1980年一個春光明媚的正午，我拿著飯碗剛跨進面對洗碗池子的河西食堂的側門，眼睛一時還沒適應屋內明暗的強烈反差。只模糊覺得在探進門洞的那片陽光裡，有個人迎面走來。但他的腳步略微遲疑了一下，瞬間引起了我的注意。
在彼此相距不過兩米開外的地方，站著一個高個、白淨、儒雅的書生。他一手拎著一個銀色鋁殼暖水瓶，另一手端著個淺藍色布袋子套著的餐具。他那矜持而審度的目光，在眼鏡片後，迅速地從頭到腳在我身上溜過。那一刻，我的臉頓時感到一陣發燙，而他的臉也在瞬間變得煞白。那情景就像是我們同時被一記雷電擊中了一樣，時間在彼此的對視中悄然定了格。自此以後，我們的目光開始經常在食堂、報廊、閱覽室、或是教室門上的小視窗中看似不經意地相遇。儘管表面上大家都裝得若無其事，但我的心總會在交匯的瞬間狂跳。
午餐時間，同學們一進食堂，總會先將熱水瓶放在入口處的長桌上，等離開時取走。一眼望去，在一桌桌舊竹殼水瓶中，他那個乾淨的鋁殼暖瓶最為顯眼。我走進食堂的第一眼，總會下意識地往那些桌子上掃，看到它，心就會莫名一蕩，臉跟著發燙；若是看不到它，便會若有所失。不用眾裡尋他千百度，我憑感覺就能辨出那個男生在哪兒。往往一抬眼，就能與他的目光在空中相遇。他那看似漫不經心、端正矜持的外表，和躲在眼鏡片後注視我的目光，對當時那個未經世事的我，有著致命的吸引力。
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| 1980年4月在華師大校園 |
1980年5月2日星期五早上8點，我在物理樓的底層閱覽室看書。一個人走了進來，在我的桌子對面停下。我下意識地抬起頭，正好與他打了個照面。登時，我的臉刷地一下紅了，小心臟噗噗亂跳。他的臉依舊白皙，一副若無其事的樣子，隨即轉身走了出去。我隨手在紙上記錄了那一幕：
道貌岸然眸子違，遇奴常將目光追。
問君終是何等才？豈是逢花心醉？！
持書欲讀目低垂，抬頭恰與眸子對。
三月桃花綻兩頰，己也難解其中味！—— 於師大物理系閱覽室。這是我落在紙上有關他的最初記憶。
起先只是遠遠的目光相交，大約過了一個學期後，他開始主動接近我。比如在報廊，他會一邊看報，一邊慢慢地、極其自然地挪到我的身邊，安靜地繼續看報。每當這時，我都會感到一陣心慌發暈，連報紙上的字都彷彿在眼前飛了起來。我上課時坐在第二遛第二排靠門的位置，教室門上的小監視窗裡，常常會出現那個陌生人路過時看似不經意的注視。當目光再次交集，我的心依舊會怦然亂跳，臉上火辣辣的。有一兩次，他甚至端著飯碗來到我坐的長桌對面，在咫尺的距離與我相對而坐，但他不開口說話。而我卻緊張得根本抬不起頭來，更無法繼續吃飯，往往連一分鐘都堅持不了，只能佯裝鎮靜地收拾東西落荒而逃。
1980年11月5日，我寫下了一首《無題》：
窗對落葉倍惆悵，門依枯桿欲斷腸。
看官怎知相思苦，寒夜清聽鐘聲長。
夢裡依稀春光好，醒來不覺秋風涼。
朦朧又見深情目，孤身清影皎月光。
1980年11月7日的早晨，在通往物理樓的林蔭大道上，滿滿的都是趕著去上課的學生。我騎著28吋的永久牌男式單車從後門進來，在人流中穿行。老遠看到他在前面走著，我的心便又開始噗噗亂跳。按照以往的習慣，我都會繞道騎開，可是這天不知怎地，冥冥中彷彿被一股力量拽著，不由自主地就想從他身邊騎過去。我原以為他是去物理樓上課，前方應該還有一段直線的距離。
然而，當我的前車輪剛從他身邊超過時，不早不晚，偏巧他在這時向左轉過身，一下子被我的自行車擋住了去路，車身可能還輕輕碰到了他。我猛地煞了車，左腳尖點著地。按理我是應該開口道歉的，但那一刻我們只是對視了一眼，目光一觸即離，表面上仍然顯得那麼平靜。那句到了嘴邊的抱歉，卻怎麼也說不出來。最終，他默默地走開了，去路邊的化學館大教室上課，我也騎車離開。看在旁人眼裡，一定會覺得這兩個人奇怪得很——怎麼這個撞人的不道歉，那個被撞的也毫無怨言？
第二天，11月8日，我實在過意不去，便寫了一張道歉的字條，等他在物理樓走道裡出現時塞給了他。他的臉也罕見地紅了。過了兩天，11月10日，他在報廊看報時，順手給了我一張回條，上面用清俊的字跡寫著：「區區小事，沒關係。」
11月13日早上考試，我第一個交卷。第一個交卷往往會帶來些許虛榮心的滿足，此時我心情不錯，剛走出教室就迎面遇到了他。當時走廊裡靜悄悄的，只有他一個人，我一時沒能掩飾好內心的竊喜，對他流露出了笑臉。那是我對他流露出的第一個微笑。
可到了晚上，羞愧感便湧了上來，我寫道：
完卷最先走，出門遇「老九」。
無端露笑臉，隨之半日羞。—— 80.11.13. 傍晚。這裡「羞」的含義中，羞愧的成分遠遠大於羞澀。
1980年11月27日，我生病了。信紙上記錄著那份煎熬：「我生病了，沒辦法和您見面。真想您。躺在床上想起您，只能默默地流淚。我多麼希望您會突然出現在眼前，您的到來，一定會減輕我的不少病痛。但我又覺得自己是否太輕浮了？因為我甚至還不知道您姓什麼、叫什麼，不知道您的志向、情趣與愛好！我太輕率了。我究竟把自己的愛寄託在什麼地方？至今我還沒弄清楚我所愛的是什麼。但不管怎麼樣，我還是覺得我需要您，我不能沒有您而在人世間活著！」
1980年12月4日下午2點一刻，我獨自在教室裡複習功課。聽到門那邊傳來輕微的動靜，抬頭一看，門上的小監視窗裡，是他那平靜的微笑——那是他對我的第一次微笑。隨之，我記下了當時的感受：
窗前的笑容，猶如曇花一現，但永留在我心間。願內在的品質，像您外表可觀，從此你我不分離。聽門聲抬頭見笑臉，定睛看疑神已茫然。
心撲撲紅雲飛上臉，暗中喜教室唯我獨佔。
