The school arts festival was the most important campus event of the first semester. It lasted three days, with regular classes during the day and various small activities scheduled for the first two evenings, culminating in a grand cultural performance on the final night.
The sports field had been requisitioned, with a three-meter-high stage erected near the basketball court. The stage was fully equipped like a grand theater, complete with LCD screens, lighting, and sound systems. The remaining field space served as the audience area, with the front rows reserved for guests and alumni, followed by the third-year students, then first-years, while the second-year students, who bore the main responsibility for the performances, were seated at the back.
This momentous event was like a giant engine, pulling in even those least involved in collective activities, such as Qiao Qingyu. She was assigned a task: writing guest cards. She heard that in previous years these had been printed, so Qiao Qingyu reasonably suspected this was a “perk” that Sun Yinglong had specially arranged for her. Not wanting to disappoint his kindness, she spent two evenings carefully writing the names of over a hundred guests on cardstock with her wolf hair brush.
Among these was “Ming Yu” — to make these two characters look more beautiful, she practiced repeatedly on scratch paper, regretting that she hadn’t practiced soft-brush calligraphy more often. But when she placed this nameplate in the center of the front row of the guest seats, she resigned herself — what was the point of pursuing perfection? After all, the person sitting in that position would never know her.
The atmosphere on campus during arts festival week was vastly different from usual, with excitement, busyness, and order everywhere. Ming Sheng’s participation alone was thrilling, and Su Tian’s loss to Deng Meixi served as spicy gossip that many enjoyed discussing. However, most people’s information was outdated. Qiao Qingyu, being in Ming Sheng’s class, had learned the day after the Su-Mei war that Ming Sheng had also asked the teacher to remove Deng Meixi from the program.
The outcome was as all Class 5 students expected: the teacher agreed and let Ming Sheng change the program content.
This didn’t affect Deng Meixi’s sense of victory at all; after all, in everyone’s eyes, she had still beaten Su Tian. When asked, she explained that since everyone had seen her program many times, and Ming Sheng rarely performed solo, it was more worthwhile for him to showcase his talents on stage. When people asked Ming Sheng what piece he had changed to, he was uncharacteristically secretive.
“You’ll find out that day,” he answered indifferently, appearing unwilling to discuss the matter at all.
That week he took three consecutive days off, saying he was rehearsing off-campus. During rehearsals, when it was his turn, he would just casually play something on the piano. Some people felt displeased by his apparent perfunctoriness, but since the teachers didn’t say anything, neither did they.
It wasn’t until the afternoon of the performance, when two mini-buses drove into campus unloading drum sets, bass, keyboards, and several unfamiliar young people carrying cellos, violins, and guitars, that everyone realized he had planned a grand production, bringing in both the Huanwai School Band and the City Youth Symphony’s small ensemble.
But where was the piano? The piano had been removed. Only when the show officially began and the LCD screen displayed Ming Sheng’s program as a “solo vocal” did the audience burst into excited screams.
His performance was the first after the opening, and he still sang “A Game, A Dream.” Qiao Qingyu sat numbly, letting his controlled, free, rich, and tender voice pierce through the entire field and herself, with no escape—
The arts festival cultural evening was meant to be the final relaxation for the third-year students before the college entrance examination. Afterward, everything returned to its place, the field yielded back to the desolate wind, and the air became permeated with tension.
Because of returning home late during the arts festival, Wang Mumu hadn’t come to Qiao Qingyu’s house, nor did she come the following weekend. After nearly a week without seeing Wang Mumu, nearly a week without properly talking to anyone, a distant familiar sense of loneliness returned, leaving Qiao Qingyu feeling suffocated, as if falling into a vacuum.
The two barely saw each other at school. The third-year students occupied a separate building, facing the first and second-year teaching buildings across the library. Like most third-year students, Wang Mumu rarely came downstairs except for meals, while Qiao Qingyu never stepped past the library.
