The Fleeting Youth of Those Years

Xiao Niao sat next to our class’s top student, Zhang Kailai. They went to the toilet together every day, and I rarely joined them anymore. Friendship is different from love. No matter how many people stand between friends, the bond remains strong and steadfast-like when you need toilet paper while using the bathroom. Even though the supply is limited, all it takes is a simple request, and a friend would undoubtedly share half without hesitation. But in love, even the tiniest flaw can leave an indelible scar on the hearts of two people.

Bao Le and Liu Yan were still as good as ever. Every night after evening self-study, Bao Le would walk Liu Yan home. Their hands were always so close, their fingertips almost brushing together. Yet, Bao Le and Liu Yan never truly held hands as they walked. Perhaps it was as Bao Le once said: if you lack the courage to hold hands in broad daylight, why hide behind the darkness of night to mask your shyness? If courage is missing now, it might be because the love isn’t ripe enough. If the fruit hasn’t matured yet, why forcefully pluck it? Bao Le rarely spoke so philosophically, but those words truly made sense.

Back then, Bao Le didn’t overtly show his feelings for Liu Yan in front of me, but someone as perceptive as I am could see through it instantly. Every time I brought up Liu Yan in our conversations, his eyes would shift nervously, and his responses would become evasive. Perhaps that early love was like a small wound in everyone’s heart. The more it was mentioned, the more the wound grew, until it eventually became too deep-so deep that it could scar the soul, draining the vibrance of one’s entire youth.

Shortly after the start of our third year of high school, Fan Guang told us he wanted to repeat his second year. Before he left, we all tried to convince him to stay, reasoning that it would be more effective to retake the third year instead. But Fan Guang had already made up his mind. The day after our homeroom teacher, Liu Haijun, smiled and urged Fan Guang to study hard if he returned to the second year, Fan Guang packed up his desk and left our third-year class. He embarked on a unique journey of repetition by rejoining the second year.

It suddenly occurred to me that Ma Guoqing had once mentioned wanting to repeat his second year of high school. But in the end, he never actually went through with it. In contrast, Fan Guang, who had never shown even the slightest hint of this desire, ended up being the one who actually did it. Truly, the skies of youth are filled with endless uncertainties.

We intersected with one another, yet missed each other in passing, like guests at a grand, lavish banquet. We celebrated together, leaving behind reasons for tears when it was time to part. Yes, in that third year of high school, the scent of departure lingered everywhere. Everyone had someone they couldn’t let go of. For many of us, that someone was Wen Youhan. Was this a blessing or a curse? It seemed like a question without an answer, one that we had to explore and understand on our own.

Wen Youhan and I walked together on the playground. The setting sun stretched our shadows long across the ground. Her footsteps always aligned perfectly with mine. When I walked faster, so did she; when I slowed down, so did she. It was such a natural harmony-one might think we were destined to be together. And yet, it seemed that Wen Youhan and I were forever unable to walk shoulder to shoulder.

“What university do you want to go to?” Wen Youhan slowed her steps, gazing at the warm golden light spilling across the horizon. A faint glow reflected off her thick eyeglass lenses, and I suddenly understood that this dim light had somehow illuminated my path forward. The girl standing before me deserved a lifetime of care and protection.

“What about you? What university do you want to go to?” I asked in return, looking down at the black cinder track beneath our feet. The pristine white sneakers Wen Youhan wore had already been stained in spots by the dark gravel. It struck me that no matter how pure something might seem, it could never completely escape blemish in an environment like this. I thought of the line from On the Love of Lotus Flowers: “Emerging from the mud, yet never stained.” Was that just wishful thinking on the part of the ancients? The purer something is, the more pronounced its suffering becomes when tainted by filth.

“Haven’t we talked about this before?” Wen Youhan suddenly turned to look at me, and her face flushed red all the way to her ears. She was adorably shy, like an unexpected cool breeze cutting through the lingering heat of summer, refreshing enough to soothe my restless heart all the way to its core.

“We have, but a question isn’t like a person. It doesn’t die after being asked once-it can always be asked again,” I said with a mischievous grin, rubbing my eyes as I gave this clearly exasperating reply. After rubbing my eyes, I looked at Wen Youhan again, her image even clearer now. She was like a lily, quietly gracing my youth with her delicate fragrance.

“But doesn’t it feel like we’re so immature to not even have dreams of our own?” Wen Youhan had suddenly taken on a slightly more nagging tone, one that was entirely new to me.