那時候也真是幼稚得很，居然敢在心裡動「從此你我不分離」的念頭。而那句「暗中喜」，說的是幸虧當時教室裡只有我一個人，否則別人若是看到我那一瞬間的神慌意亂，那該多麼丟臉。
那段日子在我們的專用教室裡，晚自習時還遇到過一樁意外的事兒。一般來說，正規的大學生是不到我們中專班的教室來自習的。可一天晚上，一位書卷氣很濃、長得極帥的77屆大學生，突然也走進來，坐在我們教室裡自習——平時我們是在大階梯教室裡一起上基礎大課的。我們從來沒說過一句話，那時上大課我總是坐在後面，一般不與差不多年齡的男生講話，怕惹麻煩。對大齡、小齡、或已有婚配的男生卻不設妨。
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| 1980年4月在長風公園 |
當我收拾好書包準備離開時，他也迅速地合上書本，寸步不離地跟我出了教室。我走到大樓的大廳裡，把我的自行車拽出來，他就這麼靜靜地站在邊上，神色複雜，欲言又止。我推著車出了大樓，他也默默地跟了出來。在那個年代，我的自尊不容許我刻意去推著自行車、磨磨蹭蹭地等他先開口。我能做的，只是略微遲疑地放慢了兩步，看他依然沉浸在糾結中沒說話，我便不再耽擱，跨上自行車離開了。
奇怪的是，從此上基礎大課時就再也沒見過他。我心裡又是好奇又是納悶兒，過了些日子，便委婉地向一位平時坐在我身邊、正好是他們班的男生打聽：「那個曾經在大禮堂領唱表演《紅軍不怕遠征難》的男生，最近怎麼不見了呢？」
對方回答得乾脆：「哦，他早就出國了。」
那次在大禮堂，各年級都有演出。當時身為77級的他，在臺上意氣風發地合唱、領唱《紅軍不怕遠征難》，我們中專班的八九個同學也上去朗誦了一首詩。直到很久以後我才知道，我的這位迷戀的對象，第一次見到我、注意到我，竟然也正是在那次大禮堂演出的時候。
難怪1980年春天的那個正午，他在河西食堂的門洞裡看到我時會突然腳步遲疑、臉色煞白。原來那根本不是什麼萍水相逢的「一見鍾情」，而是他一眼認出了我——認出了那個不久前在大禮堂舞臺上朗誦詩歌的女孩。他們78級平時並不與我們中專班一起上大課，那次大禮堂的燈光下，是他看到我的第一眼。
幾年後，我偶然在校園裡騎車，竟然又迎面撞見了77級的那位。他也看到了我，四目相對，他的臉上帶著一種時過境遷的複雜表情。後來聽旁人提起，他是從美國回來度假的。我這才恍然大悟，敢情當年，他正是因為馬上就要拿到簽證出國了，才在臨走前的某個夜晚，破天荒地來到我們教室，似乎有話要對我說但是終究沒「機會」說。
命運擦肩而過，而我那時的心思，也早就被另一個身影填滿。
1980年12月5日晚上，我坐在靠窗那一遛的第二排靠走道的位置上晚自習。他終於第一次、也是唯一的一次走進了教室，坐在了中遛靠窗的第三排，也就是我的右後側。感受到背後那雙注視著我的眼睛，原本就不自信的我，覺得全身都不自在。
過了一會兒，他悄悄地遞過來一張自我介紹的字條，上面寫著他的名字。天哪，他的字跟他人一樣清俊儒雅，名字更是極有涵義。我低著頭，在紙上寫著回條。可看看自己的字，很是難看，寫了幾遍都不滿意，更覺得自己的名字與他相比，是那麼的俗氣。
随後，他用眼神示意我。我們一起走出了那間安靜的教室，來到了大樓外。在清冷的月光下，我們簡單地說了幾句話。本就拙嘴笨舌的我，在他面前更是緊張得語無無次，沒說幾句便慌亂地告別了。
此後，這段在心底轟轟烈烈的暗戀，便莫名的沒了下文。
1980年12月6日，我寫下的字條裡，有了他的名字。這場春日開始的邂逅，在冬夜的月光下，悄然歸於沉寂。
時光拖沓，感覺過了很久很久以後。在那些日子裡，我總是在憂鬱中苦苦等待，甚至開始後悔自己缺乏內涵、底蘊和魅力，常常自責往日的嫻靜怎麼一到了他面前，就只能退化成手足無措的慌亂。當時我正跟著一個同班女同學學刻閒章，便刻了一陰一陽兩個帶有他名字的藏書章。從1980年12月一直到1981年3月，那幾個月裡我反覆地雕刻，那也是我這輩子唯一刻過的一枚閒章。
可日子總不能就這麼一直毫無結尾地懸著。我心一橫，決定要讓他看看自食堂邂逅以來，這段日子裡我記錄下來的真實心情。1981年5月初，我鼓足了勇氣，在樓道裡截住他，塞給了他一疊紙片，並叮囑他下週還我。那都是我平日裡隨機記錄下的心情碎片，因此並非寫在精緻的本子裡，而是一張張大小不一、用途各異的零散紙片。當時情急，心裡想到什麼，手邊不論抓到什麼紙，便馬上寫下來。如今回頭看看，發覺只有這樣毫無防備的記錄才是最真實的；如果說是到了晚上，坐在溫馨的檯燈下以日記的形式去字斟句酌，往往就已經有了「假」的成分。
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| 對面二樓是階梯教室，我常躲在辦公室窗簾後面，遠眺他的身影 |
1981年5月18日，我在辦公室的隨筆上寫道：
憑簾望對窗，茫茫不見人。
忽覺心潮湧，唇頰依舊溫。
帶走三分色，勾卻一縷魂。
倚窗嘆夕陽，更愁度黃昏。
原文寫的是「憑簾望對門」，估計當時為了押韻隨手用了門字，其實看的是對面的窗戶。我其實並不會寫詩，但如今留下的那時的幾段文字中，多有一行一行的，乍一看還挺像那麼回事，讀起來最多算個順口溜罷了。「忽覺心潮湧」是那個身影突然出現在視野中時的身心感應；而「唇頰依舊溫」，則是寫字時內心滾燙、臉頰與嘴唇微微發熱的真實體會。
又幾個星期過去了。1981年5月28日下午，他突然在教室裡找到了我，隨後將我帶到了另一間空無一人的教室。他輕輕牽著我的手，將我帶到了教室門上那扇小視窗看不到的牆邊。他動作很輕，緩緩將我的雙手放到了我的身後。我們倆站得是那麼的近，只覺得一陣暈眩襲來——隨後，他吻了我。這個吻，是我這個小女子期待了太久太久的。是衣帶漸寬、是柔腸寸斷才盼來的。那吻裡，還帶著此前無數個被誤解的日子裡積攢下來的心酸與委屈。然而，他那天並沒有把那些小紙片還給我。
