Under the light, Jiang Du was suspended in a kind of bright, biting cold. She was crying. Had Wei Qingyue shown no reaction whatsoever, she would have continued walking further into the dark cold.

Wei Qingyue’s reactions, as a rule, were quite unlike other people’s. Faced with a girl in tears, he neither felt awkward and helpless as his first instinct, nor did he say anything along the lines of “I hate it when girls cry, please stop, I don’t know how to comfort people.”

He said: “There are people passing by at any moment. If you don’t want anyone to see you, go somewhere else to cry.”

His tone was soft and weighted, and Wei Qingyue looked at her with sincerity.

But Jiang Du was consumed with embarrassment. She assumed he was mocking her — she was in too much of a flustered panic to notice the tone in which he said it, or his genuine expression. However she heard the words, they carried an air of sarcasm. Objectively speaking, Wei Qingyue did have a habit of speaking that way.

She wiped away her tears haphazardly and turned to go, only to be pulled back by Wei Qingyue: “Jiang Du, why are you running off?”

“I’m fine!” Jiang Du tried to make her voice sound upbeat, but her vocal cords drifted unsteadily, carrying the fragile, trembling quality of someone who had been crying.

Light fell on the right half of her face. Her eyes fluttered; the color in her lips had been blown away by the cold wind. All of Jiang Du seemed to exist only partially in that moment. Wei Qingyue saw the faint traces of tear-stains, and his thoughts went blank for an instant.

Then his words changed direction completely, abrupt and rapid: “Please tell the person who used to write letters to me to keep writing. I know it isn’t Wang Jingjing, but you know who it is. I won’t press you on exactly who she is — but since you know, please pass along a message on my behalf: she can write to me about anything. This, I will keep as a secret.”

Partway through his words, someone from some other class appeared not far behind — presumably also heading toward the restrooms. But Wei Qingyue’s little speech had been so roundabout, so abrupt, that Jiang Du stared at him in astonishment. Dimly, she thought she even saw Wei Qingyue smile — and he wrapped it up swiftly: “I’ve been waiting for her to write to me.”

That last line — when Jiang Du heard it, her entire body blazed with warmth in an instant. She stood stunned, watching Wei Qingyue stride away and disappear from view. The boy left a stirring in his wake, carrying still the faint scent of orchids.

It was as though all the unpleasant feelings dissolved and scattered with it.

Wei Qingyue had been so certain. His phrasing was entirely declarative — no room for ambiguity. Jiang Du drifted back to the classroom in a daze, still carrying the chill of the air outside, her chest tightening in waves. Beside her, Wang Jingjing was working through a physics practice paper, the scratch paper rustling softly as her pen moved. Jiang Du found something to say, in a quiet voice:

“It’s still very cold out there.”

Wang Jingjing gave a flat “mm” and went back to her calculations. Jiang Du said nothing more. She silently pulled out a math paper and bent her head over it as well.

After the evening study session let out, Wang Jingjing shot off faster than a rabbit — as if deliberately giving her the cold shoulder. Jiang Du packed up her things alone and walked to the small shop near the school gate to buy letter paper.

This time, she bought the most ordinary kind — the office-use sort with red lines, not something students would ever normally purchase. Jiang Du bought a whole stack, reasoning that if nothing else, it could serve as scratch paper.

Yet this letter was slow to be written. Jiang Du had assumed she would never have such an opportunity again — but then the opportunity had come falling from the sky. Yet if she wrote, it would be an indirect admission that the previous letters hadn’t come from Wang Jingjing. That would amount to a betrayal of Wang Jingjing.

Saturday after school, Zhang Xiaoqiang asked her to stay behind. The students on cleaning duty that day worked at dizzying speed — sloppily finished, impatient to leave. Wang Jingjing had been cold toward Jiang Du all week, and seeing she hadn’t left, and that Zhang Xiaoqiang hadn’t left either, she let out a scoffing laugh, yanked out her bag of notes, didn’t even acknowledge Jiang Du, and walked straight out.

Jiang Du watched her figure disappear through the doorway, her expression dim and vacant.

“Jiang Du, here are some notes for you.” Zhang Xiaoqiang placed something in front of her. “The upcoming monthly exam is the placement exam for the class assignments — do your best. Arts-track math is relatively easier, and these notes are ones I put together myself. They might be of some use to you.”

Jiang Du quickly picked them up and smiled at Zhang Xiaoqiang in gratitude. Whenever anyone was kind to her, she always felt a little at a loss — and simultaneously plagued by the worry of having no way to repay the kindness. In this particular instant, that worry cascaded further: what if one day the other person got upset over some unwitting mistake of hers and no longer wished to have anything to do with her — what would she do then?

Like a nebula exploding, Jiang Du was mouthing the words “thank you so much” while her mind was already overflowing.

“If you gave me your notes, what will you use?” She shifted self-consciously, wondering if she should politely decline.

