Loser = idiot = good-for-nothing.

In the past fifteen years of his life, Brian Ford had perfectly demonstrated this equation to everyone around him. But when he entered high school and encountered certain people and events, it seemed that everything began to change.

The school beauty, a handsome boy who traveled through time, childhood friends, soccer, love, friendship... What will happen when all these things intertwine?

Are geniuses always destined to stand above others? Must ordinary people always look up from below? Is it true that without talent, one can accomplish nothing? Is it okay to give up easily just because no one is cheering for you? Can a loser not have dreams?

This is the story of a loser’s struggle, and the passionate youth of a group of people.

Three years later, Ethan Hill once again brings everyone pure emotion and joy.

This work is dedicated to those who have already left their youth behind, and to those who are still experiencing it.

Prologue: Youth Festival

The idea to write this book actually came to me a year ago, and I even managed to write over ten thousand words in one go at the beginning. But that was just a diversion when I was tired of writing "Champion," and after the initial impulse faded, it naturally came to an indefinite halt, slowly turning into what I call a "pit" in my computer.

The urge to write this again resurfaced when I was troubled by not knowing what genre my new book should be. Whenever I wrote fantasy and showed it to my friends, the feedback was never very good. After being criticized enough times, I naturally felt that I wasn’t cut out for writing fantasy.

At that time, I happened to find my high school yearbook in a cabinet—a regular notebook whose entire cover was wrapped in clear tape for protection. When I picked it up, a slip of paper fell out. It was a "group photo" I had drawn in my first year of high school, featuring four people—my deskmates and close friends at the time. But then, to my alarm, I realized I suddenly couldn’t remember their names. Each face looked so familiar, yet I just couldn’t recall their names.

They must have been very good friends, or I wouldn’t have used a hand-drawn picture to prove our friendship. But even with such close friends, after years without contact, I can no longer remember their names...

Sadly, I realized this, and my mood changed as I continued flipping through the yearbook—I had intended to look at it with a sense of nostalgia, but in the end, I felt only unease. The words and names recorded in the yearbook—I couldn’t match them to the faces in the graduation photo.

I know they’re in my memory, so familiar, yet so distant. In a few more years, maybe even at a class reunion, I’ll have to awkwardly ask, “Excuse me, who are you?”—if there are still class reunions, that is.

How many years has it been since I last returned to that high school? How many years since I last contacted those classmates? Two years—just two short years, and I’ve almost forgotten everything. Life is filled with so many things that don’t belong to those memories; they slowly change me. I’m no longer that naïve newcomer to society who shouted “Long live youth!” I’m much more pragmatic now, and my skin has grown thicker year by year.

I once said that as long as I still listen to Emil Chau’s songs, I’ll keep writing about youth. But now, those songs that once moved me countless times can hardly stir any emotion in me. I still remember the first time I heard “Is There a Song That Reminds You of Me”—so many memories came flooding back. Now when I listen to it again... ah, it’s a nice song, but I haven’t listened to it in a while. Maybe I’ll try something different today.

That’s all there is to it.

(As I write this, I open my music player and add that song to the playlist.)

What has made me so indifferent? What has made me forget the names that were once so familiar? What has made the photos yellow and the handwriting blur?

I know the answer to this question, and I should know it very clearly, but I don’t want to say it out loud, because every time I think of it, I feel like a criminal.

People have to grow up. That’s all I can say to comfort myself.

Feeling uneasy about these thoughts, I decided to write something to hold on to—or perhaps to mourn—the years that I am slowly forgetting. So I dug this “pit” out of my computer again and decided to finish it. I’m afraid that if I don’t start writing now, I might never be able to. So whether it’s “Caring” or this “Loser,” the starting point is the same. It seems I’m still reheating old leftovers...

But this is different from “Caring,” because I’m trying to add more elements. Although “soccer” still plays a big role in the novel, it won’t be the only thing, as it was in “Caring.” In this book, campus stories will take up a larger proportion. I even want to classify it as “urban” fiction, because I always feel that putting “Loser” in the sports genre is a bit like hanging out a sheep’s head while selling dog meat.