後來，在得知他是1968屆的高中生（老三屆）時，我的世界觀差點被顛覆了。我在紙上難以置信地寫道：「您是68屆的高中生，若不是特別的原因，一定是比我大七歲了。一時之間我有點不敢相信自己的耳朵。不！您看起來一點都不像比我大七歲、已經三十一歲的人。不！這完全不可能！在我看來您最多不過二十九歲罷了。這可怎麼辦？您知道後一定會不理我了吧！我喜歡您，但還不夠了解您。我希望能盡快互相了解，並能順利達到預期的效果。希望您的內在像您的外表一樣美，一樣富有吸引力。只要心心相印，情趣相投，在學業上有進步，並能帶我一把共同前進，大幾歲又算得了什麼？」
在打破了年齡與沉默的隔閡後，我們終於也有了花前月下的漫步與嘆息。但他從來不提前幾天預約，我們的見面往往極其隨性——總是他在我下班後必經之路上守著，等到了我，便約當晚在長風公園門口見。有時候，他會把一張上面寫著「6:45」和N的公共汽車票根，悄悄夾在我的自行車龍頭上。看到這個暗號，我便會在當晚六點三刻準時到公園赴約。可在公園裡散步時，我們也是一前一後地走著，始終保持著距離，似乎生怕被熟人看見。
有一晚，在長風公園樹叢的濃蔭下，光線昏暗，他只顧著往前走，竟然一腳直接跨進了一條長滿綠色浮萍的小河裡。走在後面的我甚至都來不及出聲提醒他。萬幸河水不深，他驚慌地從水裡爬上岸，那也是他在我面前唯一的一次「失態」。他的衣服上斑斑駁駁地掛著絲絲細細的綠色藻類，狼狽不堪，隨後慌忙跑去公園的盥洗室里涮洗。
小時候，母親不讓我與小朋友之間說悄悄話——「咬耳朵」，她會說：「說什麼那？大聲點兒！好話不背人，背人沒好話。」所以我不會輕聲細語地說悄悄話，當然也不是大聲的嚷嚷。可他總是要我貼著他的耳朵輕聲細語，還曾用文靜輕柔的上海話小聲提醒我：「講輕點。」
還有一次，我們在長風公園2號門外南側堆放建築木料的夾縫中，相擁而立說著話。突然，一個軍人出現在夾縫形成的小巷一頭，威嚴地叫我們出去，說我們在這裡談情說愛，影響了他的士兵。當時長風公園2號門前的路到了門口就不再往南通了，那裡駐紮著部隊。每天晚上，都有士兵在空地上打拳操練。我們躲在木料夾縫裡談情說愛，那些當兵的便不能安心鍛鍊了。
現實的蹉跎最終擊碎了這場虛幻的夢。他坦白，他的女友跑到他母親面前去哭訴。那位姑娘是他母親的小姊妹介紹的。他的父親是資本家，文革時期因挨鬥而去世，作為家裡的長子，他無論如何都不能再讓遭盡苦難的母親傷心。
哈代曾說：「呼喚人的和被呼喚的，很少能互相答應。」雖然心中早有預感，但當得知他最終決定要結婚時，我還是感到了徹頭徹尾的絕望。正如古書上寫的：「分開八片頂陽骨，傾下半桶冰雪水。」那一刻，我彷彿是一朵被人遺棄了的小花，已經徹底枯萎，失去了清香。
當然，如果愛情的獨木橋只能容許一個人通過，那麼我是懂得「搶先」的可恥的。我沒有過橋。
1981年5月29日，我在寫給他的信裡有一段摘抄的話，卻無比貼合我當時的心境：「真的，您如一根火柴，我像一支蠟燭，您點燃了我感情上的火焰，自己卻熄滅了。您叫我自己燒灼著自己，孤零零地淌著眼淚，在風中搖曳。我真盼望能有一股大風把我吹熄，免除我的痛苦。然而我卻只能，直到燃盡我的心，流盡我的淚的時候，才能熄滅對您的愛！」我把它錄在這裡，是想讓您分擔我的痛楚。願您幸福。
1982年2月6日，我向他要回了那些屬於我的小紙片。從1982年9月23日的來信中可以看出，他此時已經結婚了。
「曾經滄海難為水，除卻巫山不是雲。」
我們之間，從未一起看過一場電影，沒吃過一頓飯，更沒喝過一口水。因為我們所有的約會都在晚上七八點鐘，在公園裡或冷清的門口。我們也從未互贈過任何禮物。不知是哪裡看過這樣一句話：「既然痛苦是快樂的泉源，何必為痛苦而悲傷？」沒能過橋的我，也只能在彼岸，默默地祝他幸福。
時光一晃過去了十幾年。1998年3月我回國時，約了這位我曾經深深迷戀、並默默等候了數年的 N。12日那天，我們在華師大的校園裡漫步，在曾經一起走過的花園小徑、假山石洞、亭台水榭、荷花池等處轉了一圈，默默感慨著歲月的匆匆無情。
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| 河西食堂 |
走到後門邊，河西食堂還是老樣子。那裡，是我和他在1980年那個明媚春日裡，最初邂逅的地方。他不無感慨地說：「校園裡的這些學生，在我們相識的時候還沒出生呢。」
多年後我做过兩個關於他夢：
塵埃落定，山海相隔。我以為現實中的無疾而終會隨著跨國的柴米油鹽消散在歲月裡，可潛意識卻像一個執著的檔案管理員，在幾十年後的深夜裡，固執地為這段徒勞的愛補寫著一場場荒誕而又真實的續集。
第一個夢，發生在2009年11月4日的夜裡。
夢中不知是何年。那是在一個圖書館底樓的露臺上，竟然聚齊了四個人：N、一個後來成為他夫人的女子、我、以及另一個正主動追求他的年輕女孩。我們各自表情憂鬱，內心煩惱，三個女人都想嫁給N，而N正在猶豫中取捨。那個年輕的女孩很容易對付，不予考慮，因為我深知N的心性，他一向只喜歡矜持、含蓄、內向且迷離莫測的女子。
在夢裡，我依舊是那個高傲又自卑的自己。我敏銳地感覺到自己不如那位後來真的成為他夫人的女子，於是選擇了獨自走開。我躲進了圖書館三樓一間極其清靜的藏書室，落寞地坐在靠牆角邊的窗底下。牆角的地板上有個一尺半見方的開口，與下層連通，開口處搭放著一副竹梯子供人上下。
沒想到，N找到了我。他帶來了一堆畫具，說是他和「她」一起買給我的禮物——顯然，他此時已經做出了選擇。禮物用大張皺巴巴的報紙裹著，展開後裡面散亂地堆放著許多油畫筆、到處是尖扎扎的小號大頭針，還有好多星狀、塑料質地、閃著銀光的精細小顆粒。
