Reunion

I’m running slightly late because of the rush-hour traffic. When I eventually find 火锅, a hotpot restaurant in downtown Beijing, I feel both relieved and nervous. I’m here to meet three old classmates, my best friends from university days. One of them was my first love. Although the four of us have kept in touch by email and on social media, this will be my first time to see them in person after ten years. I’ve been looking forward to this moment for several months since I booked my flight from London to Beijing. It still feels unreal when I’m physically here, after so many years of absence from the city.

The restaurant looks bigger and posher than I expected. I follow an elegantly dressed waitress in an embroidered traditional Chinese garment through some gilded and zigzagging corridors. I finally arrive in an elaborately decorated room with Chinese ink paintings hanging on the wall. There they are: my three old friends sitting around a large dinner table. In the middle is a big boiling pot evaporating steam gently into the air.

Seeing me coming, the three all rise to their feet. The two women, Mei and Ling, wave at me with a bright smile. A big, tall guy walks up, holds out his hand and takes mine. His grip is firm, and his smile measured. ‘Welcome, old classmate, long time no see! You still look so young!’

This is meant to be a compliment, so I reply with good humour: ‘So do you!’ The sad truth is that we have all grown bigger and older. Mei wears heavy make-up and is dressed in a tailored business jacket, looking feminine and professional at the same time. Ling has a flannel shirt and a pair of black jeans; her short hair makes her look like a tomboy and a rock singer. Yu is dressed in a navy-blue business suit, his red necktie slightly undone at the top of a white shirt. I’m surprised to see that time has left the biggest mark on Yu, who has grown from a slim, athletic youth to a chubby man with a beer belly.

As a visitor from London to Beijing, I readily leave the task of ordering dishes to the three locals. The waiter appears swiftly when called and retreats quietly after taking the orders. Soon the table is filled with neatly arranged plates of lamb, beef, vegetable, tofu, mushroom and things I don’t recognise. Piece by piece, we throw these items into the steaming hot soup. Soon the soup is boiling, emitting a spicy, herbal aroma. We then help ourselves to the cooked, flavoured meat and vegetables, fishing them out of the pot and into the blue porcelain sauce bowls in front of us. Using his chopsticks, Yu puts a few pieces of my favourite wood ear mushrooms into my bowl: ‘Eat more! You look so thin. You must have been starving in England.’

I was. Living in England on a modest student stipend, eating out was often a luxury. I survived on bread, pasta, salad and fried rice, but my cooking skills aren’t great. There are hotpot restaurants in London. Many of them are hugely expensive; in comparison they look like the poor relatives of this Beijing restaurant. In the dark, long winter evenings when it was not raining, I would walk alone along the quiet, narrow London streets, missing the hustle and bustle of Beijing: its broad boulevards, colourful neon lights, endless flows of people and traffic …

Soon we are reminiscing about the beer and lamb skewer nights from our university days – except we are drinking wine this time. The university days were the happiest time of my life. Coming from different parts of China, the four of us – nicknamed the ‘gang of four’ – ventured into the small alleys in central Beijing, discovering the city’s hidden gems and half-buried secrets. We drank beer and ate lamb skewers at a night market off campus. We got so pissed that no taxi driver was willing to take us back to campus. We took turns attending lectures, so the rest of us could sleep in while one person’s lecture notes would ensure that we all passed the exams. It was no coincidence that we all chose to study at the country’s best school of journalism. We were ambitious students, aspiring to use our writing to change society. We often debated about news value and journalistic ethics, concluding that China needed independent, objective and unbiased news reporting, and that the censorship of Chinese media must end, immediately.

After graduation, I left Beijing and moved back to my hometown in North China. I worked as a teacher at a local school for a few years, until I went to England to study for a Master’s and subsequently a PhD. But the other three stayed in the city. Ling is a local, so she doesn’t need to worry about a residence or a residence permit. Her family owns two apartments in the city; as the only child in the family, she legitimately occupied one of them after graduation. As non-locals, Yu and Mei had to pull strings to get a Beijing residence permit and work hard to afford the high rent in the city. But both have secured jobs now and bought their own apartments. As a government employee, Yu has access to affordable public housing allocated to civil servants. Mei has married a rich businessman, and they live in a gated middle-class neighbourhood near the city’s Central Business District. Both Yu and Mei are married and have children, but Ling and I are still single. I’m lucky to have escaped from the marriage-family-children complex because I’m a student living outside China most of the time – 天高皇帝远 (The sky is high and the emperor’s power is out of reach), as an ancient Chinese saying goes. Ling is not that lucky. At the age of 32, she is already seen as a 剩女, or ‘left-over’ woman whose suitability for marriage is seriously called into question by her parents’ nagging and relatives’ gossiping, but she doesn’t seem to care much about them, which is very cool of her.

