Red Beans on a Night

There was a year when I ate red bean dessert on the night of Qixi. Not because I believed that a small bowl of something sweet could bring me a person, but because I wanted to see whether it could hold a feeling I did not know how to place anywhere else. The bowl sat quietly in front of me, small and plain in white porcelain. The red of the beans was not bright. It had darkened, as if it had passed through a long, patient heat to become that shade. A thin layer of coconut milk rested on the surface, light and glossy under the yellow light. Everything felt still, so still that I could almost see the faint steam rising and disappearing into nothing.

I took the first spoonful. The beans were soft, almost dissolving the moment they touched my tongue, yet they held onto a slight texture, as if they refused to disappear completely. The sweetness did not arrive all at once. It moved slowly, spreading in quiet layers, never sharp, never demanding attention. Then came the nuttiness, warm and deeper, something that made me pause without knowing why. The coconut milk followed, gentle and creamy, tying everything together without overpowering it. It was only one small spoonful, yet it carried so many layers of taste, like a feeling I had tried to name many times but had never truly understood.

I cannot remember when I started liking that person. There was no single moment, no clear beginning. It just happened little by little. They appeared more often in my thoughts, quietly, without announcement. A passing comment stayed with me longer than it should have. A brief glance was enough to make me wonder if I had been seen in return. Everything was small, almost insignificant, yet it gathered and settled, the way the beans soften together after being slowly cooked. They lose their firmness, but they never separate from one another.

That night, it did not rain, but something in the air still felt damp. Maybe it was because of the story people tell on this day, about two lovers separated by the Milky Way, allowed to meet only once a year. It sounds romantic at first, but the more I thought about it, the more it felt like a story about waiting that never really ends. I realized I was somewhere in between, not quite waiting, not quite letting go. Just standing in a quiet space where I knew I could move forward, but was not sure if I should.

I kept eating. Each spoonful tasted the same, yet the feeling shifted every time. Sometimes it felt sweeter. Sometimes it felt strangely lighter. Perhaps nothing in the bowl had changed. Only the person tasting it had. I began to understand that what made this dessert meaningful was not the taste itself, but what we placed into it. People eat it to wish for love. I ate it to hold onto someone I never truly had.

By the time the bowl was nearly empty, the warmth had faded. The richness softened, leaving behind only a thin sweetness and a quiet, lingering nuttiness at the back of my tongue. It was no longer as full as it had been at the beginning, but it had not disappeared either. It felt like thinking about that person. Not as vivid as before, yet still enough to make me pause longer than I intended.

I set the spoon down when I realized the bowl was already empty. The sweetness had almost faded by then. Nothing had changed in the world outside of me. No wish had come true. No miracle had happened. That person remained where they had always been, and I remained here. Maybe sweetness is the same. It only feels whole when it is tasted with a gentle, willing heart. The more you try to force it, the more it turns into something else entirely. Even the sweetest thing can become bitter when it is held too tightly.

Perhaps my story should end here. Because some things are not meant to be forced into an ending we want.

I stopped trying to force myself to forget.

I kept the feeling, the way one keeps the faint sweetness that lingers at the end of a meal. It is not enough to make you happy, but it is also not something you are ready to lose. And maybe that is how I choose to love someone.

-EL-

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