纽约时报|ModernLove：我们的爱不可言说

有趣灵魂说

不可言说的感情该如何存续？19岁的埃斯蒂法诺斯在咖啡馆的露台上，亲手结束了那段“不可言说”的爱恋。不是不爱，而是恐惧——恐惧法律、恐惧未来、恐惧那份与信仰和家庭相悖的羞耻。四年后，他回望那个选择，写下这篇椎心泣血的告白：当爱被沉默吞噬，心该如何找回勇敢？本周《纽约时报》Modern Love专栏带来一个关于失去、恐惧与最终自我救赎的故事，它提醒我们，爱本身，从来不是罪过。

译文为原创，仅供个人学习使用

The New York Times | Modern Love

纽约时报 | 摩登情爱

‘Our Kind of Love Is Unspeakable’

'我们的爱不可言说'

He was good. We were good together. But I let fear end it.

他很好。我们在一起也很好。但我却让恐惧终结了这一切。

By Estifanos Mekonnen Adem

Brian Rea

那是十二月一个温暖、阳光明媚的日子。在我居住的埃塞俄比亚亚的斯亚贝巴，十二月的天气常常温暖晴朗，但这一天感觉不同。当你即将伤透某个人的心时，空气会变得沉重，尤其是当那颗心曾违背周遭世界的规则，温柔、全然且勇敢地爱过你。

这件事发生在四年前，当时我19岁。我坐在咖啡馆露台的角落桌子旁，那是我总等他的地方。我想看着他走过来，好为自己多争取几秒钟来呼吸，来做好准备。我就是这样度过人生的——预演每一种可能的情景。这是一种我从未学会关闭的应对机制。

我面前放着一杯素食玛奇朵——照常加了豆奶。我不是素食主义者，但豆奶感觉更清淡。更少负罪感。更小心翼翼。而那天，我需要小心翼翼。

然后，我看到他下了他下班后总是乘坐的那辆公交车。他穿着挺括的白衬衫，塞进裤子里，熨烫平整，就像要去教堂一样。他的整洁总让我自惭形秽。我曾因穿着一件连穿了两天的衬衫拥抱他而感到愧疚。但我爱他这一点。他的井井有条是我所不具备的。干净、安静、恒久不变。那种美好，一旦失去，会让你心痛。

而我知道，几分钟后，我将会成为让那种美好消失的人。

当他向我走来时，我在内心挣扎着。我的心——在我们的文化中被性别化为女性的那颗心——在尖叫。但我的头脑——那个"负责任的男性"——不断占据上风。它们一直处于战争状态，我的心和脑，就像一对婚姻无爱却被迫同住一个屋檐下的夫妻。

他轻轻拍了拍我的肩膀。

我转过身微笑，尽管我的笑容在颤抖。他也笑了，带着他那抹至今仍会出现在我梦中的、令人难以忘怀的善意微笑。我站起来拥抱他。吸入他的气息，我悄悄地将它刻成记忆。以防万一。

他坐下了。女服务员走过来。"只要一瓶水，"他说。

然后开始了。那个尖锐、静止的时刻，你身体的每一块肌肉都试图阻止你的嘴去说它即将要说的话。

"我告诉过你我下周要回家了，"我低声说。"我一直在想我们的事。想接下来会怎样。"

他看着我，笑容消失了。

我咽了口唾沫，说："我觉得我们不应该再继续见面了。"

他什么也没说。他那近乎白种人的皮肤变红了。他喝了口水，慢慢地把瓶子放下。

"为什么？"他说。

我开始阐述那些逻辑。连我自己听来都像是排练过的那种。我说："你知道我短期内几乎不可能回来。大学要读五年。即使毕业后，找工作也不容易——国内危机重重，情况更糟。我看不到我们能有未来。"

我来自埃塞俄比亚西北部，那里的内部冲突使生活动荡不安。如果这是一部战争电影，我会描述我的话语如何像箭一样刺穿他，将他洁白的衬衫染红。但这里没有战场。没有需要击败的敌人。

除了恐惧。

除了我。

"我以为我们彼此相爱，"他低语道。

他的声音击碎了我内心的某种东西。某种我在来之前就已经包扎好的东西。因为我知道这会伤害我们两个。但我也知道，在我的国家，一个男人不能爱另一个男人并自由地生活。我们的这种爱是不可言说的。在有些地方，是会受到惩罚的。依据法律。依据刑法典。尽管无人提及。

尽管如此，我还是撒谎了。我太害怕说出真相。所以我说："我从未爱过。"

那个谎言如同一声尖叫在我内心回荡。我的心——那个我刚压制下去的——对我咆哮。但为时已晚。我已经背离了一切美好。我选择了我被教导的那种"安全"版本。

那晚我们没有接吻。

我们的初吻发生在几个月前，那时我们还相信我们拥有时间。我们曾订过一次房间，向接待员解释说我们外出很晚，累了需要休息。一间双床房。她没有多问。

我们躺在各自的床上，沉默像雾一样弥漫在我们之间。然后我坐起身。我们的目光相遇。他倾身向前。接着，一言不发地，他吻了我。他将他粉色的唇贴在我深色的唇上。我闭上眼睛，所见的全是光。我的身体融化了。我的双手变得柔软。我的心怦怦直跳，试图与他的心对话。他躺在我身上——不重，只是在那里。仿佛我怀抱的只是他的心。

