The school’s Arts Festival was the most significant campus event of the first semester. It spanned three days, with regular classes during the day and various activities scheduled for the first two evenings. The grand finale was a large-scale cultural performance on the last night.
The school’s field was requisitioned for the event. A three-meter-high stage was erected near the basketball court, equipped with LCD screens, lighting, and sound systems rivaling those of a professional theater. The remaining space served as the audience area. The front rows were reserved for guests and alumni, followed by the senior class, then the freshmen, while the sophomores, who shouldered most of the responsibilities, were seated at the back.
This momentous event acted like a massive engine, drawing in even those least inclined to participate in collective activities, such as Qiao Qingyu. She was assigned the task of writing guest cards, which had reportedly been printed in previous years. Qiao Qingyu reasonably suspected this was a “perk” Sun Yinglong had specifically arranged for her. Not wanting to disappoint him, she spent two evenings meticulously writing the names of over a hundred guests on cardstock using a wolf-hair brush.
Among these names was “Ming Yu.” To make these two characters look more appealing, she practiced repeatedly on scrap paper, regretting not having practiced calligraphy more often. However, after placing this nameplate in the center of the front row of the VIP section, she felt at ease. After all, what was the point of striving for perfection? The person sitting in that position would never know her anyway.
During Arts Festival week, the campus atmosphere was markedly different from usual – excitement and busy order prevailed everywhere. Ming Sheng’s participation alone was thrilling, while Su Tian’s loss to Deng Meixi added spicy gossip for many to relish. However, most people’s information was outdated. Qiao Qingyu, being in the same class as Ming Sheng, 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 expected by everyone in Class 5 – the teacher agreed and even allowed Ming Sheng to change the program content. This didn’t diminish Deng Meixi’s sense of victory; after all, in everyone’s eyes, she had still beaten Su Tian. When asked, she explained that people had seen her performance many times, while Ming Sheng rarely performed solo, making it more worthwhile for him to showcase his talents on stage. When people inquired about Ming Sheng’s new piece, he was uncharacteristically secretive.
“You’ll find out on the day,” he replied indifferently, seeming unwilling to discuss the matter.
That week, he took three consecutive days off, claiming to be rehearsing off-campus. During the dress rehearsal, when it was his turn, he merely played a random tune on the piano. Some felt displeased by his apparent nonchalance, but since the teachers didn’t object, neither did they.
On the afternoon of the performance, two minibusses entered the campus, unloading drum kits, double basses, keyboards, and several unfamiliar young people carrying cellos, violins, and guitars. Only then did everyone realize he had planned a grand performance, bringing in the school orchestra from Huan Wai and a small ensemble from the city’s youth symphony.
But where was the piano? Surprisingly, it had been removed. It wasn’t until the show officially began, and the LCD screen displayed Ming Sheng’s program as “Solo Vocal Performance,” that the audience erupted in delighted screams.
His performance was the first after the opening, and he still sang “A Game, A Dream.” Qiao Qingyu sat motionless, letting his restrained, carefree, and warmly rich voice penetrate her across the entire field. There was no escape.
The Arts Festival’s cultural evening was considered the last relaxation for the senior class before the college entrance exams. Afterward, everything returned to normal. The field was once again surrendered to the lonely wind, and the air became permeated with tension.
Due to returning home late during the Arts Festival, Wang Mumu didn’t visit Qiao Qingyu’s house. She didn’t come the following weekend either. After nearly a week without seeing Wang Mumu or having a proper conversation with anyone, a familiar sense of loneliness resurged, leaving Qiao Qingyu feeling suffocated, as if she had fallen into a vacuum.
The two rarely met at school. The senior class occupied a separate building, facing the freshmen and sophomore teaching buildings across the library. Like most seniors, Wang Mumu rarely left the building except for meals, while Qiao Qingyu never ventured past the library.
Qiao Qingyu couldn’t shake the feeling that their friendship was like a delicate flower, born in the cramped confines of Chaoyang New Village, taking root and blooming in the dim indoor light, but likely to wither quickly under the harsh sunlight of school life. She had considered seeking out Wang Mumu but abandoned the idea when she thought of her own fleeting “friendship” with Jiang Nian. She reasoned that Sister Mumu didn’t lack friends at school.
Wang Mumu didn’t come the second week either. When Li Fanghao inquired, Qiao Qingyu said she was too busy studying to make the trip.
“The final sprint is intense,” Li Fanghao nodded in agreement. “Their house has been quiet these days. I guess her parents aren’t causing trouble so she can study properly.”
Left alone in the cage again, Qiao Qingyu felt lonely. Although Wang Mumu hadn’t come, Li Fanghao no longer locked Qiao Qingyu in the inner room. Paradoxically, the increased freedom intensified her feelings of emptiness. Perhaps this was the effect of contrast, just as Wang Mumu had said earlier – it’s most cruel when heaven gives you something beautiful and then takes it away.
