It was a midsummer afternoon in Beijing, the kind where the sun gleamed so brightly on the pavement that even standing still felt like committing to a slow roast. I was 28 years old, sitting in a tiny café with a scribbled pros-and-cons list in front of me, wrestling with the question: Should I take a leap of faith and confess my feelings to a man who thought we were just friends?
It wasn’t just any man. His name was Daniel, an architect from New York I’d met during my exchange program years earlier. Daniel was the kind of guy who could sketch dreamlike cityscapes on napkins and make you believe those towers somehow floated on air. The kind of man whose laughter felt like a soundtrack crafted for indie films about fleeting urban romance. And the kind of man who, back then, had absolutely no clue I imagined our “friendly” walks along the Beijing hutongs to be first dates — albeit ones he hadn't RSVP’d to.
Let me take you back to the moment when I realized the gravity of this decision.
The Context: Tradition Meets Tinder-Era Courage
Growing up, I was surrounded by stories of romance that felt grand and star-crossed. My parents, university lecturers, told me tales of lovers who defied dynasties and Lizhi poems that spoke of yearning like it was written in the stars. Their stories occupied the realm of destiny; love wasn’t hunted down, it found you — inevitably and epically.
But modern dating operates more like an aggressive treasure hunt, with less staring at stars and more staring at blue ticks on chat apps. Honoring both traditions and my wish to be brave, I decided that for once, I would choose courage over coyness. After all, heroes and heroines in both ancient tales and rom-coms take risks for love, don’t they? (Spoiler: not all of them get happy endings, but we’ll get there.)
The Leap: When Silence Was Not an Option
In theory, confessing your feelings sounds simple—like turning in a neatly folded note in seventh grade with "Do you like me? Circle yes or no." Real life, however, isn’t a classroom where someone might at least humor you with a pencil-marked response.
What fueled me was this nagging question: Would I rather regret the things I didn’t say or the temporary sting of rejection? And so, with that motivation, I decided to tell Daniel how I felt. I scribbled out the pros ("What if he feels the same?") and cleverly ignored the cons ("He sees you like his casually sarcastic cousin"). Boldly, I invited him for one last dinner before he returned to the U.S.
The restaurant was an intimate one, tucked away in Beijing’s arts district, known for candlelit corners and patrons who seemed to speak in hushed tones like they were all conspiring to fall in love. After appetizers (pork dumplings that I couldn’t taste because my mouth was on strike from stress), I launched into my “confession monologue.”
“Daniel,” I began, testing his name on my tongue like it was new terrain. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I, uh, feel close to you. In a different way than, you know, ‘usual friends.’” I paused to gauge his reaction — which, as it turned out, had all the expression of someone trying to remember if they left the stove on. “I mean to say, I like you. Romantic-like you.”
Silence. Well, not entirely silent — there was a soft clattering of cutlery in the background that suddenly felt deafening. Daniel finally responded with a slow exhalation that could rival a Beijing traffic jam at rush hour in terms of tension. “Yuan, I don’t know what to say. This is really sweet. But...”
Ah, the word nobody wants to hear after pouring their heart out: but.
The Outcome: Not the Answer I Wanted, But Exactly What I Needed
Daniel, as gently as he could, told me he didn’t see me that way, though he treasured our friendship. Cue my heart folding in on itself like a paper crane crushed underfoot. But here’s the thing: my world didn’t actually come crashing down. I sat there, finishing my soup (seriously, why does rejection soup taste better than nervous dumplings?) and realizing that I wasn’t mortified. I’d taken a risk, and while it hadn’t ended in a candlelit kiss, it didn’t leave me feeling foolish. It left me feeling... lighter.
Rejection, I realized, is oddly like ripping off a Band-Aid—painful for a moment, but oddly refreshing once it’s done. When you risk vulnerability, you unclog something within yourself. You create space for growth.
Lessons From Love Confessions Gone Awry
Here’s what I learned from my leap-of-faith dinner:
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Not Every Risk Yields the Reward You Hope For
My home was filled with stories of destined pairs; Daniel and I taught me that certain relationships are meant to occupy the in-between spaces — not lovers, not strangers, but something undeniably valuable. -
Clarity is a Gift to Yourself
Crushing from afar has the romantic mystique of unbroken possibilities. But clarity — even when it’s a no — frees you from endless “what-ifs.” Trust me, it’s liberating to know where you stand. -
Rejection Isn’t a Reflection of Unworthiness
One of the most empowering things Daniel said that night was, “This doesn’t change the way I see you as a person.” Sometimes, feelings don’t align, but that doesn’t mean you’re less lovable or capable. -
The World Doesn’t End After a Bad Date or an Awkward Decline
I walked out of the restaurant, rejected but surprisingly proud of myself. I saw couples walking hand in hand around the arts district and realized love isn’t a single moment — it’s a process.
Encouragement For the Leap-Takers
If you’ve ever hesitated to “go for it” — whether that’s confessing feelings, asking for exclusivity, or even learning to let go — let me be your friendly nudge forward. No, there aren’t guarantees, and yes, there’ll probably be an awkward pause in the middle of it all. But every risk teaches you something invaluable about yourself and the kind of love you deserve.
Months after Daniel flew back to New York, we exchanged emails sporadically. Our friendship, though slightly reshuffled in its emotional hierarchy, remained intact, and I carry the memory of that evening as both a small heartbreak and an even greater triumph. I like to imagine Li Bai and Du Fu would’ve approved of my attempt—not because it was successful, but because it was full of human daring.
So, to anyone reading this, stuck making your own pros-and-cons list: go ahead. Take the leap. Worst-case scenario? It stings for a moment. Best case? It could change everything. And if not — hey, rejection soup is pretty tasty.