We treat wine like beer and have several rounds of toast: 干杯 to our reunion, to our university days, to Yu’s upcoming promotion to the head of news and his bright future, to Mei’s perfect marriage and their plan to purchase a holiday home in the countryside, to Ling’s debut novel and her promising career as a bestselling writer. As a poor student struggling to finish a PhD in a foreign country, I’ve got nothing to report. And yet I still get congratulated for potentially producing a pathbreaking PhD thesis and subsequently securing a professorial job at one of the world’s top universities. A beaming smile spreads on every intoxicated face; the topics of our conversation expand as the hot steam rises into the air.

‘What are you working on?’ I ask Ling, a freelance journalist writing for websites and social media, ‘Another Boys’ Love story?’ I was referring to the type of romance and often fantasy stories about beautiful men falling in love with each other, a popular genre among young people in East Asia.

‘Probably not,’ Ling sighs, putting down her chopsticks. ‘The current situation in China is not good for writers like me. Have you heard of the writer who was recently put into prison for selling Boys’ Love stories? I’m lucky because I published my book before the new law came into effect, and also because I’m not as famous as her. But I need to be careful. No more such novels in the future!’

I recognise her reference immediately. It was a scandalous court case from a couple of months ago. The writer was sentenced to ten years in prison for disseminating pornography, and yet all she did was write and sell Boys’ Love stories. After the 2008 Beijing Olympics, the Chinese government has tightened control over media and publications. Homoerotic contents such as Boys’ Love were put under strict scrutiny. This also coincided with a nationwide crackdown on LGBTQ organisations and community events. Shanghai Pride, the biggest public LGBTQ event in China, was forced to close down after ten years of running.

‘Sorry to hear about this,’ Mei says. She is a journalist at 时尚, a fashion and lifestyle magazine generously showering urban residents with juicy gossip about celebrities. ‘My editorial office has rejected all the queer-themed stories submitted to us in the last couple of years. These stories used to be very popular, and our readers loved them. But the topic has become a real taboo these days.’

‘I don’t understand why the government takes such a hard line towards freedom of speech.’ It’s my turn to sigh. ‘What are they paranoid about?’

‘You’ve lived in the West for far too long and you have internalised the bourgeois ideas of individual freedom,’ Yu speaks suddenly, in a rigid tone. Yu is now an editor at 党报, an influential state-owned newspaper, often referred to as the ‘mouthpiece of the Party’. ‘Our country is a socialist country, and our society is based on collectivist values instead of individualist values. Boys’ Love stories are part of popular culture. They serve the interest of the market and commercial publishers. They do harm to young people’s minds.’ He pauses a little and then continues his speech: ‘Just look at how young people and pop stars are dressed and behave today: Men don’t look like men, and women don’t look like women. If this situation continues without check, how can we have a strong nation, and how can our country be respected in the world?’

‘What are you talking about?’ The tomboyish Ling is the first one to respond. ‘You’re talking like a government official. Have you been brainwashed?’

‘I’m saying this not because I work for a state media company,’ Yu says seriously, as if reciting a speech. ‘China’s socialist journalism is different from Western liberal journalism. It should have social responsibility rather than simply cater to the consumer market. Boys’ Love stories are not good for children and young people. They should be banned.’

‘These are very empty and subjective statements. We need a more diverse and objective media environment!’ Mei is quick to respond.

‘Western media claim diversity and objectivity, but they are full of bias and hypocrisy,’ Yu grabs his glass and empties it. ‘Look at how they portray China! What’s so diverse and objective about that?’

‘That’s no justification for censoring news and suppressing freedom of speech,’ Mei retorts. ‘In fact, your newspaper is the biggest liar in China. It conceals social problems and glorifies the government. It has no soul and no integrity, just like you!’

‘At least I don’t get filthy rich by selling sensational stuff and even creating disinformation.’ Yu says sarcastically. ‘Most entertainment news from your magazine is celebrity gossip and rumours, and some come from dodgy sources. Stop your paparazzi from hacking people’s phones and peeping into people’s privacy! What’s ethical about that? If this is what you’ve learned from the West, how on earth do you have the guts to talk about integrity?’

Mei falls silent, so does everyone else. One can hear the hissing of the gas fire and the bubbling of the hot soup. Suddenly I have a familiar and yet strange feeling of déjà vu – 似曾相识 as it is called in Chinese. We had had similar discussions in our university days, and perhaps even on one of those lamb skewer nights. Our journalism training primarily followed the principle of liberal pluralism, often referred to as Western journalism. At that time, Yu was already attracted to the principle of socialist journalism, otherwise called journalism with Chinese characteristics under a strong Party leadership. The three of us would all argue against and laugh at him. Back then we were merely having a theoretical debate. No one took it seriously and it was OK to laugh things off. We were students; all we had was passion and idealism. Ten years on, a professional life working for different types of media has changed our lives and outlook irrevocably. Now we are in different positions of power. Our worldviews carry weight and have real-life consequences. We are like strangers to each other.

‘I’ve got to go. My family’s waiting.’ Mei stands up, collecting her coat and handbag.