「你知道我是一直愛你的呀。」夢裡的我對他說。
「我也愛你。」他看著我回答，「記住，10月X號我會再來看你。」
「我也愛你。」他看著我回答，「記住，10月X號我會再來看你。」
話音未落，他便急急忙忙地準備從牆角的開口處踩著竹梯下去。他不能多呆，懷裡還抱著一厚摞書，必須要偽裝成是為了「借書」才耽誤了時辰。慌亂間，一半的書從他手中滑落下去，他索性將剩下的書也一股腦散了下去。這反常的舉動引來了底下兩三個學者教授的不滿，他們試圖從開口處爬上來理論，被我慌忙用木蓋子一把蓋死。他們在下面努力推了幾把，見推不動，便作罷了。
轉過頭來，我順手撥弄了一下那堆沉甸甸的禮物，突然發現裡面藏著一個由紙張折疊出的、舊時抓鬮用的東西。那是把紙先折成長條，再90度對折三次而形成的紙阄兒。
我輕輕地展開它，才發現它是由好多張極薄的紙片組成的。每張紙上都書寫著紊亂、局促的字跡，含蓄而隱晦地記錄了當年寫字人N那種複雜、矛盾、焦灼的心理。整體感覺字裡行間洋溢著他對我的愛——有埋怨我當年沒有對他明顯地示過愛，有對彼此年齡差別的重重憂慮，有……
我還沒能全部看完，便從夢中悵然醒來。
第二個夢，隔了八年，來到2017年2月2日。
夢見N來到了我們學校。我們班上的同學居然都知道我們過去「好過」。他在隔壁教室裡，我悄悄跟身邊的同學指著說：「那就是N。」大夥兒一邊議論一邊散去，最後隔壁教室裡只剩下N和另外一個男生。
N說要帶我們去吃午飯。他正站在教室門口一個高腳小木桌旁，翻看著上面幾張外賣店的彩色菜單。我站在一旁暗暗揣摩，自己作為東道主，是否應該盡地主之誼請他吃頓飯。此時N突然轉過頭問我，有沒有什麼淘汰的舊電腦，可以用來「換頓飯吃」。我依稀記得自己確實有一台過時的，便答應帶他上樓去找。
剛上了二樓，迎面撞見班上的一個男同學。我向他打聽那台舊電腦的下落，他一抬眼看到跟在我身後的N，臉色頓時變得很不高興，二話不說扭頭就走，丟下一句：「那電腦就在你自己的辦公室裡。」
無奈之下，我和N只能下樓。詭異的是，上樓時明明是寬敞正常的樓梯，下樓時卻突然變成了直上直下的圓柱形鐵索梯。那樓梯沒有封閉，周圍只環繞著一棱一棱的白色鐵圈，僅容單人上下。我走在前面，雙手一撒，直接順著鐵桿「出溜」了下去。通道極深，好在只要雙手用力一抓就能隨時停住。快到底部時，迎面遇到一個小女孩正努力往上爬，我側過身避讓她，那一棱棱鐵圈竟然極具靈性地跟著膨大了一點，讓我們得以在狹窄的懸空裡錯身而過。
雙腳落地的那一瞬，耳邊突然傳來一陣清脆的瓷器碎裂聲——低頭一看，是幾把精緻的小藍花瓷湯匙，碎了一地。
隨後，場景切換到了一個宛如舊博物館的大廳走廊裡。牆壁陳舊、剝落，毫無裝飾，窗子的鐵框早就生鏽、扭曲變形，翹在那裡怎麼也關不上。N和同行的那個男生一邊朝前走，一邊回頭說要帶我去吃飯。
而我手裡，此時莫名其妙地握著一副不太乾淨的舊刀叉，整個人目光呆滯地站在原地。旁邊那個男生突然感慨了一句：「時間過得真快啊，四年前，我們也是想去吃飯的。」
啊，原來已經四年過去了。那頓N試圖用我的舊電腦去兌換的午飯，我們最終到底吃成了沒有？在夢裡，我竟然怎麼也記不得了。
話音剛落，他們兩人便推開那扇壞掉的窗戶，利落地翻了出去，消失在窗外。而我，依然呆呆地被留在了那條空闊、陳舊、泛著鐵鏽味的長廊裡，孤零零地看著那扇破損的生鏽鋼窗。
夢醒前最後的念頭，我居然還在反覆琢磨著：這扇窗太破了，我是不是該找人來裝修一下了？
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Futile Love: A Fleeting Glance in Hexi Dining Hall and Yearning Scattered on Scrap Papers
It was a brilliant, sun-drenched noon in the spring of 1980 when I first stepped through the side door of the Hexi Dining Hall, right facing the dishwashing sinks. Coming in from the blinding light outside, my eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the sharp contrast of the shadows indoors. I could only discern that within the slice of sunlight piercing the doorway, someone was walking straight toward me.