You won’t believe this, but a few years ago, I ran into an “old friend” at a Shanghai subway station. Friend might be a stretch—we were just classmates in the same class in the UK when I was 17 or 18, sharing a desk for a couple of years. That fleeting bond from our time abroad somehow became a turning point that reshaped my life. It’s not a long story, but it’s not short either. Whenever I think about it, it feels like one of those rare, serendipitous moments in life.
Back then, if your family had the means, the goal was to send kids to places like the UK, US, or Australia. “Broaden your horizons” or “get a gilded diploma” were the buzzwords. Truth is, most people just went with the flow: if you couldn’t get into a good university at home, study abroad, get a degree, and figure it out later. My family’s business was thriving, and my parents were all about “you were born to see the world.” So, I packed my bags and headed to London.
Honestly, I wasn’t crazy about studying. When I first arrived in London, I couldn’t get used to Western food or the dreary British weather, and I grumbled plenty. I consoled myself with the small comfort of renting a cozy heated apartment. The public school I attended was supposedly prestigious, but who really cared? Most classmates were busy comparing luxury cars and watches behind each other’s backs. The serious students seemed like outliers. I was young and reckless—spending most evenings gaming or grocery shopping with my Chinese classmates. In that environment, who believed humility would get you anywhere?
But people always find a way to surprise you. There was this quiet Scottish girl, Ellie, who sat next to me. No matter how rowdy the party got, she’d be there with her notebook, sketching or writing, her face sometimes wearing this dreamy look, like an angel on an antique vase. I caught her in my peripheral vision a couple of times and, honestly, thought she seemed lonely. Later, I learned her father had passed away, and her mother was supporting the family alone on a tight budget. Sending Ellie abroad was a tough call. Her English was flawless, and she’d occasionally debate teachers in this old-fashioned tone no one could quite follow.
Fast forward two years. One winter, I was homesick and video-chatting with my family during a break. When I hung up, I noticed Ellie still in the classroom. I asked why she hadn’t gone home. “Home’s in North London,” she said. “Public transport’s too expensive, so I wait for the last bus.” She said it casually, but her eyes betrayed exhaustion. Suddenly, I wanted to hug away the loneliness of being far from home. In a foreign land, under the night sky, your heart softens a little.
Truth be told, Ellie and I only really started talking after that. During a school event, our teacher randomly paired us up. Ellie meticulously organized everything, and when it was time to take charge, she shed her quiet demeanor and shone. I realized she was a low-key powerhouse. Afterward, classmates buzzed about her—she aced exams, ranking top three in our grade, yet barely anyone hung out with her outside class. But in the cafeteria, slowly sipping her British porridge, she’d chat with me about home. For the first time, I felt that some people, no matter how reserved, will open up if you just reach out.
Ask anyone who’s studied abroad, and eight out of ten will tell you they’ve felt lonely. But those who overcome it usually meet the right person. For me, Ellie was one of those people. I helped her review literature, and she taught me polite phrases and even gave me a bookmark with a handwritten Shakespeare quote: “All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players.” It wasn’t until later that I realized this line captured the hearts of us wanderers—you walk through life, only to find you’re writing your own script.
But life has its twists. When it was time to apply for college, my family’s business took a nosedive. My dad got burned by a bad debt, and after a tough year, we had to sell our house to settle it. Then my mom fell seriously ill. Studying abroad was already astronomically expensive, and with our finances crumbling, it felt like pouring water into a leaking bucket. I didn’t vent to my classmates, but at night, buried in secondhand blankets, the stress of tuition bills made it feel like the sky was falling.
By chance, I ran into Ellie while working part-time at a supermarket. She was in an apron, pouring milk and wiping sweat with plastic gloves. I was embarrassed, worried she’d notice my struggles. But Ellie just smiled and said, “Want some bread? I’ll share after my shift. No one has it easy abroad.” That bread sparked deeper conversations, and we planned a trip to the National Gallery near our school. As we strolled through London’s gray alleys, she suddenly said she was applying to a prestigious Chinese university to study Eastern literature. “Home is where the heart is,” she said. I only half-understood.
Was she crazy? A British girl fighting to get into a Chinese university? Ellie didn’t share much with others. Her family thought it was reckless for a young woman to move to an unfamiliar country alone. But her mind was made up, and she studied Chinese for two years. We both got accepted to different Chinese universities—me in Guangzhou, her in Beijing. The distance made it hard to meet, except during holidays.
On our first holiday, I showed her Guangzhou’s skyscrapers and traditional arcades. Her eyes lit up eating rice noodle rolls: “Way better than cappuccino!” Sweating in the heat, she insisted on snapping photos by Liwan Lake. That night, I asked if she regretted coming. She shook her head: “I’ve never been treated like this—neighbors bring me porridge, cafeteria aunties help me order, and classmates always invite me to hang out. I never had this warmth at home.” Honestly, hearing that brought tears to my eyes.
Life’s like a tightrope—every choice shapes your path. Ellie and I were worlds apart, but she settled in beautifully. Her classmates took her to hotpot and taught her to make dumplings. On holidays, they studied together in the library. A Shanghai roommate even booked her a haircut, saying she needed a style that suited an “Eastern face.” Soon, Ellie spoke Chinese better than me, with a Shanghai accent that cracked us up. Her family’s initial worries faded as they saw her thriving.
After I graduated, I looked for a good career path, but Ellie beat me to it, staying in Beijing. She started as an editor at a publishing house, then opened a cozy coffee-bookstore. Whenever foreign students visited, she volunteered as a mentor. Last year in Beijing, I saw she’d become a China expert, knowing local stories better than cab drivers. Talk about fate—she truly made a home in a foreign land.
The rest isn’t too dramatic. We stay in touch via WeChat, chatting about life’s little things. Tough days are solved with a home-cooked meal. People see Ellie thriving and ask me, “Why did she stay?” Honestly, I was dragged back home by family circumstances and only later found stability. But Ellie stayed because she found ordinary happiness here—someone checking if she ate, reminding her to stay safe, friends joining her at markets, no cold neighbors or peer exclusion.
Life’s big moments come down to letting go of certain fixations to find true belonging. Ellie’s journey mirrors so many who wander abroad. Who hasn’t felt lonely or wronged? But when someone hands you a bowl of soup or waters your plants, those fallen leaves might just take root. We call ourselves guests in a foreign land, but who can say where home truly is?
The world’s vast, and some cross mountains and oceans to find a reason to settle in a strange city. What’s life’s greatest luck? Maybe it’s when you need warmth the most, and someone quietly pulls you in, saying, “This place is good.”