You have to learn to accept it, Qiao Qingyu told herself. She had a hundred reasons to excuse Wang Mumu, but she dared not touch on one thing: Ming Sheng had sung “A Game, A Dream” again. Even she, slow as she was, had fully perceived the heartbreak and deep emotion in Ming Sheng’s singing.
On Friday, in light rain, Wang Mumu came. She arrived late, close to ten o’clock, when Li Fanghao, Qiao Lusheng, and Qiao Jinyu were all at home.
“Can I sleep here tonight?” she asked Qiao Qingyu softly as soon as she entered.
Li Fanghao looked suspicious but agreed, and Qiao Qingyu breathed a sigh of relief. The two girls 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 lights outside go out and Qiao Jinyu’s faint snoring from the other side of the wall.
“I’ve been having insomnia for a long time,” Wang Mumu said, lying on her side facing away from Qiao Qingyu.
“Is your parents’ arguing affecting your sleep?”
“It’s not their fault; they’re trying their best,” Wang Mumu’s voice was hoarse and weak. “These past few days, I’ve been secretly taking my mom’s sleeping pills to fall asleep. Today I didn’t want to take them anymore. I’m afraid the sleeping pills might harm my brain and affect my college entrance exam performance.”
“I see.”
Wang Mumu shifted, lying flat on her back.
“I’ve wanted to die, more than once,” she stared at the ceiling, her tone eerily calm. “Tonight, I was planning to try.”
Qiao Qingyu inhaled softly.
“Why do people have so many desires?” Wang Mumu continued. “Where do these desires come from? Is the purpose of living to experience beauty? Heaven first gave me everything, then took it away piece by piece. Is this telling me that my fate should stop here, with only suffering ahead? What’s the point of living then?”
“No,” Qiao Qingyu shook her head. “Sister Mumu, just get through the college entrance exam, and things will get better.”
“What’s lost is lost. Getting through the exam won’t bring it back,” Wang Mumu said. “It won’t come back in a lifetime. I’m already too exhausted.”
“Money can be earned, your father’s illness can be treated, clothes and houses can be bought,” Qiao Qingyu said. “A person’s life is long; there’s plenty of time to find beauty again.”
“That just means 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 a day of ease.”
The phrase “desired intimacy” struck a chord with Qiao Qingyu, and she responded, “That’s not true.”
“I don’t know what the meaning of life is,” Wang Mumu continued. “Now it’s the college entrance exam, and then what? I have no dreams. Dreams are about looking forward, but I only 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 grasped Wang Mumu’s.
“I envy your resilient life force,” Wang Mumu turned her face towards Qiao Qingyu. “You can endure everything and also risk everything. You have light in your heart, so you’re not afraid of darkness.”
Qiao Qingyu also turned to face Wang Mumu.
“My light was almost extinguished, but then I met you,” she said after a while. “Sister Mumu, you saved me.”
Wang Mumu gave a bitter smile: “That’s how everyone describes me – warm, kind-hearted, like a spring breeze, thoughtful…”
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s not about liking or disliking,” Wang Mumu sighed. “I have no sense of self. I’m influenced by too many people; I can’t even figure out my true thoughts.”
Qiao Jinyu’s snoring grew louder, and the two girls fell silent. After a while, Qiao Qingyu cautiously asked, “Sister Mumu, do you want to see Teacher Le Fan?”
“No,” Wang Mumu replied.
“Why not?”
“Didn’t we agree,” her voice carried a hint of 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. This smile, which initially convinced her, now made her more concerned. She wasn’t sure if she and Wang Mumu weren’t close enough to share everything, or if Wang Mumu, seemingly more optimistic, was better at hiding her true feelings. Qiao Qingyu thought of the scars on Wang Mumu’s arms. The leap from self-harm to suicide was terrifying. What had happened in between?
Qiao Qingyu often reflected on her conversations with Wang Mumu, pondering the questions she murmured in the dark. Where do human desires come from? Is the purpose of life to experience beauty? In the library, she found herself trapped in these questions, blaming her stupidity for not being able to provide answers that could comfort Wang Mumu. Amidst her chaotic thoughts, she wrote a short article that seemed nonsensical to her. Titled “To All That Is Not Beautiful,” she printed it anonymously in the library and submitted it to the school newspaper.
Two days later, the school newspaper was published, and her article was prominently displayed on the front page.
That day happened to be the graduation ceremony and pre-exam rally for the senior class. During the break, Qiao Qingyu watched from the corridor as a sea of seniors passed through the teaching building, trying but failing to spot Wang Mumu among them. As she entered 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 wave of excitement washed over her, followed by relief that she had submitted the article anonymously. One moment she hoped Ming Sheng would recognize her writing, the next she hoped he wouldn’t, as the article wasn’t particularly uplifting. She had tried to empathize with Wang Mumu’s perspective, capturing her sense of helplessness and writing down the confused, seemingly profound yet absurd musings that couldn’t be voiced in reality. She feared Ming Sheng might misunderstand and think she was truly pessimistic and world-weary.
