Wang Jingjing asked Wei Qingyue why he hadn’t come to school, then added: Let’s just chat on here — writing letters is actually such a hassle.

When this came through, Wei Qingyue smiled. He replied:

I thought you really enjoyed writing to me.

Wang Jingjing thought to herself — that old-fashioned way of communicating, I only used that when I was exchanging pen pal letters in primary school. She typed out rapidly:

Didn’t want to take up a top student’s study time.

The two of them exchanged a few dry, stilted messages, and then Wei Qingyue said he was going offline. He’d chat later.

That “later” turned out to be a very long time indeed. By the time final exams arrived, Wang Jingjing had taken every opportunity she could to go online and send “Are you there?” messages — she never did write him another letter, and of course his “later, let’s chat” never materialized.

“Is Wei Qingyue deliberately keeping me in suspense? He never replies to messages — then why did he even ask me to add him?” Wang Jingjing complained, eating snacks, sprawled in her bed with a duvet full of chip crumbs she’d brush off every so often.

She couldn’t understand it. If he’d added her as a contact, why not just talk online? What was the point of writing letters? Overcomplicated, for no reason.

Jiang Du listened quietly, unable to quite identify what she felt. To be precise — for one brief instant, hearing that Wei Qingyue had not been in frequent contact with Wang Jingjing, she felt glad. But that gladness filled her with shame. It was impossible not to feel small.

“Maybe he was hoping you’d write back,” Jiang Du said, projecting an air of calm. She was reorganizing her wardrobe.

“I genuinely don’t know what to write. When I’m chatting, I can go back and forth all day — east and west, this and that — I’m great at chatting. But ask me to write a letter, and it’s so hard!” Wang Jingjing had grown tired of lying on her stomach and flopped over onto her back in a spread-eagle position. “I really want a relationship. A relationship with Wei Qingyue!”

The kind of declaration Wang Jingjing could make openly without a second thought — Jiang Du didn’t dare even think it, let alone say it. Wang Jingjing not only dared to think it, she dared to say it. Even if deep down her longing wasn’t truly that intense, she could still express it with a thousandfold enthusiasm. Jiang Du was her complete opposite — she would always work hard to maintain a composed exterior, or at least appear, on the surface, not to care too much.

She didn’t know whether she was being dishonest. Compared to Wang Jingjing, she was undeniably less straightforward.

“A relationship…” Jiang Du admitted that the phrase, for her, felt distant and dreamlike. She tested the words tentatively, her voice small: “What exactly does being in a relationship involve?”

Wang Jingjing flipped over in a flash, half her face peeking out from the bedding, speaking with complete abandon: “Holding hands. Kissing. You know — some girls in our school, especially those studying arts, are already experienced.”

Jiang Du’s face flushed crimson at once. She didn’t know why she was embarrassed, but she turned and shut the wardrobe door with a snap, the hanging charm jingling loudly.

Wang Jingjing was genuinely bold. Jiang Du’s heart was in complete disorder.

Their conversation was cut short by the arrival of their other dormitory-mates.

As the semester drew toward its close, however, everyone was studying seriously in preparation for exams. Wang Jingjing might complain here and there, but most of the time, she understood what needed to be done. Jiang Du thought several times about gently suggesting that Wang Jingjing write Wei Qingyue one last letter before the break — but in the end, the words never made it out.

The exam days were exceptionally cold. Jiang Du was sensitive to the cold. Each student still had their own desk, the weather was terrible, and after sitting in the classroom for two hours, she was frozen through — her feet had gone completely numb.

She hadn’t worn the cotton shoes her grandmother had made her. Well — she had the vanity of a young girl who cared about how she looked. Her grandmother’s cotton shoes were wonderfully warm, but they were so thick and plump — they looked enormous, like a pair of aircraft carriers.

Such was the nature of growing up — one inevitably became less purely oneself. As a child, she had been proud of her grandmother’s handiwork, putting on a new pair of cotton shoes and thinking she looked magnificent. Now it had become: “It’s fine, Grandma — I’m not cold, this is enough.”