Zhang Xiaoqiang smiled brightly: “It’s fine — I’ll make myself another copy. Since I’m planning on competitions, honestly, these notes aren’t of much use to me anymore.”

Competitions? Jiang Du blinked. “You’re entering a math competition?”

“Yes, since our top student is participating, I figured I’d follow along. Even if I don’t place, at least it’ll expand my thinking. I’m just getting started a bit late.” Zhang Xiaoqiang paused, then sighed. “That Wei Qingyue — who knows when he’ll up and go abroad. I need to pick his brain while he’s still here. I’ll admit it now: he genuinely is much smarter than me.”

In that long sigh, the only word Jiang Du truly heard was “abroad.” A sharp wave of bitterness surged through her nerves. She knew perfectly well where this feeling came from. So, keeping it firmly under control and affecting nonchalance, she asked: “Is Wei Qingyue leaving for abroad already?”

“He’s not sure himself. But he definitely won’t finish high school here. Actually, it’s not just him — every year, a few students from our school leave during high school.” Zhang Xiaoqiang knew the school’s history inside and out.

Jiang Du had no interest in any of that. She smiled, tucked away the notes, and thanked Zhang Xiaoqiang once more. The two walked out together. Outside the school gate, the mobile food vendors had already set up their stalls, students everywhere — some on bicycles, some on foot — the traffic a mild chaos.

All of a sudden her shoulder was wrapped in an arm. Liu Xiaole had appeared out of nowhere and thrown one arm around each of them, though her face was a mask of agony: “It’s numb, totally numb, I’m done for.” She had been crouching in the restroom for over twenty minutes — numbness was only to be expected.

“What happened to you?” Zhang Xiaoqiang laughed and asked.

“Constipation. My backside nearly froze off, and I only managed to squeeze out this much.” Liu Xiaole gestured with her fingers. Zhang Xiaoqiang burst out laughing and quickly pressed her hand over Liu Xiaole’s mouth. “That’s disgusting!”

Most of the girls in their class were extremely lively. Jiang Du was the odd one out — naturally so. She wasn’t one for talking much, and couldn’t bring herself to just say anything without thinking it over. She was far too given to deliberating over words.

Case in point: right now, hearing Liu Xiaole joke about her own constipation, Jiang Du was taken aback.

“Wait—” Liu Xiaole suddenly grabbed them both, casting a look ahead. “Hold on.”

“Now what?” Zhang Xiaoqiang asked.

Liu Xiaole jutted her chin in that direction: “See that guy? The one there — hair all greasy, looks utterly repulsive, that middle-aged man.”

Jiang Du spotted him immediately and froze.

Wasn’t that the middle-aged man from the bookstore? She had come to understand dimly afterward what had happened — the experience had been horrible. Yet because Wei Qingyue had been there, that rainy day carried a sweetness to it.

“What about him?” Zhang Xiaoqiang looked baffled.

Liu Xiaole dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper: “That man is a pervert. He’s been lurking around our school lately. Recently he exposed himself to a senior girl from second year — she was terrified. And do you know what happened? Last time, Chen Huiming had an incident — she didn’t say anything about it, but I heard it from her seatmate. Chen Huiming was buying pen refills at the gate, and this man pressed himself right up against her. The strange thing was, afterward the back of Chen Huiming’s clothes was sticky with something — smelled fishy and foul, like thick mucus. She threw the clothes away. Don’t tell anyone else though — I’m only telling you two.”

That’s what Chen Huiming’s seatmate had told Liu Xiaole when sharing the story too: I’m only telling you — don’t let it get out.

During school years, whenever someone wanted to share a secret but couldn’t quite keep it in and yet feared having it leak out, they invariably added: I’m only telling you — please don’t tell anyone else.

But more often than not, things turned out the opposite, and eventually everyone found out.

Jiang Du only half-understood what was being said, but she supposed that if someone smeared thick mucus on her clothes she would throw them away too. The conversation naturally turned to how revolting the whole thing was, how disgusting that sick pervert was, mutual warnings to stay well away from him if spotted.

Back home, both grandparents were busy in the kitchen, and before long fragrant aromas drifted through the apartment. The heating inside was warm enough, and Jiang Du took off her padded silk jacket, leaving just a white knit sweater. She poked her head in and asked her grandfather what wonderful food he had made today.

“Ha! A treat today — eight-treasure duck!” Her grandfather’s hearty laugh rang out.

Dinner was served — bowl after bowl of home-cooked warmth. Jiang Du ate until her mouth was full of lingering flavors, and suddenly thought of Wei Qingyue saying he just threw something together to eat. She found herself wishing she could invite him over for dinner — there was no one to take care of him.

After dinner came an evening walk; after the walk, washing up; after washing up, reviewing schoolwork. This was Jiang Du’s routine at home, as regular as clockwork.

She didn’t like overhead lights — she left only her desk lamp on. One patch of brightness was enough; the rest of the room quietly fading into dim shadow somehow felt unexpectedly cozy.

