The days of winter break ended quickly. As spring arrived, warm air rushed eagerly into every corner of this city. Starting from that New Year’s message, Liu Sijia and Lin Weixia began reaching out to each other more again — though of course, neither of them ever mentioned Ban Sheng’s name.

That boy, lodged between them like a splinter, had become something like a forbidden subject.

If it surfaced, the ice that had been carefully pieced back together would shatter all over again.

After more than a semester at Shengao, Lin Weixia could say she had genuinely settled into life here. The wall between Shengao’s A-tier and F-tier students still stood — they barely crossed paths, like two separate teams. The hidden hierarchy inside Shengao was like a layer of mist — always there, a substance of some kind, neither visible nor tangible.

Nanjiang’s climate ran predominantly warm, a near-perpetual summer all year round. It was only the beginning of April, yet the heat was already unbearable, and the cicadas of Shengao sang louder with each passing day.

Everyone quickly switched into their summer uniforms. For the boys, it was simple — a white button-down and long trousers. The girls wore the uniform sailor-style navy-and-white — a sea of fresh, vibrant youth.

On Friday, Shuiwei Lane was as impossibly noisy as always. Lin Weixia and her family sat around the dinner table while the sounds of arguing and braking from outside filtered in. Her aunt got up, walked to the window, and snapped it shut with a bang.

The room was finally quieter. Her aunt returned to the table and, of her own accord, ladled a bowl of loofah soup for Lin Weixia, then looked at her: “Weixia, your father came to me asking for you back. He’s out now. Says he wants you to go home.”

Lin Weixia kept her head low, slowly chewing a piece of green bean, and said nothing. Her aunt glanced at her and continued, carefully choosing her words: “We’ll always take care of you. But you are his daughter — I don’t have the right to keep you, as your aunt.”

Lin Weixia had grown up in a single-parent household. Her father was an alcoholic who, whenever he drank, would get himself into all manner of shady dealings, and never cared whether his child lived or died. He had repeatedly gotten himself arrested for the same old offenses, and her aunt — seeing how pitiful Lin Weixia was — had taken her in. Lin Weixia had been with her aunt since she was ten years old, and now seven years had passed.

Her father had ignored his daughter all this time, yet now that she had grown up, he was coming to claim her back.

Lin Weixia set down her chopsticks and went to her room. A moment later, she came out gripping a thick stack of bills — a total of five thousand yuan — and handed it all to her aunt.

Her aunt stood up and pushed her hands back, her expression shifting: “What are you doing, child?”

“Aunt, this is money I’ve saved up over time. I don’t have much use for it myself — please take it to help with the household.” Lin Weixia’s tone was gentle as she pressed the money back into her hands.

Her aunt pushed it away a few more times before finally accepting it, her voice warm with poorly concealed delight: “I’ll hold onto it for you for now then. As for your father — I’ll handle it. Come eat.”

“Okay.”

Lin Weixia thought that would be the end of it. But things were never quite as simple as she believed. That weekend, as usual, Lin Weixia was helping at her aunt’s fruit shop.

When there were no customers, she sat there reading.

Her snow-white elbow propped on the edge of the book, Lin Weixia sat with her chin in her hand, reading a novel by Raymond Chandler called The Long Goodbye. The phone lying beside her buzzed with an incoming call.

She glanced at it — an unfamiliar number.

She picked up her phone, walked out to the tree outside the fruit shop, hesitated for a moment, then pressed accept. She said a soft “Hello.”

The moment the other party heard her voice, they began to curse.

It was her father.

He cursed with remarkable ugliness. His drunken voice was energetic and full of fervor, as though he could swallow her whole. A torrent of vile language came through the broken static of the line — “born of a whore,” “you treacherous little commodity.”

Lin Weixia remained in exactly the same position, unmoving, letting it wash over her. The expression on her face was blank. Her gaze drifted vacantly to the distance.

Then, without warning, an arm reached in and simply grabbed Lin Weixia’s phone away. Her father was still raging on the other end. The call was ended outright, and the number was dragged straight into the blocked list.

Lin Weixia looked up at the person who had appeared beside her. Ban Sheng, carrying himself with that effortless, unruly air and the height advantage to match, loomed in front of her. The pink wrist wrap was still on his wrist.

He had just washed his hair — thin strands of dark hair at his brow were still dripping.

“If you don’t want to listen, hang up. What’s the point of standing there taking it,” Ban Sheng said, his gaze sliding over her.

Lin Weixia took her phone back and looked at him: “What are you doing here?”

“Taking you somewhere fun,” Ban Sheng said slowly, both hands in his pockets.

