The Fleeting Youth of Those Years

“My desk is missing; I want to go back to the dormitory.” Wen Youhan ran her hand through her bangs and used her palm as a fan to cool down, but the beads of sweat on her nose still sparkled like tiny pearls-more beautiful and captivating than any gemstone.

“Oh, but what will you do if the homeroom teacher shows up?” I asked, a bit worried.

“What am I supposed to do without a desk?” Wen Youhan replied with a trace of annoyance.

During this summer vacation, because of some exams, our desks had been used. It’s likely that students from the class next door, whose desks were in poor condition, had swapped them without permission. In our class, the number of desks hadn’t decreased, but Wen Youhan’s desk was gone. The only one left was an old, battered desk covered in dried nasal mucus-it was undoubtedly a boy’s desk.

“How about grabbing a good desk from the classroom next door?” I scratched my head as a somewhat devious yet brilliant idea popped into my mind.

Wen Youhan sighed. “No, swapping someone else’s desk wouldn’t be right. If we take theirs, then it wouldn’t be theirs anymore, and they wouldn’t be happy about getting stuck with this broken one.”

She shook her head and rejected the idea, but I could tell it wasn’t because she didn’t want her desk back. She was putting pressure on the homeroom teacher by skipping class, hoping the teacher would arrange for her desk to be returned. But would the homeroom teacher actually do that? I thought about Liu Haijun’s serious face and couldn’t find the answer in my heart.

Wen Youhan returned to the dormitory, but I realized she wasn’t as fragile as she seemed on the surface. She had her own thoughts, and she was kinder than most people. She expressed her dissatisfaction only through silence, and in my usual carelessness, I hadn’t noticed much before.

During the evening self-study, the sky finally darkened. It was the first evening self-study session of the semester, and classes were set to officially begin tomorrow. The homeroom teacher didn’t need to push the door open to enter because the oppressive heat meant that we had left the door wide open.

Liu Haijun stood at the podium, counting the students in the room. Then he asked, “Wen Youhan isn’t back yet?”

“She’s back; she’s in the dormitory,” Xiao Mi replied, pausing her pen and looking up at him.

“What’s wrong with her? Why isn’t she here for class?” Liu Haijun’s voice was as emotionless as ever.

“Her desk is missing,” Xiao Mi answered, not lowering her volume despite his displeased tone.

“Tell her to come back immediately for self-study! Is losing a desk an excuse to skip class?” Liu Haijun said, his anger clearly rising.

Xiao Mi stood up and walked out of the classroom. About ten minutes later, Wen Youhan followed behind her and returned to the classroom. With her body hidden behind Xiao Mi, it was almost impossible to notice Wen Youhan if you were looking from the front.

“If you don’t have a desk, you’re not going to attend class? Whose desk is that one in the back, up against the wall?” Liu Haijun asked, pointing to the desk in question.

“I don’t know. It’s not mine anyway,” Wen Youhan replied with noticeable defiance. It was the first time I’d ever seen her dare to talk back to the homeroom teacher like that.

“A desk is a desk. Does it have to be your old one? You’re in your third year of high school now-time is precious. Shouldn’t studying be your top priority? How can you not understand something so simple?” Liu Haijun scolded sharply, his head tilted as if he’d swallowed explosives, ready to detonate at any moment.

However, Wen Youhan didn’t seem the least bit afraid. She simply walked to the back, took out a tissue, and began wiping down the surface of the dusty desk and chair. When she was done, she sat down quietly.

I never expected that by sitting at the back of the classroom, Wen Youhan would unknowingly alter the course of her own life. That year, the girl who had always been a diligent student sitting in the front rows was now relegated to the back of the classroom, where she entered an environment she’d never experienced before. For over six months, this short, fragile girl with over 300 degrees of nearsightedness sat among the academically struggling students in the farthest corner of the classroom. I couldn’t help but think that this change must have contributed to her less-than-ideal performance during the National College Entrance Examination.

After the first evening self-study session ended, Wen Youhan walked to the front and moved her backpack to the back of the classroom. I stood up and went over to her desk. Scratching my head awkwardly, I finally mustered the courage to say, “Why don’t we switch desks? Mine isn’t exactly brand new, but it’s definitely a lot cleaner than this one.”

“Thank you, but it’s really okay,” Wen Youhan replied, forcing a faint smile in an attempt to decline my offer, though her expression betrayed a deeper pain.

In that moment, I realized just how much her suffering affected me. The heartache I felt for her was sharp and overwhelming, like being cut by a blade. I had to consciously remind myself to breathe, as if I couldn’t complete a full breath without extra effort.

Wen Youhan-this girl so pure and delicate she seemed almost translucent-also had her moments of rebellion during the tumultuous years of youth. Through her silence, she wanted to fight back, to reclaim her dignity. But when faced with the harsh reality of life, her quiet resistance appeared powerless. The strength of character she longed for was only just beginning to form, but it collapsed in its infancy, never making it out of the cradle.