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second—and it was that subtle pause that instantly caught my attention. Barely two meters away stood a tall, fair-skinned, and deeply scholarly young man. In one hand, he carried a silver aluminum thermos; in the other, he held his tiffin set tucked into a light-blue cloth pouch. Behind the lenses of his spectacles, a reserved, searching gaze swept rapidly over me from head to toe. Under his scrutiny, my face flushed hot in an instant. Simultaneously, every ounce of color drained from his face, leaving him utterly pale. It felt as though a bolt of lightning had struck us both concurrently, and time itself quietly froze in that single frame. From that day forward, our eyes would constantly meet across the campus—in the dining hall, along the newspaper corridors, inside the reading rooms, or through the tiny glass windows of classroom doors. On the surface, every encounter seemed entirely accidental, and we both carried ourselves with practiced nonchalance. Yet, the absolute second our gazes locked, my heart would instantly lapse into a frantic, wild hammering.
During lunchtime, the very first thing students did upon entering the dining hall was leave their thermoses on a long table near the entrance, retrieving them only upon departure. Glancing over that table packed with weathered, bamboo-cased thermoses, his pristine aluminum-shelled one stood out like a beacon. The moment I walked into the dining hall, my eyes would reflexively sweep across that table. Seeing his thermos would cause my heart to swell and my face to burn; missing it left me with a profound sense of loss. There was no need to search for him frantically among the crowds; by sheer intuition, I could always discern exactly where he stood. More often than not, the moment I lifted my gaze, it would crash straight into his. His demeanor—seemingly indifferent, rigidly proper, yet filled with a gaze that watched me intently from behind his glasses—carried a fatal, mesmerizing attraction for someone as worldly uninitiated as I was back then.
At 8:00 AM on Friday, May 2, 1980, I was reading inside the ground-floor reading room of the Physics Building. A figure walked in and came to a sudden halt directly across from my desk. Instinctively, I looked up and locked eyes with him. In an instant, a scarlet blush painted my face, and my little heart began to thump uncontrollably. His face remained perfectly pale and unbothered as he casually turned on his heel and walked back out. Right then and there, I recorded that fleeting moment in a notebook:
A rigid composure hides a gaze astray,
Whenever we meet, his eyes hunt my way.