Before leaving school, Qiao Qingyu glanced at the back wall blackboard again and discovered that beneath her article was a message from the school counselor, Le Fan.
That weekend, like the previous days, Wang Mumu didn’t visit Qiao Qingyu’s house. Despite Qiao Qingyu’s increasingly frequent glances towards the apartment across the way, there was no sign of her. She had hidden herself away. With less than two weeks until the college entrance exam, Qiao Qingyu’s heart was heavy with worry.
The last two days of May fell on a weekend. The outdoor sun was fierce, summer eager to arrive. After her afternoon nap, Qiao Qingyu changed into a short-sleeved shirt. She was alone at home as usual, but today was different. Li Fanghao was watching Qiao Jinyu’s competition at the sports school and couldn’t come home to check on her. So, in the quiet, cramped cage, Qiao Qingyu turned on the long-unused computer.
The idea of watching movies on the computer while Li Fanghao was away had been lingering in her mind for a long time. In the audiovisual area next to the reading room, there were several rows of borrowable DVDs. The disc she inserted into the computer had caught her eye while browsing – a classic documentary called “Winged Migration.”
She was captivated as soon as the image appeared: a full, cold moon.
Snow everywhere, and in a dilapidated wooden cabin, a joyful, lively little creature. Deep blue-green wings, a snow-white belly, a large splash of vibrant orange under its neck, and pure, bright starlike black eyes. Soon, this little bird poked its head out, hopped through a crack into the snow, and flew away from the dark cabin.
Qiao Qingyu didn’t realize when her tears started falling. For an hour and a half, tears washed over her face repeatedly. 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. As the camera followed the undulating wings, Qiao Qingyu felt as if she had transformed into a bird. Finally, with the haunting and captivating male voice of the ending theme, she cradled her soul, shaken to its core, unable to come back to reality for a long time.
To be so easily moved to oblivion, something must have gone wrong.
Qiao Qingyu felt the urge to write again, full of things she wanted to tell Wang Mumu. Look, she thought, birds are so free, yet they don’t linger for beauty. Look, Arctic terns have to leave their birthplace for the Antarctic soon after they’re born, their entire lives spent shuttling between Earth’s coldest poles. Look, the snow-capped mountains where bar-headed geese rest are so crystalline and serene, but in the next moment, an avalanche could strike, and the geese simply flap their wings and leave, without lingering or looking back. Look, flying itself is the most beautiful thing, and the existence of life is the most beautiful thing.
She didn’t turn off the computer, instead opening a document and typing out her thoughts in one go. Li Fanghao entered just two minutes after she had shut down the computer, bringing her dinner. After Li Fanghao left, the door knocked again, and to her surprise, it was Wang Mumu, whom she hadn’t seen in days.
“I waited for your mom to leave before coming,” Wang Mumu winked at her familiarly, as if they had just seen each other yesterday. “It’s a bit troublesome when she sees me and starts talking about the college entrance exam.”
Qiao Qingyu burst into tears. Unlike her restrained crying while watching the documentary, this time she sobbed loudly, hugging Wang Mumu’s shoulders tightly.
“What’s wrong, what’s wrong,” Wang Mumu patted her back gently, “You missed me, didn’t you…”
They went into the inner room and sat on the narrow bed. Qiao Qingyu had stopped crying and held 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 can’t stand it,” she said. “She tells me every day how hard life is at home, how difficult it is to support my education, and that it’s all on her to earn money. She also says that by the time I can earn my own money, my dad will probably be dead, and she’ll be alone with no purpose, so she might as well die too… I used to think my mom was having a tough time, and whenever I felt annoyed with her, I’d actively suppress those thoughts, feeling I was too heartless… But now, with the college entrance exam so close and her still nagging about these things every day, I’m getting fed up.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“She sleeps with me every night, and I take the sleeping pills from her bottle every night too. 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’ve been to see a psychologist,” Wang Mumu lowered her head again. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you in advance.”
“It’s okay,” Qiao Qingyu shook her head vigorously. “It’s fine.”
“It wasn’t Teacher Le Fan,” Wang Mumu looked up, her eyes filled with hesitation and unease. “It was another psychologist.”
Qiao Qingyu nodded firmly. “Mm-hmm.”
“A Sheng introduced me,” Wang Mumu continued. “The psychologist’s surname is Lin. He has his studio and is an old friend of A Sheng’s family.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You’re not angry, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
Wang Mumu opened her mouth, then hesitated. Fearing she might feel burdened, Qiao Qingyu grasped both her hands tightly and repeated, “I’m not.”
” A Sheng called me first,” Wang Mumu gazed at Qiao Qingyu. “He said their family had a friend who was a psychologist and particularly enjoyed listening to teenagers’ problems. He gave me a number and said that even if I couldn’t go out, I could call, and anonymity was welcome too.”
Qiao Qingyu’s breathing quickened.
“He asked me to give you the phone number,” Wang Mumu continued. “I promised him I’d get you to call, because…”
Qiao Qingyu looked up.
“I didn’t want him to worry about you.”