The letter kept getting delayed. Wang Jingjing crumpled sheet after sheet of paper, scratching her head in frustration — she kept thinking about how to write it in a way Wei Qingyue would like, gripped by a mentality similar to crafting an exam essay to please a grader, approaching it with all the intensity of the university entrance exam.
It dragged on until the New Year’s performance.
The school-wide event was held in the morning. There was sunshine, but a strong wind. The main stage had been set up the previous evening, and during the sound check, the campus thundered with music. Students passing by would pause to look.
“God, it’s absolutely freezing, and the program list includes bare-legged street dancing.” Lin Haiyang was hugging a cartoon hot water bottle, sharing the inside scoop with everyone in advance. He was the liveliest person in the class — Wang Jingjing rolled her eyes at him and said, “You’re just hoping to ogle some bare thighs. Disgusting.”
“A young man not disgusting is a young man wasted,” Lin Haiyang said, sounding for all the world like he was quoting scripture, making even the other boys laugh. Jiang Du listened to their nonsense, the atmosphere warm and boisterous, and looked up at the balloons hanging in the classroom — all colors of the rainbow, festive and cheerful. She stared for a few seconds, then softly slumped back down over her desk.
Suddenly, Lin Haiyang’s voice took on a meaningful tone as he made eyes at Wang Jingjing: “And there’s Wei Qingyue…” He drew out the last syllable in a suggestive, playful rise and fall. Wang Jingjing leapt up and went for him. Lin Haiyang dodged, saying as he backed away: “I’d strongly advise you to prepare a bouquet of flowers — when Wei Qingyue performs, you should go up and present it.”
At this, Jiang Du’s heart began again, like gentle waves lapping quietly up onto the shore, pulling back, then washing up once more.
Wei Qingyue was not one to seek the spotlight. On occasions like this, he would ordinarily choose to sleep in the dormitory — that’s how he’d spent his middle school years. This time, it was Zhang Xiaoqiang who had pressured him into it. Old classmates — you had to give some face. As for Zhang Xiaoqiang, this sort of occasion was her specialty: hosting, adopting that air of someone older than their years — she always carried it off with remarkable precision.
This time, Zhang Xiaoqiang had given up hosting in order to sing California Dreamin’ with him. Zhang Xiaoqiang loved the dreamy, nebulous world of Wong Kar-wai. In 2006, many of their peers were obsessed with the dark aesthetics of their personal blog spaces, writing in strange coded fonts, copying out volumes of song lyrics by hand. Vocational high school students favored hairstyles that looked like they’d been caught in a firecracker explosion. Mei High, as the city’s top-ranked school, wanted to project a distinct and elevated image — its students were firmly opposed to anything that looked intellectually degrading. In those days, the internet was not yet so pervasive; social life was mostly confined to online forums and messaging platforms. Crafting an obscure yet culturally refined personal status message was of the utmost importance.
Wong Kar-wai, in that era, was still a safely sophisticated choice. Zhang Xiaoqiang asked Wei Qingyue whether he’d seen any Wong Kar-wai films, whether he’d heard California Dreamin’, whether he knew anything about stream-of-consciousness storytelling… Wei Qingyue had zero interest in any of these topics. He actually laughed — which left Zhang Xiaoqiang baffled and suddenly a little self-conscious.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just say what you want — why bring up Wong Kar-wai?”
Zhang Xiaoqiang felt a little embarrassed and said: “I want to sing a duet with you. After all, the two of us singing together would be quite the powerhouse combination, wouldn’t it?”
Wei Qingyue looked at her and said: “You’re too competitive. It’s just a song. ‘Powerhouse combination.'”
Zhang Xiaoqiang couldn’t bring herself to be angry with him. She knew perfectly well that this was simply how Wei Qingyue spoke. And just like that, Wei Qingyue eventually agreed anyway.
Before the performance began, the open space in front of the Mingde Building was marked off with chalk — a designated section for each class in Year One and Year Two, all clearly delineated. Teacher Xiao Xu came to the classroom and said a few words about things to keep in mind. Then everyone picked up their stools and surged out of the building in a great human wave.
Only Jiang Du remained.
