My heart felt strangely empty. Whenever I thought of Tushig, a quiet bitterness lingered. I knew the best way forward was to forget, yet his memory returned whenever I had a moment to spare. So I made a decision—to keep myself busy.
I stopped taking the bus to and from school and began walking instead. Walking, I discovered, revealed an entirely different world. I learned the names of streets and neighborhoods, noticed how young people dressed, and became familiar with the newest songs shaping our generation. Before long, I convinced my girlfriends to join me, and we all started walking together.
Since I lived in the ger district, my journey always began with a downhill walk toward the city center. Then I would meet my friend Zoloo in the 13th microdistrict, pick up Anu near the Wrestling Palace, and Delger would join us by the State Department Store. The four of us would then walk the remaining distance—about two bus stops—to school. After classes, however, we would gradually part ways, each heading home, until I was left alone to walk back up to my neighborhood.
I often found myself envying the couples we passed along the streets. None of us were in relationships at the time, yet being with my friends gave me a comforting sense of companionship.
One afternoon, as we were walking home, a group of boys suddenly came running toward us, hand in hand. Before we could react, they rushed in and hugged us all at once—then just as quickly ran off. We stood there in confusion, then laughed it off and continued on our way.
But soon we realized something was wrong. During that brief moment, they had stolen my friend's phone. Mine was safe only because it wasn't in my pocket. My friends were devastated—some angry, some in tears—as we trudged home in disappointment. It was a harsh lesson: the city streets demanded caution.
Because my younger sibling usually came to pick me up, I often waited at the bus stop. Many young men would linger there, but one in particular always caught my attention—he would stare at me. At first, it frightened me, but over time, I found myself searching for him with my eyes.
One day, my sibling couldn't come, so I had to walk home alone. Nervous but determined, I started up the road. Before long, I noticed a group of boys behind me—and one of them was following closely. I quickened my pace, thinking he might be a drunk or a troublemaker. But when I sped up, he did too; when I slowed down, so did he.
A sudden surge of fear and anger overtook me. I quietly grabbed a long stick from the ground, hid behind a fence corner, and waited. The moment he turned the corner, I swung the stick straight at his face.
"Ah! You've killed me!" he cried out.
Under the dim streetlight, I saw his face—and froze. It was the boy who had been watching me all along.
"Oh! It's you? I'm so sorry!" I stammered.
"Hey! What are you doing?" he groaned.
"I thought someone was following me… I didn't realize it was you. I'm really sorry. Does it hurt?"
"Of course it hurts," he replied, rubbing his face. "But I'm sorry too, if I scared you. I didn't mean to."
That was how we met. His name was Baatar. Since he often saw me coming home in the evenings, he asked, "Can I walk you home?"
I agreed. From that day on, we met every evening, and he would walk me back. As autumn deepened, our meetings became routine. One day, I asked him what kind of relationship we had.
"We're dating, of course," he said casually.
And just like that, without even realizing it, I had entered a relationship with him. Yet, for some reason, my feelings for him were never very strong.
He loved rock music, and his style reflected it completely. Gradually, I began to imitate him—buying black leather clothes, high-heeled boots, even dyeing my hair black. Our first date was playing billiards, then sitting and talking in a park, and later going to a pub for beer. He seemed delighted that I was becoming more like him.
I enjoyed the simple moments—walking hand in hand, laughing, talking. He had a playful personality that often made me smile.
One day, we parted ways on the wide bridge near the 100 Ail district. He was going to meet his friends and party. I carefully crossed the busy road and waved goodbye from the other side.
Just as I was about to leave, he called out, "Come back! I forgot to tell you something!"
Confused, I made my way back across the wide street, dodging cars. When I finally reached him, he puckered his lips playfully and said, "Can you do this?"
My patience snapped.
"Are you serious? I just risked crossing the road for that?" I said angrily.
"Sorry, sorry. Come with me to meet my friends," he suggested.
"No, you go ahead," I replied firmly, and crossed the street again.
He kept calling after me, but I didn't turn back.
After that day, I never saw him again.
Why?
Because he was always partying—always drinking. And I came to understand something important: no matter how hard you try, you cannot force yourself to love someone who may be good to you, but simply isn't right for your heart.