那晚，我第一次吻了一个男人。

他离开房间后，我独自坐在黑暗中，他的唇的味道仍留在我唇上。我想要祈祷，却不知该如何命名我所做的一切。我的基督教信仰从未教过我该如何对待这种感觉如此神圣、却又如此被谴责的爱。

我一夜未眠。我只是躺在那里，手放在胸前，想知道心是否会因过于充盈而碎裂。

我们的故事无关背叛、财富或错失的机会。也无关另一个情人或悲惨的事故。它关乎某种更安静——也更危险的东西。我们在一个我们的爱被视为非法的地方相爱了。

像我们这样的故事寥寥无几。屈指可数，而且即便如此，大多数也以羞耻或沉默告终。我们的故事也几乎如此。

有时我告诉自己，这一切本不该发生。那天给他发信息是命运的捉弄，或是上帝的考验——又或者是魔鬼设的局。也许我们注定无法长久。也许我们注定要受伤。

我们被一切我们无法控制的事物摧毁。我们国家的法律。我们骨子里的恐惧。编织进我们信仰和家庭中的羞耻。

尽管如此，我知道我所感受到的是什么。即使我不能在公园里吻他。或在光天化日下牵他的手。或大声称他为我的。

我爱上了一个像我一样的人。

如今，四年过去了，我仍然会去那家咖啡馆。坐在我结束我们关系的那个相同的位置。我看着陌生人经过——有的在笑，有的沉默，有的牵着手仿佛这是被允许的——我想知道：如果我们在一个更自由的世界相遇，我们能否长久？或者我们依然会因为成为彼此第一个真正的爱而承受不住那份重量而分开？

有时我认为，爱在短暂的时候最为强烈，因为它没有机会腐烂或令人失望。但随后我想起他的声音——沉稳、善良、忠诚——于是我知道：他并非一场转瞬即逝的风暴。他是我当时太害怕停留的一个季节。

在很长一段时间里，我戴着一副面具，它询问我遇到的每一个人：你是那个我吻过的男人吗？那不是字面意义上的面具。它体现在我拿每个男人的善意与他的相比较的方式中。体现在我一察觉到亲近的迹象就退缩的方式中，害怕这一次我可能会爱得更响亮，失去得更惨痛。

但我终于摘下了面具。我现在知道，我永远无法在别人身上找到他。也许我本就不该如此。我不仅仅是在躲避我身边的人。我也一直在躲避我自己。但我在慢慢懂得，爱不只存在于过去，或痛苦之中。它存在于我们重新开始的那些微小方式里。

我祈求的不是一个梦想。我祈求的是一颗心。一颗我曾用来交换恐惧的心。去爱，对任何人来说，都是有风险的。对我来说，尤其如此。甚至书写爱情，对我来说，也是有风险的。但这些是值得承担的风险。我现在23岁了，比19岁时更勇敢。也许，只是也许，如果我在这些小事上勇敢——如果我将勇敢付诸实践——当爱再次敲门时，我就能有足够的勇气去应门。

不是作为那个逃跑的男孩，而是作为那个留下来的男人。因为爱值得比沉默更多。

也许，我也值得。

Estifanos Mekonnen Adem is an aircraft maintenance technician in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.

埃斯蒂法诺斯·梅科宁·阿德姆是埃塞俄比亚亚的斯亚贝巴的一名飞机维修技术员。

It was a warm, sunny day in December. Where I live, in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, it’s often warm and sunny in December, but this day felt different. There’s something heavy in the air when you’re about to break someone’s heart, especially when it’s a heart that loved you gently, fully and bravely, against the rules of the world around you.

This happened four years ago, when I was 19. I sat at a corner table on the cafe balcony, where I always waited for him. I wanted to see him coming to buy myself a few extra seconds to breathe, to prepare. That’s how I survive life, by rehearsing every possible scenario. A coping mechanism I have never learned to turn off.

I had a vegan macchiato in front of me — soy milk, as usual. I’m not vegan, but soy feels lighter. Less guilty. More careful. And I needed to be careful that day.

Then I saw him getting off the bus he always took after work. He wore his crisp white shirt, tucked and ironed, like he was on his way to church. His polish always humbled me. I once felt guilty hugging him in a shirt I had worn for two days straight. But I loved that about him. He was put together in ways I wasn’t. Clean, quiet, constant. That kind of goodness makes you ache once it’s gone.

And I knew, in a few minutes, I would be the one making that goodness disappear.