Normally, Lin Weixia would have turned Ban Sheng down. But she didn’t know whether it was because the sun was too strong today, or because that phone call had left her feeling heavy and low.

What she knew was: she desperately needed to get out and breathe. She needed someone to let her go blank for a while, to briefly escape.

And then Ban Sheng appeared.

Lin Weixia hesitated a moment, then nodded: “Wait for me — I need to go in and let my aunt know.”

Lin Weixia came back out in no time. Ban Sheng led her out of Shuiwei Lane and onto a wider road. He fished his phone out of his trouser pocket, opened a messaging app, and sent a voice message, brief as it could be:

[Get out here.]

Less than three minutes later, a black sports car pulled up in front of them with a sliding, almost sideways stop. The window rolled down. Li Yiran had one hand draped over the steering wheel. He caught sight of Lin Weixia and immediately exchanged a look with Ban Sheng, the expression in his eyes saying, you actually got her out, nice.

Cheng Wusuan was in the passenger seat. She curved her lips in a friendly greeting. The car locks clicked open automatically. Lin Weixia shifted her weight forward, but didn’t get in.

Wusuan caught her hesitation and kindly explained: “Li Yiran is of legal age. He just got his license two months ago.”

“That’s not it,” Lin Weixia shook her head. She looked at Li Yiran in the driver’s seat — the one who looked on the verge of nodding off — and asked, “Have you been drinking?”

“……” Li Yiran.

Ban Sheng’s lips curved upward in a smile he couldn’t suppress — the more he tried to hold it back, the more it threatened to break free — until finally he burst out laughing. He leaned against the car door, his solid arm propping him up, the veins at his wrist standing out clearly. His whole chest shook with the laughter.

In the end both of them got in. Li Yiran drove steadily. The car interior had electronic music playing, and they drove north at speed. Along the way, the others chatted and discussed things between themselves, and Lin Weixia didn’t join in.

She didn’t talk much, sitting there quietly, lost in her own thoughts. It had always been this way.

Lin Weixia and Liu Sijia had met during one summer. They’d come to know each other at a time when both were at their worst, each witnessing the other at their most desolate and humiliated.

Liu Sijia always said that that summer, Lin Weixia had helped her enormously and that it meant everything to her. But Liu Sijia had meant no less to Lin Weixia. That summer, she had been working part-time at a café arranged through an acquaintance of a relative, and Liu Sijia used to come in often. By then the two of them already knew each other through various circumstances.

Every time a typhoon came, Lin Weixia would prepare an umbrella for her, or brew a cup of hot latte the way she liked it.

In the week after the typhoon passed, Lin Weixia hadn’t been herself at work. The reason was that her father had been privately harassing her, approaching her multiple times asking for money. When she refused, it only ever brought a doubling of the abuse.

On Friday, Lin Weixia was on closing duty, tidying up the café by herself, the last to leave. She had barely stepped out of the café when she ran into her father — drunk, holding a bottle of liquor. He grinned at her: “Hey, sweetheart — spare your old dad some cash, would you?”

Then he came straight at her and started patting her down, searching her on the spot. On any other day, Lin Weixia would have let it go. But too much had happened lately. Her mood had been low, and she had reached her limit. In a burst of pushing and shoving, Lin Weixia turned and fixed him with a cold stare:

“Get lost.”

Her father stumbled and nearly fell. The smile vanished from his face. He grabbed the bottle and smashed it open, then charged straight at her: “You ungrateful little — who do you think gave you a face to show the world?!”

The shards of the bottle were almost upon Lin Weixia when a figure appeared from nowhere and delivered a swift kick from behind, sending her father stumbling to the ground.

Her father’s expression went dark as he picked himself up from the ground. He grabbed a shard of the bottle and made to hurl it at Liu Sijia. Lin Weixia — who was always composed — broke into panic. She rushed over and grabbed Liu Sijia’s hand and ran.

The wind sent both their long hair flying.

In the struggle, a jagged shard of green glass sliced across both girls’ tightly clasped hands.

Before long, a police siren wailed and a car pulled up. Her father shot Liu Sijia a vicious glare, then fled. Fortunately, the police caught him that night.

Both girls were left with a scar on their palms. Liu Sijia’s cut had been deeper, and the scar still remained to this day — no one knew how long it would take to fade. Lin Weixia’s had been shallower, and the scar had gradually disappeared.

Liu Sijia, who cared so much about her looks, had come away with a scar because of her. If Liu Sijia hadn’t stepped in, Lin Weixia didn’t know what might have happened that night.