But she truly was freezing. Jiang Du endured through the last exam, her feet feeling as though they no longer belonged to her.

In such bitter cold, Lin Haiyang was the boldest of all. Once the exams ended, as everyone returned to their respective classrooms, Teacher Xiao Xu directed the cleaning duties and went over holiday reminders. The moment the teacher left, Lin Haiyang performed a sleight of hand and produced a pile of wood shavings at the front of the room.

He led the charge, and several boys went off to the small grove on school grounds to find dead branches. They built a fire. Everyone was quite delighted — the boys took off their shoes and propped their feet up to warm them.

Jiang Du had volunteered to stay behind and help with cleanup. She watched them carry on, smiled without comment, and quietly swept the floor and rearranged the desks and chairs on her own. One by one, the others finished their tasks and drifted over to the fire.

“You’ve got real nerve — burning this stuff in the classroom, you’re not afraid of the disciplinary office coming after you!” Zhang Xiaoqiang laughed and pushed her way into the group of boys. They were a lively bunch, talking and laughing. Eventually, Lin Haiyang dragged Jiang Du over, snatching the broom out of her hands. “Enough sweeping — we boys will do it later. Come warm yourself. I can see you can’t even hold the broom straight from the cold!”

Jiang Du had been about to decline, but Lin Haiyang was too enthusiastic. Once she was near the fire, warm currents washed across her face — she instinctively wanted to move closer. She turned her stool on its side and squeezed in with the rest of them, listening as they talked about their holiday plans.

She was shy — the more people there were, the more she withdrew into uncertainty about how to join in. She listened with full concentration, quietly thinking in the back of her mind about what she might contribute, but by the time she finally worked up the courage to speak, what she’d prepared was no longer fitting — the conversation had leapt somewhere else entirely, with no beginning or end where her words could fit.

“Jiang Du, are you going out during the holiday? There’s a new amusement park near Central Park, and I heard the city library has central heating this winter.” Zhang Xiaoqiang noticed she was being quiet and made an effort to draw her in. Jiang Du smiled at her gratefully and said: “I might go back to my hometown for a few days.”

“Your hometown? Is that your grandmother’s…” Zhang Xiaoqiang was sharp enough to catch herself midsentence. Right — back when she and the class monitor had collected the personal information forms at the start of school, because Jiang Du had scored highest in Chinese, Zhang Xiaoqiang had paid special attention to her form. Under family relations, there were no parents listed.

It had made her stomach drop for a moment. Later she’d gone home and told her parents about this really beautiful girl in her class who had no father or mother, and lived with her maternal grandparents.

Realizing she might be about to say something wrong, Zhang Xiaoqiang pivoted seamlessly: “My hometown is right here — the area around Tianma Bridge now. It was close all along.”

“That counts as a hometown? Isn’t that still in the city?” one of the boys interjected.

Zhang Xiaoqiang was noticeably more mature than her peers. She said: “It counts, back then. The people in that area got relocated and made a fortune — for people without many options, it was a chance to completely transform their lives.”

The boys found this quite interesting and asked a few more questions. Zhang Xiaoqiang spoke knowledgeably about government policies — naturally, a reflection of her family background. Jiang Du watched her, quietly marveling — but she knew, too, that she didn’t truly envy Zhang Xiaoqiang in that regard.

The fire gradually died down. Zhang Xiaoqiang gave Lin Haiyang and the others a nudge, laughing: “Right then — the cleanup is yours, gentlemen.”

Then she pulled Jiang Du aside and asked: “Are you free on the sixth day of the New Year? It’s my birthday.”

So direct, so matter-of-fact — Jiang Du felt slightly caught off guard. Between her and Zhang Xiaoqiang — well, their relationship was, as she understood it, the normal relationship between classmates. Zhang Xiaoqiang was warm and enthusiastic with everyone, a model student and class officer. You couldn’t tell who she was especially close to — it seemed about the same with everyone.

Being invited so suddenly, Jiang Du barely managed to conceal the flash of surprise on her face. She smiled shyly: “Your birthday is the sixth? I should still be in the city… let me think,” she paused for just a moment, “will the people you’re inviting all be from our class?”