She had caught a cold. It had come on right after Christmas, and the first two days had been truly awful. Even now, her head felt heavy and her feet unsteady, her whole body drained of energy. Wang Jingjing felt genuinely sorry that she was letting her down at such a critical moment, saying: “There are so many exciting acts on the program today, and you’re going to miss all of them.”
Jiang Du smiled weakly, opened her insulated water bottle again, and poured hot water into her mouth. Drink more hot water — cure for everything. She was nearly at the point of nausea from it.
Dizzy and lethargic, she had no desire to move at all.
The entire teaching building emptied out, suddenly quiet. One moment Jiang Du had been surrounded by noise and voices, and the next, all was vast and still — heaven and earth stretching empty and silent, as though the four elements had dissolved. She was showing signs of recovery and couldn’t go back out to stand in the cold wind on the plaza — she’d relapse, and the entire New Year’s holiday would likely be spent at the infusion room.
Once everyone had gone, she wrapped herself up — fuzzy hat, scarf, fully armored — and went to the connecting walkway to peer out. It was quite far away; she could only make out a dense mass of heads. Behind the stage curtain stood performers in vivid colors, some girls dressed in very little, bare-legged, draped in puffer jackets, occasionally shoving each other and laughing freely.
The emcee’s opening remarks — always uncannily similar to every other set of opening remarks, the smiles exquisitely official.
As the intro to the first song began, Jiang Du’s lips curved upward, and she said inwardly: It’s Bibi.
It was Zhou Bichang’s Notes — the kind of song that, once it started, the whole crowd could sing along. In 2005, when they were still in middle school, there had been a talent competition program called Super Girl — it had swept the nation, and only the Spring Festival specials of their childhood years watching Princess Pearl could compare. Everyone had gone mad sending text message votes. Even Teacher Xiao Xu had mentioned spending a hundred yuan to vote for Zhang Liangying — quite the extravagance.
Back then, their dormitory room had been plastered with Li Yuchun’s posters, and they had all discovered for the first time that a girl could be this cool, this striking. Of course, there had been heated arguments over their favorites too — a dormitory-mate had loved Zhou Bichang, and Wang Jingjing had bought eight journals with Li Yuchun on the cover. Another girl had cheered daily for Huang Yali, going home to enlist every aunt, cousin, and distant relative to cast votes.
“Memories pictured, words recorded…” Jiang Du mouthed the words softly without thinking — this was the exclusive memory of their generation, tied to Super Girl, tied to the bittersweet ache of Notes.
Sure enough, the crowd below began singing out loud together. Jiang Du scanned the stage area for Wei Qingyue’s silhouette — she couldn’t see him. She knew his act with Zhang Xiaoqiang was near the front of the lineup. After Zhou Bichang’s song, there would be a street dance, and the third act would be theirs.
The glass walls of the covered walkway made it perhaps the safest vantage point in the world. Sunlight streamed in, especially warm. Jiang Du watched unblinking for Wei Qingyue to appear, her heart suspended somewhere above the ground.
But what surprised her was that only Zhang Xiaoqiang appeared onstage. Zhang Xiaoqiang’s look was striking and fresh — a black jacket, jeans, ankle boots — and she bounced about singing Huang Lixing’s Sound Wave, which sent the crowd below into a frenzy.
Not California Dreamin’. The act had been changed at the last minute.
Jiang Du stood motionless. She had lost one opportunity to direct her gaze openly and legitimately toward Wei Qingyue. She was deeply disappointed — but she couldn’t blame anyone. Whether Wei Qingyue performed or not was his own affair, and whether he came or not was his own freedom.
But how could someone go back on a commitment, canceling just like that? She didn’t know how many burning pairs of eyes would cool in that cold wind, how many ardent hearts would come to a standstill. She was no different from so many other girls — she had simply wanted, in a moment like this, to look at someone extraordinary, to fill the eyes of youth to the brim.
Jiang Du turned and walked alone back to the classroom, her nose stuffed and heavy, opening a page of study materials. All the noise and bustle outside had nothing to do with her.
Two and a half hours passed, and when the performance dispersed, the school grounds grew restless again. The classes returned like migratory birds. The classroom filled with noise once more — everyone talking over each other about being frozen, rubbing their hands and slapping their cheeks. Wang Jingjing flung her stool down with a loud bang, heaved a long sigh, and groaned: “I should’ve just stayed in — Wei Qingyue took a leave of absence today!”
