After all my years of reading, writing, and attempting to live through the poetry of Li Bai and the sweeping drama of Toni Morrison novels, I’ve decided one thing about life: it loves irony. Especially when it comes to romance. And nowhere was that clearer than during my ill-fated attempt to recreate the infamous "festival confession"—a grand gesture plucked from the pages of countless Chinese dramas and rom-coms. Spoiler alert: it didn’t go according to plan. But let’s start at the beginning.

Love Letters, Lanterns, and One Terrible Plan

Growing up in Beijing, I was surrounded by stories that romanticized the Qixi Festival, our version of Valentine’s Day. Young couples strolling under moonlit skies, releasing lanterns into the heavens, whispering sweet nothings by rivers. It was the stuff of folklore and, embarrassingly enough, the stuff of my overactive imagination.

Fast-forward to my senior year in university. I had a crush on someone—let’s call him Bo. He was one of those maddeningly casual intellectual types, always lounging in the back of our Creative Writing class with an air of detached charm. He loved Lu Xun and American jazz and had once made an offhand comment about how "grand gestures are a lost art." Naturally, I chose this moment to lose all common sense.

The plan was bold: I would meet Bo at a festival near Beihai Park. When the time was right, I’d hand him a small lantern with a poem I had written, confessing my feelings in poetic—and, let’s face it, borderline melodramatic—fashion. Everything about this screamed romantic success. In my mind, it looked like a Netflix special. In reality? It was closer to an episode of "Survivor."

Section One: The Poetry Wasn’t the Problem (Yet)

The first hurdle was, surprisingly, not the poetry itself. I’ve spent years translating and mangling the works of Li Bai, Xu Zhimo, and even Pablo Neruda. This was my turf. I scribbled and polished for days, and when I was done, the poem dripped with just the right amount of yearning, mysteriously worded metaphors, and a closing line that basically screamed, "Love me!" Without actually saying those words, of course.

But no amount of poetic genius can prepare you for the damaging effects of overthinking. I began to spiral. Had I made it too subtle? Would Bo even like it? Should I have included a modern twist, like something about coffee cups and surveillance capitalism? Overpreparation became my downfall.

I hemmed and hawed for so long that I forgot to take into account the logistical nightmare of releasing a lantern in the city during one of the most crowded nights of the entire year. Which brings us to my next calamity.

Section Two: The Lantern, or How I Almost Committed Arson

If poetry was my strength, physics was my Achilles heel. For some reason, I thought buying a cheap paper lantern from an unverified Taobao store was a good idea. The lantern arrived crumpled, smelling faintly of glue and regret. But in my hubris, I brushed aside these obvious red flags. "It’s fine!" I told myself. "It’s romantic if it feels handmade."

When the festival night came, I smugly tucked the lantern into my bag and set off. The plan was simple: once Bo arrived, I’d offer him the lantern by the water, light it, and we’d watch it soar gracefully into the Beijing sky—the perfect backdrop to my heartfelt confession.

The actual result? The lantern caught on fire approximately half a second after I lit it. The flame, fueled by a hazardous cocktail of cheap materials and poor engineering, engulfed the whole thing before I could mutter so much as a curse word. As Bo stood next to me, horrified, I stomped frantically on the burning mess, envisioning headlines like “Local Romantic Sets Entire Park Ablaze in Gongbi-Style Disaster.”

Needless to say, Bo didn’t receive my poem.

Section Three: Saving Face (Well... Kind Of)

At this point, any sane person would have abandoned the mission. But I was committed to my downward spiral. Determined to salvage the evening, I looked Bo in the eye and blurted out, “This was supposed to be a surprise!” Not my smoothest line, but it was all I had.

Bo looked confused but intrigued. Encouraged, I whipped out my notebook and shoved it into his hands. “Read this,” I said, probably sounding like someone confessing a murder rather than feelings of love.

He began reading, and I held my breath. For a moment, it seemed like my raw, vulnerable words might turn things around. And then—because timing is everything—someone’s toddler ran into me holding a caramel-coated apple, which promptly smeared across my sleeve. That was about when I knew the night was unsalvageable.

Section Four: Lessons from the Ashes (Literally)

Bo was sweet about the whole thing, even offering a tissue to clean up the caramel disaster. He said the poem was "beautiful" but that he wasn’t in the right place for a relationship. To his credit, he tried his best to cushion the blow, saying he admired my courage and thoughtfulness. At the time, I felt like I’d shrunk to the size of my charred lantern, humiliated and wondering why I thought this was a good idea.

But here’s what I learned, looking back:

  1. Not All Grand Gestures Are Created Equal. Romance isn’t a one-size-fits-all affair. Some people love public displays of affection; some, like me, are better suited for low-pressure conversations over tea. Know your strengths—and your crush’s preferences.

  2. Timing is Everything. I’d spent so much energy engineering the "perfect" moment that I never thought to gauge whether Bo was even interested. Sometimes, a simple conversation beats a grand orchestration.

  3. Laughing at Yourself Is Necessary. What could I do but laugh? Yes, the evening was a trainwreck. Yes, I nearly turned romance into a felony. But life is messy, and love? It’s even messier.

  4. Poetry Is Always Worth the Risk. The gesture failed spectacularly, but at least I had the guts to put myself out there. Bo may not have been the one, but the experience taught me to be braver in expressing what I want—and who I am.

Conclusion: Embrace the Misadventures

If I could talk to old me, standing in the middle of Beihai Park, part caramel-apple crime scene, part firefighter, I’d tell her this: someday, this will be a hilarious story. You’ll see that the night wasn’t a failure, but a strange and beautiful chapter in your life. And you’ll be proud that you tried because the courage to risk embarrassment for love is its own kind of poetry.

So here’s my advice: misadventures will happen, whether you’re setting a lantern on fire or saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Take them for what they are: a chance to learn about yourself, pick up the pieces, and laugh a little. Love is messy. And you know what? That’s why it’s worth it.