By the time she had finished her practice paper, it was quite late, but she felt not the slightest drowsiness.

Through the window, Jiang Du saw the moon — so radiant, so cold. Such a beautiful moon, and she wondered if she was the only one who could see it tonight. She tiptoed into the living room, quietly rifled through a drawer, looking for her grandfather’s old camera. She wanted to photograph this beautiful moon.

But the result — because of the camera, and because she didn’t know what she was doing — came out nothing like what the eye could see. Never mind, she thought quietly, and set the camera down. She really wanted to tell everyone: look up — look at the sky tonight — the moon is so beautiful.

The moon, the moon — would the moon shine over foreign lands too? Right now, it was shining on the osmanthus tree outside the window, without a sound.

She gazed at the moon and thought: I can write a letter that will never be sent, without hurting anyone. That thought consoled her instantly, as soothing as the breeze of spring.

Paper and pen ready, Jiang Du settled quietly by the window, glancing up at the moon from time to time.

“To you, wishing you well upon receiving this.

It’s been a long time since I wrote to you — not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t.

And yet I’m glad, because I’ve finally found a way to make peace with myself. Why does a letter have to be sent? Why does it have to reach you? Was I being too calculating about it?

Now, at last, I can be a little more honest.

I don’t want to write about the bad things happening in my life. In my view, unburdening sad things onto other people only makes them a burden to others — your unhappiness makes others unhappy too. But I can write it in a letter, I think, because I know that from now on I’ll always be this candid — since you’ll never see it.

I’ve been misunderstood by my best friend. I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t want to lose her, but if she’s unwilling to be as close as before, I suppose there’s nothing I can do. I probably don’t have your ease at being alone, as though you need no one at all. I’ve wondered before whether you ever feel lonely, but then I worried it was my own projection — maybe some people are simply born to enjoy solitude, and don’t see it as a problem. I can’t be like that. The truth is, I’m very afraid of loneliness. When I was little, there was a period when my grandmother was in hospital, and my grandfather was rushing back and forth taking care of her. There was no one to check and sign my homework, and the teacher criticized me — and ultimately called my grandfather to the office, saying that elderly people couldn’t manage a child’s education, and that it would be better if my father and mother took charge of my studies.

At that time, my grandfather — who was always so cheerful and easygoing — stood there and could only offer an awkward, apologetic smile as he was lectured, like a primary school child being scolded, bowing again and again. Yet even so, my grandfather never said that I had no father or mother to take care of me. He only said that in the future he would cooperate with the teacher closely and pay more attention to my schoolwork.

I was in primary school then. To the adults, I was just a small child — but my heart ached, perhaps more deeply than any adult’s. For a long time afterward, I kept thinking: if one day both my grandparents were gone from this world, I wouldn’t want to go on either. That kind of thinking, of course, as I grew older, I came to understand was far too pessimistic — not to be taken, and a betrayal of everything my grandparents endured to raise me. They raised me so that I would love life and love this world. Not to die.

And so I cherish the bond I have with every person who has been good to me. I always hope that we can be good friends and stay that way. But now there’s been a problem, and I don’t even know what to do. Whether time will heal things or push us further apart — I don’t know. I feel lost.

I know that I’m not asking you for answers. Just writing it out makes my heart feel a little lighter.

In truth, for some time now I haven’t been able to truly feel happy. The sixth day of the new year — I think that was probably the happiest day of my high school life. You’ve mentioned abroad a few times, and each time I can sense the anticipation and excitement in your voice. For someone with far-reaching ambitions, that’s only natural, and I understand it — you’re so exceptional, after all. I only hope that Mei High still holds some happy memories for you: the teachers, the classmates, even the every blade of grass and tree.

It’s past eleven now. The residential compound is quiet. Here and there, a few households across the way still have their lights on — maybe they too have high school students at home who need to study, or maybe they got absorbed in watching television and forgot to sleep. It really is so silent. Outside, the moon is large, and its clear white light makes everything feel bathed in a silver glow. Moonlight is magical — knowing that no matter where in the world someone is, they can be touched by the same moonlight somehow brings a kind of comfort. That is the one distant and singular thing we share — all of us illuminated by the same moon. When you go abroad and occasionally think of home, you can look at the moon. Because the moon that shines on you also shines on those back here.

By the way, Zhang Xiaoqiang gave me a math notebook today — she’s truly so kind. I envy her, being able to ask you about math whenever she wants. You two are old classmates, and if we had known each other as long as you’ve known each other, I’m sure you’d be willing to share some study advice with me too. Zhang Xiaoqiang says you’re not a stingy person — you never mind sharing your study methods — you just speak quite directly and might think she’s being slow. If I were to ask you for help, you’d probably think I’m an absolute lost cause, since in our eyes Zhang Xiaoqiang is already an extraordinarily brilliant top student.

Without realizing it, I’ve covered the page with rambling. The night is deep now — I must rest. Wishing you smooth sailing in all things.”