As he walked toward me, I fought with myself. My heart, the one we gender as female in my culture, screamed. But my mind, the “responsible male,” kept winning. They have always been at war, my heart and brain, like a couple in a loveless marriage forced to stay together under

one roof.

He tapped my shoulder.

I turned and smiled, though my smile trembled. He smiled too, his hauntingly kind smile that still shows up in my dreams. I stood to hug him. Inhaling his scent, I made a quiet memory of it. Just in case.

He sat down. The waitress came. “Just a bottle of water,” he said.

And then it began. That sharp, still moment where every muscle in your body tries to stop your mouth from doing what it’s about to do.

“I told you I’m going back home next week,” I said, my voice low. “And I’ve been thinking about us. About what happens next.”

He looked at me, his smile slipping.

I swallowed and said, “I don’t think we should keep seeing each other.”

He didn’t say anything. His almost-Caucasian skin turned red. He took a sip of water and set the bottle down slowly.

“Why?” he said.

I launched into the logic. The kind that sounded rehearsed even to me. I said, “You know it’s nearly impossible for me to come back soon. University will take five years. Even after that, finding a job won’t be easy — not with the crisis back home. I don’t see how we can have a future.”

I was from northwest Ethiopia, where a civil conflict had destabilized life. If this were a war

movie, I would describe how my words pierced through him like arrows, staining his white shirt red. But there was no battlefield here. No enemy to defeat.

Except fear.

Except me.

“I thought we loved each other,” he whispered.

His voice broke something in me. Something I had already bandaged before I came. Because I knew this would hurt us both. But I also knew that in my country, a man cannot love another

man and live freely. Our kind of love is unspeakable. In some places, punishable. By laws. By a penal code. Though nobody speaks of it.

Still, I lied. I was too afraid to tell the truth. So I said, “I was never in love.”

That lie echoed inside me like a scream. My heart — the same one I had silenced — howled at me. But it was too late. I had turned away from everything good. I had chosen the version of safety I was taught.

We didn’t kiss that night.

That had happened months before, back when we still believed we had time. We had booked a room once, explaining to the receptionist that we had been out late and were tired and needed to rest. A twin bedroom. She didn’t ask questions.

We lay on separate beds, silence between us like fog. Then I sat up. Our eyes met. He leaned

forward. And then, without a word, he kissed me. He laid his pink lips on my dark ones. I closed my eyes, and all I saw was light. My body melted. My hands softened. My heart pounded, trying to speak to his. He lay on top of me — not heavy, just there. Like all I was holding was his heart.

That night, I kissed a man for the first time.

After he left the room, I sat alone in the dark, the taste of his lips still on mine. I wanted to pray but didn’t know how to name what I had done. My Christian faith never taught me what to do with love that felt this holy, yet this condemned.

I didn’t sleep. I just lay there, hand over my chest, wondering if hearts could break from fullness.

Our story wasn’t one of betrayal or riches or lost chances. It wasn’t about another lover or a tragic accident. It was about something quieter — and more dangerous. We had fallen in love in a place where our love was illegal.

There are few stories like ours. You can count them on one hand, and even then, most end in

shame or silence. Ours nearly did too.

Sometimes I tell myself it wasn’t meant to happen. That messaging him that day was a trick of fate or a test from God — or maybe a setup from the devil. Maybe we were never meant to last. Maybe we were just meant to hurt.

We were broken by everything we couldn’t control. The laws of our country. The fear in our

bones. The shame sewn into our faith and families.

Still, I know what I felt. Even if I couldn’t kiss him in the park. Or hold his hand in daylight. Or call him mine out loud.

I loved someone like me.

Now, four years later, I still visit that cafe. I sit in the same seat where I ended us. I watch strangers pass by — some laughing, some silent, some holding hands like it’s allowed — and I wonder: If we had met in a freer world, would we have lasted? Or would we still have broken under the weight of being each other’s first real love?

Sometimes I think love is strongest when it’s brief because it doesn’t get the chance to rot or

disappoint. But then I remember his voice — steady, kind, faithful — and I know: He was not a passing storm. He was a season I was too afraid to stay in.

For a long time, I wore a mask that asked every person I met: Are you the man I kissed? It wasn’t a literal mask. It was in the way I measured every man’s kindness against his. In the way I pulled away at the first sign of closeness, terrified that this time I might love louder and lose harder.

But I have finally taken the mask off. I know now that I will never find him in someone else. And maybe I am never meant to. I don’t just hide from my people. I have hidden from myself too. But I’m learning that love doesn’t only live in the past, or in pain. It lives in the small ways we begin again.

I’m not asking for a dream. I’m asking for a heart. A heart I once traded for fear. Loving, for anyone, is risky. For me, it is especially so. Even writing about love, for me, is risky. But these are risks worth taking. I am now 23, and braver than I was at 19. And maybe, just maybe, if I am brave in these small ways — if I make a practice of bravery — I’ll be brave enough to answer the door when love knocks again.

Not as the boy who ran, but as the man who stayed. Because love deserves more than silence.

And maybe, so do I.