Though Liu Sijia had said many times that she didn’t mind, and even joked that the scars on their palms, connected, were like a thread of friendship.

But Lin Weixia would always owe her.

After about half an hour of driving, the car came down from the highway, spiraling off the ramp. The scenery outside the window shifted from dense high-rises to green mountains and trees. The air grew fresh and clean, and the further they drove, the heavier the damp, salty smell of the ocean became.

They were heading to the sea.

When the car pulled up near the water, Lin Weixia realized they had arrived at Moon Coast — the most romantic stretch of sea in Nanjiang. A wide expanse of vivid red roses had been planted along the shore at Moon Coast, with Shimeng Mountain embracing it on either side. The water here was exceptionally clear — so clear that at night, the moonlight shimmered across its surface like transparent crystal, and so the name Moon Coast had come to be.

Because it was off the beaten path and still largely undeveloped, Moon Coast normally saw few visitors. But when Lin Weixia got out of the car, she found an unusually large crowd today.

“Weixia, spray some sunscreen — it’s almost evening, but the sun is still strong.” Wusuan held out a can of sunscreen spray.

Not far ahead, the sounds of a sound check and DJ mixing drifted over. Lin Weixia turned her head toward the sound and instinctively narrowed her amber eyes.

In the distance, a stage had been set up. A blue sign stood at the highest point of the stage, with a whale-fall design as the backdrop, bearing seven large characters: “Whale Crashing Into the Sea Music Festival.” On either side of the stage, dry ice billowed steadily outward, and electronic music pumped from the sound equipment, blasting their ears.

Five meters away, a roll-up banner indicated that this was a music festival jointly organized by several universities, with the entry rules and notices listed below.

“A music festival?” Lin Weixia’s eyes opened a little wider.

As she spoke, a staff member came jogging over from just ahead and handed four tickets to Ban Sheng — clearly a university student, and the two of them looked quite familiar with each other.

The staff member mentioned that if it was inconvenient, he could take them in through the backstage entrance.

Ban Sheng let out a short laugh, clapped the guy on the shoulder, and said: “Jian-ge, am I that precious?”

Jian-ge gave a nod, expression quite earnest: “Can’t say about precious — but I know you’re the hardest damn person to get to show up for anything.”

The group exchanged greetings and then joined the queue to enter, going through the ticket check and security one by one. Once they were through, they each had a green wristband with the music festival logo placed on their wrists.

Once inside, the space opened up wide. The outdoor venue was packed, body against body. Some people had bought inflatable cushions and were sitting there playing cards; others were carrying poles with flags that marched past them. The flags read things like “Come on, dance — why are you just standing there like you’re serving detention” and “See a live show, be happy as a god.”

With so many people, jostling was inevitable. Ban Sheng loosely draped an arm around Lin Weixia’s shoulder and steadily kept her sheltered against him the whole time, guiding her to the pro section.

The bands on stage were mostly young university students, mainly covering songs or performing their own original work. The show had already been going on for some time, and cheers and screams would periodically erupt from the crowd.

At first, Lin Weixia was a little stiff. But the joy of the audience around her was infectious, and before long she was swaying her arms along with everyone else. The corners of her mouth curved upward without her realizing it, and the heaviness that had been pressing on her lifted entirely.

Lin Weixia threw herself into listening, so absorbed that she didn’t even notice when Ban Sheng had slipped away. She stood on her tiptoes in the crowd, scanning and turning in every direction, unable to find him. She started to worry that he’d been swept away by the crowd, and a small thread of panic tugged at her.

Fortunately, she spotted Wusuan being pushed not far off. Lin Weixia forced her way over to her through the crowd, a rare urgency showing on her usually unruffled face:

“Wusuan, have you seen Ban Sheng? He seems to have disappeared.”

Cheng Wusuan swept a hand across the long curls sticking to her neck, and was just about to reply when a roar of cheering broke out ahead of them. She raised her chin in the direction of the stage: “Look.”

Lin Weixia looked where she was pointing. At some point, Ban Sheng had appeared on stage, positioned at the keyboard and main vocalist spot. Jian-ge, the staff member from earlier, had become the guitarist, and Li Yiran sat there holding an accordion, expression languid — the portrait of someone who had been dragged here under protest and reserved the right to coast through it.

“The band’s lead vocalist got sick last minute. Just filling in,” Ban Sheng said into the mic, pulling it toward him in one easy motion. Words as economical as ever.

And yet that unruly, nonchalant swagger was enough to send a wave of screaming from the girls below: “The vocalist is so gorgeous!”

