Among our group, Warren was the first to call himself a friend of women. As soon as he entered high school, he blended right in with the female classmates, practically becoming one of the girls’ best friends. Despite making such a huge sacrifice, Warren still didn’t win over the girl he had his heart set on.

On the day he left for college, Warren did something puzzling—he took the train to Chengdu. Actually, the easiest way to get from our hometown to Chengdu is by long-distance bus, which only takes four or five hours, but Warren insisted on taking the train, resolutely choosing a train that departed at ten o’clock at night.

We quickly forgot about this, until three years later, when Warren graduated from a vocational college. We all got together for drinks, and halfway through, he broke down in tears. After crying, he revealed a secret.

The day before leaving for college, Warren called that girl, hoping she would come see him off.

When it came to love, Warren was obsessive. He always had a beautiful dream in his heart, a scene where, as he was leaving, the girl would chase him to the train station, crying and waving her little hand, begging him not to go...

So that day, Warren ignored everyone’s objections and got on the train.

In the end, the girl didn’t come to see him off.

Warren told us that when he arrived in Chengdu by train, it was already midnight. He was tireless, walking along the tracks until dawn, hoping that Chengdu would forget him that night. But in the end, Chengdu did not forget him, so after sunrise, he took a cab to register at his school.

He said that the whole night, he kept singing a song over and over, with lyrics like this: “When you step onto the platform of parting, I finally keep calling and calling. Watching your train go farther and farther away, my heart is in chaos, chaos. A thousand words left unsaid, my tears have already overflowed, overflowed. Since then I’ve been obsessed with that station, so many times just staring there in a daze...”

The story above was a major reason for Warren’s pain three years later, but not the whole reason.

Another reason was that he had just broken up with his college girlfriend. The breakup itself was one thing, but Warren also claimed to have grasped the meaning of life from it, and realized the importance of money earlier than any of us.

As a vocational college graduate, Warren accomplished many things that university graduates hadn’t.

He was not only the first among us to call himself a friend of women, but also the first to buy a car and a house.

When I sat in his car, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of envy, jealousy, and resentment.

He habitually handed me a cigarette, but I didn’t take it as I used to.

“Really quit?” he asked, half-doubtful. We hadn’t seen each other in four years, but his understanding of me wasn’t limited to four years ago, because there’s something in this world called the telephone, and something else called the internet.

I understood his skepticism. I’d tried to quit smoking several times before, but never succeeded. This time I did, but I couldn’t feel proud—too many unhappy things happened during the process.

Warren was concerned about my reaction: “Are you feeling any better?”

It’s not hard to imagine that someone who needs counseling probably isn’t doing too well. During that time, Warren gave me advice, the most useful of which was to put aside those troubling things and go do something I really wanted to do. Later, I went to Tibet—a place I’d wanted to visit since I was thirteen, but only managed to go after turning thirty.

“Much better,” I answered honestly, and changed the subject to something cheerful: “Hey, guess what, today I ran into a female classmate from middle school.”

I had just started, hadn’t even gotten to the details, when Warren jumped in too quickly, excitedly asking, “Grace Baker? Was it Grace Baker?”

Warren was pretty familiar with my high school stories, but knew little about my middle school days. I guess the only thing he remembered was how I used to brag about Grace Baker back in high school.

Remember how I once mentioned the senior girl whose chest I touched in seventh grade? That’s right, that senior was called Grace Baker.

Later, because of a certain infamous online novel, people started doubting my story from back then. I laid out the facts and reasoned with them: when I was telling the story in high school, that novel hadn’t even come out yet. So everyone finally believed that there really was a girl named Grace Baker in my life.

Under his expectant gaze, I told the story of my reunion with Jane Jenkins.

Since the story didn’t involve Grace Baker, Warren lost all enthusiasm and listened calmly the whole time. After I finished, he smiled and said, “You’re better off than me—at least you didn’t run into a middle school classmate at a foot massage parlor.”

Hearing that, I laughed too.

Ten years ago, he would have asked why I didn’t call Jane Jenkins, why I didn’t try to steal her away, maybe even grabbed my phone to send Jane Jenkins a flirty text, and asked if Jane Jenkins had any pretty roommates or close friends. But now, he wouldn’t do any of that—he just smiled lightly after hearing my story.

At our age, a lot of things can be laughed off.

After laughing, I got down to business: “Do you know what’s going on with Roger?”

“No idea,” Warren said, then added, “All I know is that he called every one of us.”