For the girls, Wei Qingyue had been the main attraction. Without him, the whole performance lost much of its appeal. Jiang Du felt something sink inside her. Why had he taken leave? Was he sick too? Or… had his father hit him again? Was he too bruised to come? Why did his father keep hitting him? The thought of it made her chest ache with every breath.
That evening, their own class’s performance was up. Everyone was running about wildly. Feeling dizzy and disoriented, Jiang Du slipped out and peered through the window at Class One, which was also in full celebration. The sound system was blaring. She gripped her gloves and pretended to be watching what Class One’s party was up to, while her eyes moved quickly and urgently through the crowd, searching for the one figure she hoped to find.
Wei Qingyue’s seat was empty. He sat at the very back. His desk, like all the others, was piled high with books and study materials. Annoyingly, Class One’s windows were covered with a great many red paper cutouts, breaking up the view.
He really did take leave… Jiang Du’s heart slowly relaxed its grip.
“Looking for someone?” A voice came from behind her — sudden as a thunderclap, though it was the most ordinary of questions. Jiang Du spun around, and the first thing she saw was the soft red scarf around the boy’s neck. Wei Qingyue wore a faint smile. She forgot entirely how to breathe.
Breathing was instinct — at this moment, all instinct was thrown into disarray.
“No — I’m just… taking a look.” Jiang Du answered in a panic, and once she’d said it, walked briskly past him. When she had put a small enough distance between them, the emotion she had held in check rose to her lips, and she couldn’t help smiling — smiling because she had managed to see Wei Qingyue before the break.
To catch a glimpse of him was enough to ward off all the cold of this entire winter. She could welcome the first day of 2007 in high spirits.
Only — that letter… When Jiang Du thought of it, her emotions plunged back into a boundless sea once more.
New Year’s Day arrived as scheduled. Classmates were active in the group messaging channel, exchanging “Happy New Year.” It was always a bit funny — they said it once on New Year’s Day, celebrating the Solar New Year. Then on New Year’s Eve, everyone stayed up until midnight, eyes half-closed with exhaustion, and the moment midnight struck, the channel exploded again like firecrackers with another round of “Happy New Year.”
Not many students had phones, and the school forbade them anyway — so weekends and holidays were when everyone went online in a frenzy.
Wang Jingjing sat at the computer, with the same reverent, trembling solemnity her grandmother brought to lighting incense, and added the account number Wei Qingyue had given her. There was no response. For a long while, she couldn’t settle to anything and chatted listlessly with Jiang Du, one message at a time:
Class Two’s performance of “Notes” wasn’t as good as mine.
Did you finish the physics exam paper?
So bored, I want fried chicken.
Wang Jingjing’s username was quite mortifying — though at the time she was young enough not to notice. It was: “A Lonely Heart Wandering.” Jiang Du sat on her end receiving message after message from “A Lonely Heart Wandering.”
She replied carefully to each one, but Wang Jingjing’s thoughts leapt about freely — she only cared about what she herself said. What Jiang Du responded didn’t matter much.
Then suddenly:
I added Wei Qingyue, but there’s been no response. He’s not playing games with me, is he? I went to all that trouble writing letters, and now I’m thinking of just chatting with him online.
Jiang Du was momentarily stunned. She sat in silence for a moment.
Then, carefully and without leaving any trace of her meaning, she asked: Are you not planning to write back?
Not writing.
After sending that, Wang Jingjing went quiet. Because at that moment, Wei Qingyue had finally come online. The boy had seen a friend request notification after finishing his shower. Unsurprisingly, it was Wang Jingjing.
He blew his hair dry, casually replied to a couple of messages, and on the other end, Wang Jingjing was already bouncing on her bed.
Wei Qingyue looked at her username and her exaggerated profile picture, and smiled slightly. Then, unhurriedly, he pulled up the girl’s past posts and began scrolling through them. His gaze soon stopped on one particular username that had liked Wang Jingjing’s posts:
Ghost Writer.
The boy studied this name with an unreadable expression, and said it silently to himself.