Ban Sheng’s expression barely moved. He exchanged a glance with the crew member off to the side, and then Jian-ge strummed two notes on the guitar, and the music began to take on a steady rhythm.

A beautiful voice rang out:

Every minute I long to see her again Silently waiting, and never a complaint Every minute I hunger to be by her side A chance meeting on the road — joy for days on end

Ban Sheng’s Cantonese had a distinctive quality to it — a flavor all its own — and his voice was like fresh-squeezed citrus, every word moving, laced with a cool detachment that was entirely his. He sang and pressed the black and white keys with his long, slender fingers, the whole time with that air of effortless composure.

“Oh my god, the vocalist is seriously so magnetic.”

“I’ve never seen him around before. This Nanjiang University band is something else — absolutely mesmerizing. I kind of want to see him with his shirt off.”

“Girl, get your pants back on. Or go find a chicken coop to lock yourself in.”

The venue was electric, fans jumping and singing along. When the song reached its peak, dry ice surged out from both sides of the stage. Ban Sheng’s voice drove the atmosphere to a fever pitch. His head was bowed as he played the keys; the pink wrist wrap on his left hand swayed with the music. Then he suddenly looked up, lifted his eyelids, and cast his gaze down into the crowd.

Those pitch-dark eyes located Lin Weixia in the mass of people almost instantly. The corners of his lips curved into a slow, unhurried smile, and looking straight at her, he sang:

Today I first realized That across the distance I might glimpse her That joy — so startlingly new I lay awake the whole night through

“Wait — am I seeing things? Is he smiling?”

“Who’s he looking at? That main vocalist is unreal — I need to go wait by the backstage exit for his WeChat after this.”

On the stage, Ban Sheng sang. Behind him, the large screen cut through clips of the song’s MV. Lin Weixia stood below in the audience — the salt-tinged sea breeze, the sun sinking at the horizon, the screaming all around her, the coconut palms lining the coast.

She felt as though she had gone numb to all of it.

She knew that the temperature in her ears was rising. Her heart was running an electric current through it, accelerating. Lin Weixia told herself: her ears were hot because the sun was burning down on them. Her heart was racing because the music at the venue was so loud it had shocked her system.

Not because of the boy on that stage — who looked so nonchalant and indifferent, yet was watching her and singing with absolute sincerity.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone set off cold-light fireworks. At the same moment, that beautiful voice came to her, looking only at her:

Love without experience Her shadow appears in my heart Why should I wish to see her just once? A beautiful impression — like a first love

Every minute I long to see her again Silently waiting, and never a complaint

Boom — white-day fireworks ignited. Lin Weixia, jostled to the edge of the crowd, looked at the stage. On the big screen, the jumping characters suddenly shifted to a slanted English typeface:

This is my world, xia.

At the same time, Ban Sheng’s low, final line landed in Lin Weixia’s ears: “My dear first love.” It rang in her like tinnitus, lingering and lingering, unwilling to fade.

Wusuan, joining the surrounding audience in cheering, looked up at the man on stage and said quietly, a smile in her voice:

“Sheng really likes you.”

“I’ve never seen him be like this with any girl. One look from you is enough to make him care desperately.”

Somewhere in the crowd, someone with a water gun had hit Lin Weixia in the face — but it did nothing to cool the heat on her cheeks. The Cantonese song he sang was so beautiful. And she still didn’t know how Ban Sheng had ever found out that she loved the sea.

Her WeChat name was “xia.” The boy on that stage never willingly took part in any school event, usually hiding boredom and disdain behind a cool, aloof expression. He didn’t belong to any crowd, never joined any group activity, and no one had known he was into music. Yet this same self-enclosed boy was actively telling her:

This is my world, Lin Weixia.

It’s the first time I’ve liked someone, so I want to lay it all out before you, holding nothing back.

All of it — for you.

When the song finally ended, Lin Weixia happened to glance in the midst of the pounding of her heartbeat at Wusuan’s lovely, bright eyes — always, always following Li Yiran on stage.

In that fleeting instant, she felt she understood something. She couldn’t help asking: “Wusuan, are you —”

Cheng Wusuan shook her head, smiling softly: “No. He’s always treated me as just a friend.”

Dusk came quickly. Lin Weixia had been happily absorbed in the music, but her legs were aching from standing so long. She pushed her way out of the crowd, found a quiet corner, and had barely taken out her phone when Ban Sheng’s call came in.

Lin Weixia picked up. Ban Sheng was brief: “Come out.”

Lin Weixia jogged out of the festival grounds with her phone. But once she was out, she couldn’t see a soul — only the boundless sea stretching into the distance.