‘Please don’t,’ Ling also stands up, putting her hand above Mei’s. ‘He doesn’t mean it.’

Ling turns to Yu and urges him: ‘Say sorry.’

After a few agonising seconds, Yu reluctantly says: ‘Sorry.’

‘Thank you, old classmate,’ Mei says in a sarcastic tone. ‘Shall I feel grateful? You’ve changed so much. I don’t think I know you anymore.’

With these words, Mei walks out of the room.

‘I’ve got to go too. It was nice to see you.’ Ling gives me a quick hug. ‘Take care and enjoy your stay in Beijing! Keep in touch!’ She then walks out of the room without looking at Yu.

There I am, left with Yu, surrounded by the cloudy steam rising from the hotpot, not knowing what to do. Yu collapses in the chair, his head in his hands. ‘I shouldn’t have said it. I couldn’t help it.’

I don’t know if he’s talking to me, or to himself. But he appears so vulnerable at that moment, and that triggers something in me. I lay my arm around his shoulders, his broad, strong shoulders. He doesn’t resist. He’s tall, a big man, and yet he leans his head against my torso, like a child. I can smell the tobacco on his shirt and the alcohol in his breath. I can feel his body temperature.

There’s again the sense of déjà vu. While we were studying together, there was no individual bathroom in the dorm, so we had to go to a public bathhouse. It was much easier to have someone to rub your back with a sponge and then dry it with a towel than doing everything by oneself. In the shower, he touched my body, and I touched his. We could feel each other’s stiffness. In the final year, during the winter break, neither he nor I went back to our parents for Chinese New Year. We stayed in the unheated, ice-cold dorm room. Our bodies kept each other warm. Everyone was busy in the last semester: writing dissertations, doing internships and applying for jobs. I wasn’t sure if Ling and Mei noticed any change, but Yu and I kept our relationship a secret. We acted like two ordinary friends in public. After graduation, we lived in different cities; we exchanged a few emails in a coded language talking about our own lives, until one day Yu told me that he was going to marry a woman. This didn’t surprise me because I knew he would from our past conversations. He was an ambitious person and always wanted to live a normal life and become somebody. He had come from the countryside and, as the only son of the family, all his family’s hope was on him. I congratulated him and wished him happiness. Our life paths diverged, and we hadn’t contacted each other since. I’ve had a few boyfriends, but as my first love, Yu always has a special place in my heart.

I decide to break the silence: ‘I’m staying at a hotel tonight. Do you want to come over?’

Yu looks at me gently, his eyes sparkling and his smile mischievous. That reminds me of the primary aim of my long-distance journey, after all the long queues and endless waiting, all the sleepless nights and drowsy days, all the longings and yearnings. Everything is worth it. I had been looking forward to today’s reunion, not only to rekindle the ‘gang of four’ friendship, but also to see him. Him in particular.

Yu’s smile only lasts a few seconds. It soon freezes and his eyes turn gloomy. ‘You know I’m married. I’ve got a family.’ He says wryly.

‘I do.’

‘I’m trying my best to be a good husband and father. That’s my duty, in the same way I must perform my duty as editor of a state newspaper,’ his voice is dry and his hand is still holding mine. ‘I don’t want to live a life in the dark, like a criminal or a social outcast. I want a normal and respectable life. I don’t have a choice.’

‘Everyone has a choice. I’ve made my choice to leave China.’

‘Because you can.’ He says bitterly. ‘Now you’re free to be openly gay. What benefit does that bring you?’

‘Freedom.’ I say, although I’m not quite sure what it means: free speech? freedom to be myself?

‘What’s good about being free and poor and living on the social margins?’ Yu asks rhetorically.

Suddenly I feel the impulse to defend myself. Yes, I’m poor and don’t have a job, but my life isn’t a failure; all my choices are worth it! ‘I know I can never become head of news at a major newspaper in the UK; I know being Chinese is a hated word in the world at the moment; I know I will always be an outsider, a foreigner, a minority, in the society I live in, but that was my choice.’

I’m surprised by what came out my mouth, my sudden burst of anger. I can see Yu drop his head. He’s still in my arms.

‘Everyone has a choice,’ I repeat to myself. ‘I wish you all the best for your life and career.’

‘The same to you.’

I draw him to me more closely. I can hear his heartbeat.

At the restaurant reception, a young man dressed in a traditional Chinese garment politely informs us that two female guests have already paid the bill for all of us. We walk out of the restaurant. The cold air makes me shiver. The street is still full of cars and people, busy and noisy as ever. At the door, we politely shake hands and bid farewell, like business partners. We then part ways and head towards opposite directions, like strangers who don’t know each other and who will never see each other again.

 

First published in In the Middle: New Writings from the Midlands (Dahlia Press, 2025). Produced by Auka Productions as a play titled HOT POT 火锅 at Lakeside Arts, Nottingham, on 25 June 2026 and Stage@Leeds on 26 June 2026.