I wonder, what manner of scholar is he?
Could a fleeting blossom truly disrupt his decree?
I lower my eyes, feigning to read once more,
Yet looking up, I catch the same gaze as before.
Like springtime peach blossoms, a blush stains my face,
A riddle of youth I still fail to untangle or trace.— Written in the ECNU Physics Department Reading Room. This was the very first physical memory of him I ever committed to paper.
At first, our connection was limited to these distant exchanges of glances. But about a semester later, he began drawing physically closer to me. For instance, along the newspaper corridors, he would read the articles while slowly, seamlessly drifting over until he stood right beside me, continuing to read in absolute silence. In those moments, a wave of dizziness and panic would overwhelm me, to the point where the printed characters on the newspaper seemed to detach and fly right off the page. During lectures, I always sat in the second row of the second column, right next to the door. Through the tiny inspection window built into the classroom door, that stranger's seemingly casual, passing gaze would frequently appear. Whenever our eyes crossed, my heart would skip wildly, and a scorching heat would rush to my cheeks. Once or twice, he even brought his lunch bowl over to the long table where I was sitting, taking a seat directly opposite me, merely inches away. Yet, he never uttered a single word. Paralyzed with tension, I couldn't bring myself to lift my head, let alone continue eating. Unable to endure it for even a minute, I would hurriedly pack my things and flee under the guise of calm composure.
On November 5, 1980, I penned a piece titled Untitled:
Framed by the window, falling leaves multiply my dismay,
Leaning against the doorframe, withered stalks waste my day away.
How could a casual onlooker ever fathom this yearning so deep?
Through the freezing night, I listen to the distant bell tolls as I weep.
In dreams, the faint warmth of spring feels so vast and clear,
Yet waking up, only the chill of the autumn wind is near.
Hazily, those profound, soulful eyes reappear in my sight,
Casting a lonely, solitary shadow beneath the brilliant moonlight.
On the morning of November 7, 1980, the avenue leading to the Physics Building was teeming with students rushing to their morning lectures. I was weaving through the crowd on my 28-inch, masculine, black-framed Permanent bicycle, having entered through the back gate. Spotting him walking ahead of me, my heart instantly resumed its wild hammering. Normally, I would have taken a detour to avoid him, but that morning, some inexplicable force seemed to pull at me, drawing me uncontrollably right alongside him. I had assumed he was heading to the Physics Building for class, meaning there was still a long, straight stretch of road ahead.
But just as my front wheel pulled past him, by some cruel trick of perfect timing, he suddenly spun to his left. My bicycle immediately blocked his path, and the frame may have lightly grazed him. I slammed on the brakes, planting my left toe firmly on the ground. By all accounts of civility, I should have apologized right then and there. Instead, we merely locked eyes for a fraction of a second before breaking contact—our expressions remaining entirely, deceptively serene. The apology that had rushed to my lips completely evaporated. In absolute silence, we parted ways; he turned toward the large lecture hall in the Chemistry Building by the roadside, and I rode away. To any casual passerby, it must have looked bizarre—the one who caused the collision offered no apology, and the one who was struck showed no resentment.
The next day, November 8, consumed by guilt, I wrote a small apology on a scrap of paper and slipped it to him when he appeared in the hallway of the Physics Building. His face, usually so pale, flushed a rare, vibrant red. Two days later, on November 10, as he was browsing the newspaper corridors, he seamlessly slipped me a return note. In crisp, elegant handwriting, it read: "A trivial matter. Do not worry about it."
On the morning of November 13, we had an exam. I was the very first person to hand in my test paper. Being the first to finish always brought a sweet sense of vanity and satisfaction, putting me in an exceptionally bright mood. The moment I stepped out of the classroom, I ran straight into him. The hallway was dead silent, and he was entirely alone. Failing to mask my triumphant mood in time, a brilliant smile broke across my face. That was the very first time I had ever smiled at him.
Yet by nightfall, a heavy wave of shame took over, and I wrote:
The very first to finish, I walked out the door,
Only to encounter that familiar scholar once more.
For no reason at all, a bright smile left my face,
Replaced by a half-day of shame I could not erase.— Evening, Nov 13, 1980. The "shame" I felt here carried far more self-reproach than mere maidenly shyness.
By November 27, 1980, I fell ill. My letters from that night recorded the sheer agony: "I am sick, and there is no way for me to see you. I miss you so terribly. Lying in bed thinking of you, I can do nothing but weep in silence. How I wish you would suddenly appear before my eyes; your presence would surely alleviate so much of my physical pain. Yet, I wonder if I am being utterly frivolous? I don’t even know your surname or your given name! I know nothing of your ambitions, your tastes, or your passions. I have been far too reckless. Where on earth have I anchored this love of mine? To this day, I still haven't figured out what it is that I truly love. Yet regardless of anything, I feel that I need you—I simply cannot exist in this mortal world without you!"
At 2:15 PM on December 4, 1980, I was studying entirely alone in the classroom. Hearing a faint rustle at the door, I looked up. Peering through the small inspection window was his calm, gentle smile—the very first smile he had ever offered me. Instantly, I captured the sensation:
"The smile at the window was like a night-blooming cereus—vanishing in a flash, yet etched eternally in my heart. May your inner character match your beautiful exterior, so that from this day forward, you and I shall never part."Hearing the door, I looked up to find a gentle face,
Staring intently, my mind spun out of time and space.
My heart pounded wildly as a crimson cloud painted my cheek,
Secretly rejoicing that I was the only one in the room to speak.