Qiao Qingyu couldn’t shake the feeling — their friendship was like a private flower, born in that cramped cage of Chaoyang New Village, taking root and blooming in the dim interior, but would quickly wither under the harsh sunlight of school. She had thought about finding Wang Mumu, but remembering her drifting “friendship” with Jiang Nian, she gave up. Sister Mumu doesn’t lack friends at school, she thought.
Wang Mumu didn’t come the second week either. When Li Fanghao asked about it, Qiao Qingyu said she was too busy with studies to make the trip back and forth.
“The final sprint phase is intense,” Li Fanghao nodded in agreement, “Their house has been quiet these days, probably her parents aren’t causing trouble so she can study well.”
Left alone in the cage again, Qiao Qingyu felt lonely. Although Wang Mumu hadn’t come, and Li Fanghao no longer locked her in the back room, the increased freedom only intensified the emptiness in her heart. Perhaps this was the gap Wang Mumu had spoken of earlier — heaven giving you beauty only to take it away was the cruelest thing.
You have to learn to accept it, Qiao Qingyu told herself. She had a hundred reasons to excuse Wang Mumu, but dared not touch one thing: that Ming Sheng had sung “A Game, A Dream” again — even someone as slow as she had completely received the heartbreak and deep emotion in Ming Sheng’s singing—
On Friday, in light rain, Wang Mumu came. She arrived very late, nearly ten o’clock, when Li Fanghao, Qiao Lusheng, and Qiao Jinyu were all home.
“Can I sleep here tonight?” she asked Qiao Qingyu quietly as soon as she entered.
Li Fanghao looked suspicious but agreed, and Qiao Qingyu breathed a sigh of relief. The two crawled into bed, with Qiao Qingyu against the wall. The bed was small, and Wang Mumu pressed close to her. They were the first to go to bed, but as if by agreement, they didn’t start talking until they heard all the outside lights go out and Qiao Jinyu’s faint snoring through the wall.
“I haven’t been able to sleep for a long time,” Wang Mumu said, lying on her side facing away from her.
“Do your parents’ arguments affect your sleep?”
“It’s not their problem, they’re trying their best,” Wang Mumu’s voice was hoarse and weak, “These past few days I’ve only been able to sleep by secretly taking my mom’s sleeping pills. Today I don’t want to take them anymore. I’m afraid sleeping pills will harm my brain and affect the college entrance exam.”
“Mm.”
Wang Mumu shifted, lying flat on her back.
“I’ve wanted to die, more than once,” she stared at the ceiling, her tone very calm, “Tonight I was planning to try.”
Qiao Qingyu drew in a quiet breath.
“Why do people have so many desires,” Wang Mumu continued, “Where do human desires come from? Is living meant to experience beauty? Heaven first gave me everything, then took it away piece by piece, is it telling me that my fate should stop here, that only suffering remains? Then what’s the point of living?”
“No,” Qiao Qingyu shook her head, “Sister Mumu, just get through the college entrance exam.”
“What’s lost is lost, it won’t come back even after the exam,” Wang Mumu said, “It will never come back. I’m already too tired.”
“Money can be earned, father’s illness can be treated, clothes and houses can be bought,” Qiao Qingyu said, “Life is long, there’s plenty of time to find beauty again.”
“That’s just a lifetime of toil,” Wang Mumu shook her head, “The body toils for a stable life, the heart toils for desired intimacy, there’s never an easy day.”
The words “desired intimacy” struck a nerve in Qiao Qingyu, and she responded, “That’s not true.”
“I don’t know what the meaning of living is,” Wang Mumu continued, “Now it’s the college entrance exam, and then what? I have no dreams. Dreams look forward, but I just want to go back to my childhood… it’s impossible, time can’t flow backward.”
Under the covers, Qiao Qingyu’s hand searched for and found Wang Mumu’s.
“I envy your resilient life force,” Wang Mumu turned her face toward Qiao Qingyu, “You can both endure everything and risk everything. You have light in your heart, so you’re not afraid of darkness.”
Qiao Qingyu also turned to look at Wang Mumu.
“My light was almost extinguished, but fortunately I had you,” after a while, she spoke, “Sister Mumu, you saved me.”