“Over here.”

A lazy voice came from somewhere slightly behind and to the side. Lin Weixia turned. Ban Sheng was leaning against a wall, setting down a bent leg as he walked toward her.

Ban Sheng led Lin Weixia to the parking lot, swung one leg over a motorcycle, and gestured for her to get on. Lin Weixia didn’t even know where he’d gotten the motorcycle from. Under the pressure of his expectant gaze, she climbed on slowly.

The moment she settled in her seat, the motorcycle shot forward like an arrow released from a bow. Lin Weixia lost all control and slammed into his back. Her chin hit the hard bone of his shoulder, and on top of that he was going fast — instinctively, she reached out and wrapped her arms around his waist.

A ripple of warmth traveled through his midsection. The boy on the motorcycle stiffened, very slightly, then after a moment returned to normal.

Once the speed evened out, Lin Weixia carefully shuffled backward, and let go of him — gripping the handles on either side instead. Then came another sudden brake, followed immediately by acceleration — and she went crashing into his back again.

The scorching warmth of his back radiated against her chest. She quickly sat upright.

Ban Sheng pulled the move again. And again. And again — entirely on purpose, in an obvious, transparent way. Lin Weixia was beside herself with frustration, face flushed red: “Ban Sheng!”

Seeing that she was genuinely about to lose her temper, Ban Sheng relented, letting out a muffled laugh: “Okay, I’ll stop. Look to your right.”

Lin Weixia sat back as far from Ban Sheng as possible, still fuming — but she instinctively looked to the right at the words, and froze.

Ban Sheng had somehow driven them to the seaside.

It was the hour of dusk.

As far as the eye could see: an endless expanse of blue-green water. The sea held a great, rolling, yolk-yellow sun in its embrace. The sky was painted in the colors of sunset — and the light fell over them, wrapping everything in a gentle, warm filter.

No one who sees the sea can hold onto their troubles.

The moisture-laden sea breeze swept over them, and her heart felt weightless with ease. Ahead of her, the boy’s voice seemed wrapped in the sound of the sea — a soft, hushing sound: “Happy?”

“Mm.” Lin Weixia nodded.

“If there’s a wish you want to make, say it out loud. Let it out if you need to,” Ban Sheng said, steering slowly, unhurried.

Lin Weixia hesitated, then stayed quiet. Ban Sheng didn’t push her. He kept riding, taking her around the island to see the sea. Perhaps the ocean was simply too vast and patient — always silent, always there, looking tenderly at everyone who came to its shore.

At a bend in the road, she called out with real conviction:

“Ah — I wish so much it would snow in Nanjiang!”

Lin Weixia had grown up in Nanjiang and had never seen snow in her life. She had traveled to Jingbei for competitions before, but every time she went, it hadn’t been winter.

Ban Sheng gave a dry laugh — the kind that was plainly teasing her for her small, girlish wish — and said: “Alright, try a more realistic one.”

In that moment, the sea wind poured into her mouth, and the beauty of the scene stripped away her composure and reserve. She let out what had been pressing against her chest with full force:

“I want so much to leave this place.”

“I want so much to go to Jingbei and see the snow.”

The desire to see snow, the longing to go to Jingbei and study there, and the emotions she had never been able to put into words — all of it spilled out. Lin Weixia exhaled slowly, and her heart actually lifted a little. The corners of her lips curved.

The boy riding ahead of her suddenly spoke, his tone steady and serious — as though he were making a promise:

“I’ll go with you.”

Lin Weixia was quiet for a long moment. Then she seemed to remember something, and said softly: “I can be really difficult to be around.”

Ban Sheng didn’t falter. He turned the handlebar at a bend and kept going:

“Lin Weixia. I can hold whatever you throw at me.”

How could Lin Weixia not know what Ban Sheng meant by that? She knew how good he was, how capable, how consistently he had never let her down.

It was just that her mind was echoing with Liu Sijia’s words about always being best friends. And the amber leaf pendant.

Her heart gave a sudden, sharp lurch. Fragments rushed toward her.

“I still have other things I need to do,” Lin Weixia said quietly.

This was a refusal.

The moment the words left her, Lin Weixia watched Ban Sheng’s broad, straight shoulders drop — soundlessly — as if someone had yanked out all the youthful spirit that had been holding them up. He said nothing more. His silence was suffocating, pressing down on her chest like something bloated and heavy that couldn’t be squeezed out.

Lin Weixia found, to her own surprise, that she couldn’t bear to see this once-spirited boy go quiet and sad.

She couldn’t bear it.