I was incredibly naive back then, actually daring to harbor the grand romance of "never parting." And that line about "secretly rejoicing" simply meant that thank goodness the classroom was completely empty; had anyone else witnessed my absolute panic and loss of composure in that instant, it would have been utterly mortifying.
Around that time, a peculiar incident occurred during night self-study inside our dedicated Classroom. Generally speaking, regular full-time undergraduate students never set foot in our technical diploma track's room to study. Yet one evening, a remarkably handsome undergraduate from the Class of '77, a young man possessing a profound scholarly aura, walked in and took a seat. We usually shared large foundational lecture classes together in the tiered amphitheater. We had never exchanged a single word. Back then, I always sat at the back during those massive lectures and strictly avoided speaking to any male classmates around my age to keep trouble at bay. However, I lowered my guard around older, younger, or married men.
The moment I packed my bags to leave, he swiftly snapped his books shut and followed me right out of the room, matching my pace. When I reached the main lobby and pulled my bicycle out, he stood right beside me, completely frozen in hesitation, with words seemingly trapped on the tip of his tongue. I pushed my bike out of the building, and he silently followed me into the night air. In those days, my stubborn self-respect simply wouldn’t allow me to artificially linger, pushing my bicycle along in a desperate attempt to wait for a man to find his voice. The absolute most I could bring myself to do was slightly hesitate for two brief steps. Seeing that he remained paralyzed in silence, I refused to dawdle any further; I mounted my seat and rode away into the dark.
Strangely, from that night forward, I never saw him in our large lecture classes again. Filled with a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment, I eventually approached a male student who sat near me and happened to be in his department. I asked tactfully, "That classmate who used to lead the choir in the grand auditorium, singing 'The Red Army Fears Not the Trials of the Long March'—how come he hasn't been around lately?" The answer came bluntly: "Oh, he went abroad ages ago."
That brought my mind back to that grand performance in the main auditorium. He had been standing center stage, radiating charisma as he led the choir through those stirring revolutionary verses, while eight or nightn of us from the technical diploma track had also gone up to recite a poem. It wasn’t until much later that I uncovered the truth: the man who occupied my every thought had actually seen me and noticed me for the very first time during that exact auditorium performance.
Suddenly, his sudden hesitation and shock in the doorway of the Hexi Dining Hall back in the spring of 1980 made perfect sense. It wasn't some mystical, romantic case of "love at first sight" at all. He had literally recognized me—he remembered the girl who had stood beneath the auditorium lights reciting poetry. Since the Class of '78 didn't share those massive lecture classes with us, that performance had been the solitary window through which he first discovered my existence.
It wasn't until several years later, while riding my bicycle across campus, that I unexpectedly crossed paths with that student from the Class of ’77 again. His eyes locked onto mine, and his face wore a distinct, lingering expression of 'time has washed everything away.' I later heard from others that he was back on vacation from the United States. It was only then that the pieces finally clicked together in my mind: as it turned out, because he was on the absolute precipice of leaving the country, he had broken all protocols to enter our classroom that evening before his departure, seemingly carrying words he wanted to tell me—but in the end, the "opportunity" never came.
Yet, destinies crossed like passing ships, and my heart at the time was already entirely consumed by another silhouette altogether.
On the evening of December 5, 1980, I was sitting in the row next to the windows, in the second seat right along the aisle for night self-study. He finally walked into the classroom—for the first and only time in his life. He took a seat in the third column by the window, three rows back, placing him right over my right shoulder. Feeling that pair of eyes watching me from behind, my already insecure self went entirely rigid; my whole body felt completely unnatural.
After a while, he quietly passed a self-introduction note forward. Written upon it was his name. Heavens, his handwriting was just like his bearing—crisp, elegant, and deeply scholarly. His name carried profound historical weight, derived from the regnal titles of two great emperors of the Qing Dynasty. Keeping my head buried low, I began scratching out a reply on a piece of scrap paper. But looking at my own handwriting, it felt terribly clumsy, and no matter how many times I rewrote it, I remained deeply dissatisfied. Compared to his elegant name, my own felt so painfully ordinary.
He gave me a subtle nod, signaling for us to step outside. Together, we walked out of that hushed classroom and into the crisp, cool night air outside the building. Under the stark moonlight, we exchanged a few brief sentences. Already clumsy with words, I became entirely incoherent in his presence. After a few stilted remarks, I said a panicked goodbye and fled.
After that night, this stormy, unspoken romance that had consumed my entire inner world simply and mysteriously dissolved into nothingness, leaving no sequel at all.
His name appears in the note written on December 6, 1980. This encounter that had sparked in the brilliant light of spring quietly drifted into the winter night, dissolving into absolute silence.
Time dragged on heavily, and it felt as though an eternity had passed. During those long days, I waited in a state of constant melancholy, filled with a sudden, painful regret over my supposed lack of depth, substance, and charm. I endlessly reproached myself: Why is it that the quiet composure I usually possess completely disintegrates into a frantic, clumsy panic the moment I stand before him? Around that time, I was learning the art of stone seal carving from my female classmate. I carved two library signet seals containing his name—one in Yin (white characters/intaglio) and one in Yang (red characters/relief). From December 1980 to March 1981, I carved and recarved those stones repeatedly. To this day, those remain the only personal pastime seals I have ever carved in my entire life.