Wang Mumu gave a bitter smile: “That’s everyone’s evaluation of me, warm, kind, like a spring breeze, thoughtful…”
“You don’t like that?”
“I can’t say whether I like it or not,” Wang Mumu sighed, “I have no sense of self, I’m influenced by too many people, I can’t even figure out what I truly think.”
Qiao Jinyu’s snoring grew louder, and the two paused their conversation. After a while, Qiao Qingyu tentatively spoke: “Sister Mumu, do you want to go see Teacher Le Fan?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t we agree,” her voice carried a smile, “to go together after my college entrance exam?”
“But…”
“I feel much better after talking with you, don’t worry, let’s sleep.”
Qiao Qingyu wasn’t reassured at all. After several deep conversations, she had become familiar with Wang Mumu’s ultimately cloudless smile. That smile used to convince her, but now it only made her more worried. She wasn’t sure if it was because she and Wang Mumu weren’t close enough to share everything, or if perhaps Wang Mumu, despite seeming more optimistic and upbeat, was better at hiding herself. She thought of the scars on Wang Mumu’s arms. From self-harm to suicide was a terrifying leap. What had happened in between?
Qiao Qingyu often recalled her conversations with Wang Mumu, pondering her whispered questions in the dark. Where do human desires come from, is living meant to experience beauty? In the library, she became lost in these questions, blaming her stupidity for not being able to provide answers that could comfort Wang Mumu. Amid the chaos of her thoughts, she wrote a small article that seemed incoherent to her. The article was titled “To All That Is Not Beautiful,” and she anonymously submitted it to the school newspaper after printing it in the library.
Two days later, when the school paper was published, her article appeared prominently on the front page.
That day happened to be the graduation ceremony and college entrance exam mobilization for the third-year students. During the break, crowds of third-year students passed through the teaching building. Qiao Qingyu watched from the corridor, trying to spot Wang Mumu, but to no avail. When entering the classroom through the back door, she noticed Ming Sheng standing by the blackboard at the back wall, his gaze fixed on the newly posted school newspaper’s front page.
A flash of wild joy passed through her heart, followed by relief that she had remained anonymous. One moment she hoped Ming Sheng would realize she had written it, the next she hoped he wouldn’t, because the article wasn’t exactly uplifting content. She had merely tried to stand in Wang Mumu’s position, feel her powerlessness, and write down the confusion, the seemingly deep and laughable mumblings that couldn’t be spoken aloud. She feared Ming Sheng would misunderstand, thinking she was such a pessimistic, world-weary person.
Before leaving school, Qiao Qingyu glanced at the back wall blackboard again and discovered that below her article was a message from Le Fan, the psychology teacher.
That weekend, like the previous days, Wang Mumu didn’t come to Qiao Qingyu’s house. No matter how frequently Qiao Qingyu looked toward the apartment diagonal from hers, she saw no trace of her. She had hidden herself away. With less than two weeks until the college entrance exam, Qiao Qingyu’s heart was suspended in deep unease—
The last two days of May fell on a weekend, with fierce sunlight outside; summer had arrived impatiently. After her afternoon nap, Qiao Qingyu changed into short sleeves. She was alone at home as usual, but today was different—Li Fanghao was watching Qiao Jinyu’s competition at the sports school that afternoon and couldn’t come back to check on her. So, in the quiet, cramped cage, Qiao Qingyu opened the long dusty computer.
The idea of watching movies on the computer while Li Fanghao was away had lingered in her mind for a long time—the viewing area next to the reading room had several rows of borrowable discs. The disc she inserted into the machine had caught her eye immediately during casual browsing: a classic documentary called “Winged Migration.”
She was captivated as soon as the image appeared—a full, cold moon.
In the vast snow, inside a dilapidated wooden cabin, there was a joyful, lively little being. Deep blue-green wings, snow-white belly, a bright splash of orange under its neck, pure black eyes bright as stars. Soon, this little bird poked its head out, hopped through a crack into the snow, and flew away from the pitch-black cabin.