“Mostly, I think. You know them all — Lin Haiyang, the class monitor, my desk neighbor and the people around me.” Zhang Xiaoqiang’s eyes shifted slightly. “I’ll think about who else to invite. We’ll have dinner and go sing karaoke.”

Jiang Du admitted to herself that she was being quite calculating. She had asked for a reason.

Will he be there? She knew Wei Qingyue and Zhang Xiaoqiang were close friends. And Zhang Xiaoqiang clearly also had feelings for Wei Qingyue — yet between them, it was all so natural and unguarded.

Unlike herself, whose heart dissolved into chaos at the slightest provocation.

Still — if she had known him since long, long ago, like Zhang Xiaoqiang did, how wonderful that would have been. Even just as ordinary classmates, she could have watched him from such a long, long distance…

A gentle, bittersweet tenderness rose in Jiang Du’s heart.

But she did not hear that familiar name from Zhang Xiaoqiang’s lips. Zhang Xiaoqiang had no way of knowing the private hope and tension Jiang Du carried. And even Jiang Du herself couldn’t quite understand why she always harbored this completely illogical, completely unfounded little wish.

The corridor was filled with the steady stream of students departing. Only the students on duty duty remained in each classroom. Despite the cold, Jiang Du lingered and dawdled, slipping into the restroom.

She didn’t actually need to use it. She crouched there until her legs went numb, and when she sensed that everything outside had grown quiet, she struggled to her feet.

Sure enough — everyone had gone.

The building was deserted, and suddenly there was something bleak and forlorn about it all. If the campus were a film, the ordinary laughter and liveliness of students every day, set against this present stillness and emptiness, would make a perfect pair of contrasting shots — images worth revisiting in a recurring flashback.

At the end of the corridor, the storage lockers belonging to each class stood in silent rows.

Jiang Du walked slowly toward them. Even with no one around, she was extraordinarily cautious, her heart knocking steadily. She opened her own locker first — inside sat a pink insulated cup, a folding umbrella, and some used scratch paper and tissue. For several long breaths, the girl’s gaze finally shifted to the Class One side. On Wei Qingyue’s locker, three characters were written, plain and unmistakable.

Three characters — enough to constitute a young girl’s entire world.

Jiang Du bit her lip, pulled off her gloves, and rubbed her hands together without a sound. Then, her whole body taut with tension, she reached out toward that locker.

It was cold to the touch, gleaming faintly with the sheen of metal.

Her pale, slender fingers gently traced across that name. As though suddenly aware of how strange this was, her face flushed red again.

Jiang Du quickly pulled her hand back. Even with no one watching, she was thoroughly embarrassed — as though she had just done something shameful. This was something she had been planning for a long time: wait until the break, wait for everyone to leave, and touch Wei Qingyue’s locker.

She turned back to her own, nudged her things around, locked it, and spun toward the corridor.

And saw him.

Standing right at the corner where the staircase met the corridor, leaning against the wall with an expression of playful amusement — was Wei Qingyue.

He had an unlit cigarette between his lips. Clearly, he had come upstairs looking for somewhere to smoke.

Jiang Du’s heartbeat and breath stopped simultaneously. She stared at him, motionless, frozen where she stood as though the wind and snow had turned her to stone. Her heart tumbled at once into a spinning vortex of shock and panic.

“What a coincidence.” Wei Qingyue spoke first. He seemed not to have noticed the scene just now at all — boys always carried that air of total ease, as though nothing in the world could trouble them. He smiled at Jiang Du, took the cigarette from his lips, and said: “Just the right person — I have a question I’d like to ask you.”

“Oh?” Jiang Du was so flustered she was close to stuttering. Her mind urgently told herself to calm down quickly. Maybe he didn’t see anything. Yes, he didn’t see anything.

“You’re always ranked first… my grades are pretty average.” She stood there awkward and hesitant, and the boy noticed every detail of it.

Wei Qingyue had been leaning against the wall; he pushed off from it and straightened up. “The other day I was working through a classical Chinese comprehension passage,” he said, “and there was an expression in it — ghost writer. Do you know what ghost writer means?”