“Do you know why people hire someone to build a model?” Gao Hai Ming asked in return.
“Obviously because they can’t do it themselves,” I answered.
“Most of the time, it’s girls who make the request. They buy the model as a gift for a boy they like, then pretend they spent time and effort building it themselves,” he explained.
“And the boys believe them?”
Considering the impeccable quality of his models, it was hard to imagine anyone thinking they were built by amateurs.
“Strangely, they do,” he said. “When the boys receive the model, they’re so moved they don’t scrutinize it. They’re convinced that love drove the girls to achieve something they otherwise couldn’t.”
“Still, why do you take on these projects? Even if you enjoy building models, you don’t have to do it for others,” I pressed.
“So far, I’ve built 33 fighter jets through this shop,” he said proudly.
“And?”
“That means there are 33 places out there where my work resides at this very moment,” he said, his eyes gleaming as if those 33 fighter jets were his children and the unknown places they occupied were their homes.
“You have a strong sense of possession,” I remarked. “It’s like you see yourself as a pilot, occupying 33 locations with your jets, right?”
At least, that’s how I interpreted his mindset.
“I’m not possessive,” he denied.
But I thought he was simply unwilling to admit his desire to impose himself on others’ lives and spaces.
“If it’s not possession, then what is it?” I asked. “Wanting your work to be placed in other people’s homes is no different from a phone designer creating thousands of identical phones for mass distribution.”
“Phones are mass-produced. Every single fighter jet I build is crafted by my own hands,” he said, clearly displeased by my comparison.
“So you admit that building models for others stems from your possessiveness,” I rebutted.
“No. I don’t even know the names or faces of the people who own them, nor where the models are, except for one—” he paused and added, “the one you have.”
“Why is that?”
“As I said, these models are usually bought by girls to gift boys. So of the 33 jets, excluding yours, there are 32 stories of love. While I didn’t create these relationships, the jets I built played a role in moving someone at a key moment,” he said with a dreamy expression.
“That’s even worse—you’re intruding on others’ love stories.”
His face turned red with frustration. “I’m not intruding on anyone’s love!”
“You said those models were gifted by girls to boys, who believed they were handmade by the girls.”
He nodded.
“Then those girls are lying, and you’re helping them lie. Each jet represents a falsehood. The boys will be deceived for life, and the girls will carry guilt. That leaves you as the only winner.”
His face turned even redder.
“But every love story has its lies,” I added, hoping to soften the blow. “Some lies are meant to hurt, but others are meant to bring happiness. The model-gifting lie falls into the latter category—it’s a lie meant to bring joy.”
This seemed to ease his embarrassment slightly, and the flush on his face began to fade.
“Yes, exactly,” he said. “I help girls fulfill their wish to make the boys they love happy.”
I nodded, though I didn’t entirely agree. I still believed he had a strong sense of possession, wanting to occupy space in both homes and hearts. Perhaps he didn’t even realize this himself, romantically believing he was just a small player in other people’s love stories.
Building models was his way of making himself feel more refined, a contrast to the disposable products he managed in his professional life. He probably hadn’t considered that, once the couples broke up, the jets might be forgotten or discarded.
“Why do you only build fighter jets?” I asked.
“Don’t you think fighter jets are the most elegant in design?” he countered.
“People who like fighter jets tend to have stormy hearts,” I teased, pretending to see through him.
“Is that so?” he replied, without agreeing or denying.
“Fighter jets are designed for offense,” I pointed out.
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