Qiao Qingyu didn’t know when her tears had started falling. For an hour and a half, tears repeatedly washed her face. Arctic terns, bar-headed geese, swans, red-crowned cranes… they spread their wings, gliding over wheat fields and oceans, flying past the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty. The camera followed the up-and-down motion of wings, and Qiao Qingyu, in front of the screen, felt herself transform into a bird. Finally, in the desolate yet enchanting male voice of the ending song, she held her soul that had been shaken to the heavens, unable to come back to herself for a long time.
Being so easily moved to such self-forgetful emotion, something must have gone wrong.
Qiao Qingyu felt the urge to write again, all words she wanted to say to Wang Mumu. Look, birds are so free, yet they don’t linger for beauty. Look, Arctic terns must leave their homeland shortly after birth, flying to the Antarctic, their entire lives spent wandering between Earth’s coldest poles. Look, the snowy mountains where the bar-headed geese rest are so crystalline and serene, but avalanches strike in the next second, yet the geese simply flap their wings and leave, without lingering, without looking back. Look, flying itself is the most beautiful thing, the existence of life itself is the most beautiful thing.
She didn’t turn off the computer, opening a document and typing out her thoughts in one go. Li Fanghao entered two minutes after she shut down the computer, bringing her dinner. After Li Fanghao left, the door sounded again, and unexpectedly, it was Wang Mumu, whom she hadn’t seen in days.
“I waited until I saw your mom leave before coming,” Wang Mumu winked at her familiarly, as if they had just seen each other yesterday, “So she wouldn’t see me and start talking about the college entrance exam, that would be troublesome.”
But Qiao Qingyu cried. Unlike her restrained tears while watching the documentary, this time she cried loudly, crying while tightly hugging Wang Mumu’s shoulders.
“What’s wrong, what’s wrong,” Wang Mumu gently patted her back, “You missed me, right…”
They went into the inner room and sat on the narrow bed. Qiao Qingyu had stopped crying, holding Wang Mumu’s hand, quietly listening to her complain about her mother.
“Every time my dad hits her, she says she doesn’t want to live anymore, I really can’t take it,” she said, “Every day she tells me how hard life is at home, how difficult it is to support my university education, how she’s the only one earning money. Then she says that by the time I can earn my own money, my dad will probably be dead, and she’ll be alone with no meaning in life, so she might as well die too… I used to think my mom really had it too hard, and whenever I felt annoyed with her, I would actively suppress those thoughts, feeling I was too heartless… but now with the college entrance exam so close and she’s still nagging about these things every day, I’m fed up.”
“Mm.”
“She sleeps with me every night, and I take her sleeping pills from her bottle every night, she hasn’t even noticed.”
Wang Mumu looked up with a bitter smile, and Qiao Qingyu tightened her grip on her hand.
“You know, I went to see a psychologist,” Wang Mumu lowered her head again, “Sorry I didn’t tell you beforehand.”
“It’s okay,” Qiao Qingyu shook her head frantically, “It’s fine.”
“Not Teacher Le Fan,” Wang Mumu raised her head, hesitation and unease in her eyes, “Another psychologist.”
Qiao Qingyu nodded firmly: “Mm.”
“A Sheng introduced me,” Wang Mumu continued, “The psychologist’s surname is Lin, has their studio, an old friend of A Sheng’s family.”
“Mm.”
“You’re not angry, are you?”
“No.”
Wang Mumu opened her mouth, hesitating. Afraid she might feel burdened, Qiao Qingyu gripped both her hands and said “No” again.
“A Sheng called me first,” Wang Mumu gazed at Qiao Qingyu, “He said their family has a friend who’s a psychologist, who especially enjoys listening to teenagers’ troubles. He gave me a number, saying even if you can’t go out, you can call, and staying anonymous is welcome too.”
Qiao Qingyu’s breathing tightened.
“He asked me to give you the phone number,” Wang Mumu continued, “I promised him I would get you to call, because…”
Qiao Qingyu looked up.
“I don’t want him to worry about you.”