was long.
Afternoon sunlight came through the windows.
I sat on the bench, head down, feeling like the past two years had been a long dream.
At least she was better.
That was enough.
"Chen Bo-Hsun."
I looked up.
She stood at the other end of the hallway.
"Why did you come out?"
She didn't answer, just walked over.
And hugged me for the first time.
I froze.
Two years.
We'd been separated by glass, held hands, eaten together, walked in the hospital.
But she had never hugged me like this.
"Hey."
"Hmm?"
"Weren't you good at talking?"
"Talking about what?"
Her face buried in my chest.
"Weren't you good at it on ICQ?"
I still didn't get it.
She looked up, annoyed.
"I LOVE YOU!"
I froze for two seconds.
Then smiled.
"Oh."
"What do you mean 'oh'!"
"Lin Yu-Jie."
"What?"
I lowered my head.
"I LOVE YOU."
Her eyes turned red instantly.
But she still acted tough.
"Lame."
"Then you show me."
She sniffled.
"I MISS YOU."
"Not answering the question."
"Forget it then."
"Hey, no."
I hugged her properly for the first time.
"This letter can't be taken back."
---
We still argued a lot after that.
Long-distance arguments.
Phone arguments.
Email arguments.
ICQ arguments.
She even blocked me once out of anger.
Unblocked five minutes later.
Because she realized if she blocked me, she wouldn't know if I apologized.
In 2004 I finished military service.
First job in Hsinchu.
She got into a school in Taipei.
The distance finally shrank to an hour.
In 2007 we got married.
At the banquet her dad got drunk and told everyone with a mic how I took the bus to Kaohsiung when I was nineteen.
I wanted to crawl under the table.
Lin Yu-Jie just laughed happily.
Back at the hotel that night, she took off her veil and suddenly asked:
"Hey."
"Hmm?"
"Do you still remember your ICQ number?"
"Of course."
"Mine?"
I recited it right away.
She froze.
"Seriously?"
"Obviously."
"You're sick, remembering stuff from over ten years ago."
I looked at her.
"Because that's where my wife first appeared."
She was quiet for two seconds.
Then threw a pillow at me.
"Gross."
I caught it laughing.
She took two steps, then turned back.
"But I like it."
---
2026.
I'm forty-six.
Most people probably don't know what ICQ is anymore.
My son once saw an old screenshot and asked:
"What's that? Ancient LINE?"
I almost kicked him out.
"What ancient? It's called ICQ."
"What's the difference?"
"Big difference."
"Can you send messages?"
"Yes."
"Can you send photos?"
"Yes."
"Can you video call?"
"...Not important."
He left with an "of course it's ancient" face.
I sat in the study and reopened that old photo I'd transferred countless times.
Low resolution.
Windows 98 on screen.
ICQ open in the corner.
Rain: Hey, waste, you there?
Waste: Yeah.
I couldn't help smiling.
My phone buzzed.
A message from my wife.
"Buy milk on the way home."
I replied:
"Okay."
A few seconds later.
I added:
"I MISS YOU."
Read immediately.
No reply.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Three minutes.
I frowned.
Twenty-seven years.
This woman still makes me wait.
Just as I was about to send a question mark, the door opened.
"I'm home."
I froze.
Walked out of the study.
Lin Yu-Jie stood at the door with supermarket bags, looking puzzled.
"What?"
"Didn't you ask me to buy milk?"
"Felt like drinking some, so I bought it myself."
"Then why didn't you reply?"
"What message?"
She glanced at her phone.
Then smiled.
Forty-six years old.
A few fine lines at the corners of her eyes.
Hair long again long ago.
But when she smiled, it was exactly like that string of "hahahahaha" she sent when she was eighteen.
She walked over.
Stood on tiptoe and kissed the corner of my mouth.
"Does this count as a reply?"
"No."
"Then what do you want?"
I pulled her into my arms.
"According to the rules, you should reply I MISS YOU TOO."
She rolled her eyes.
"How old are we?"
"Hurry up."
"No."
"Lin Yu-Jie."
"Chen Bo-Hsun, you're so annoying."
"I've waited twenty-seven years, a few more seconds won't kill me."
She finally laughed.
Leaned into my chest and whispered:
"I miss you too."
I kissed her.
In that moment I suddenly thought of my nineteen-year-old self.
Midnight.
Room dark.
CRT screen glowing blue-white.
Modem making that sharp, ugly sound.
Beep—beep—chirp—squawk—
Connection successful.
That boy sitting in front of the computer, knowing nothing.
He didn't know the girl would get sick.
Didn't know he'd take dozens of overnight buses for her.
Didn't know she'd survive.
Didn't know one day he'd walk her down the aisle.
Didn't know twenty-seven years later that eighteen-year-old girl who called him "waste" on ICQ would stand in his living room in slippers complaining he forgot to take out the trash.
If I could go back, I'd pat that nineteen-year-old self on the shoulder.
And tell him:
Stop staring at the inbox.
She'll reply.
Just this letter took a little longer.
Two years longer.
One illness longer.
Countless trips between Taipei and Kaohsiung longer.
In the end it took a whole lifetime to deliver that sentence to you.
I MISS YOU.
And this time...........
She's been here all along.