Yet, I knew our story couldn't simply remain suspended in midair without any resolution. Steeling my resolve, I decided that he needed to see the unvarnished record of my heart since that fateful encounter at the dining hall. In early May of 1981, I summoned every ounce of courage I possessed, cornered him in the hallway, and slipped a thick stack of paper slips into his hand, telling him to return them to me the following week. Those were all spontaneous records of my raw emotions, penned on whatever scraps were available—scraps of varying sizes and purposes, ripped out on impulse. Looking back, I realize that only such uncalculated records capture true authenticity; by the time one sits down at night beneath a warm, cozy lamp to meticulously construct a formal diary entry, a subtle element of "performance" has already crept into the words.
On May 18, 1981, I jotted down a brief verse in the office:
Leaning against the curtain, I peer through the opposite pane,
Yet across the vastness, I search for his figure in vain.
Suddenly, a turbulent wave surges within my chest,
While a lingering warmth leaves my lips and cheeks possessed.
He steals away three parts of my color with his grace,
And hooks a strand of my soul into his embrace.
Propped against the window, I sigh at the setting sun,
Dreading the heavy twilight, before the night has begun.
In the original scrap, I had written "opposite door" purely to satisfy the rhyme scheme, but in reality, I was staring at the window across the way. Truth be told, I never knew how to write poetry; yet looking back at the surviving lines from those years, they were arranged line by line, looking quite convincing at first glance, though they were merely rhythmic jingles at best. That line, "a turbulent wave surges within my chest," described the sudden biological rush whenever his silhouette entered my field of vision; while "a lingering warmth leaves my lips and cheeks possessed" captured the literal sensation while writing—a sudden, creeping flush that would heat my face and lips at the mere thought of him.
Several more weeks slipped away. On the afternoon of May 28, 1981, he finally sought me out in the classroom and led me into another entirely vacant classroom. Gently taking my hands, he guided me over to a blind spot along the wall—completely out of sight from the tiny glass inspection window on the door. Moving with profound gentleness, he placed both of my hands behind my back. We stood so close that a wave of sheer, overwhelming dizziness crashed over me. And then, he kissed me. It was a kiss this young maiden had anticipated for an eternity. It was a kiss won through sleepless nights of pining, through a heart broken a thousand times over. Beneath the weight of that embrace lay all the bitter heartache and grievance accumulated from months of being completely misunderstood. Yet, even after that embrace, he did not return my scrap-paper notes.
Later, when I discovered that he was a high school graduate from the legendary Class of 1968—the "Old Three Classes" disrupted by history—my entire perception fractured. In sheer disbelief, I scrawled onto a page: "You are a high school graduate from the Class of '68. Unless there is some extraordinary reason, you must be seven years older than me. For a moment, I simply cannot believe my ears. No! You don't look a day over twenty-nine, let alone thirty-one! No! It is entirely impossible! What am I to do now? Once you realize this, you will surely stop talking to me! I like you, but I still do not know you well enough. I hope we can understand one another deeply as soon as possible to achieve our shared hopes. I pray that your inner character matches the beauty of your exterior, remaining just as mesmerizing. As long as our hearts beat as one, our passions align, and we progress together in our studies, what does a difference of a few years matter?"
With the barriers of age and silence shattered, we finally entered our own era of "moonlight and shared sighs." Yet, he never made advance arrangements to meet me days prior; our meetings were entirely spontaneous. He would simply wait along my route home after work, catch me, and ask to meet at the entrance of Changfeng Park that very evening. Occasionally, he would take a used bus ticket stub with only the letter "N" and "6:45" wrote on it and wedge it into the handlebars of my bicycle. Spotting this silent cue, I would reliably show up at the park entrance at precisely a quarter to seven. Yet even as we strolled through the park grounds, we walked in a strict, single-file line—one in front of the other—as if terrified of being spotted by anyone we knew.
One evening, deep within the heavy shadows of the park's dense groves where the light was dreadfully dim, he was walking ahead, completely oblivious to his surroundings, and stepped straight into a small river carpeted entirely with green duckweed. Walking behind him, I didn't even have time to utter a warning. Mercifully, the water wasn't deep. He scrambled back onto the bank in sheer, frantic panic—the singular time he ever "lost his composure" in my presence. His clothes were completely mottled with long, thin strands of green algae, looking utterly disheveled. In a flurry of embarrassment, he rushed off to the park restrooms to scrub himself clean.
When I was a child, my mother never allowed my friends and me to whisper secrets—or "bite each other's ears," as the saying goes. She would always bark: "What on earth are you saying? Speak up! Nothing good is ever spoken behind closed doors, and if it’s good, there’s no need to hide it." Because of this, I never learned how to speak in those soft, delicate lovers' whispers. Of course, that didn't mean I would shout or make a scene either—I simply believed in being direct and transparent. Yet, he always wanted me to press close to his ear and speak softly, occasionally whispering in his gentle, calm Shanghai dialect: "Gang qing di" (Speak softer).
On another occasion, we were standing embraced in the narrow gap between piles of construction timber just south of the park's No. 2 gate, speaking quietly. Suddenly, a PLA soldier appeared at one end of the timber alley, sternly ordering us out. He claimed that our romantic tryst in the shadows was disrupting his men. Back then, the road in front of Changfeng Park's No. 2 gate terminated right at the entrance, and a military garrison was stationed there. Every evening, soldiers would practice boxing drills in the open clearing. Because we were hiding in the crevices of the timber to share our romance, the young conscripts couldn’t concentrate on their training.
Eventually, the reality of his life fractured our fragile dream. He confessed that his girlfriend had gone to his mother to weep and plead. The girl had been introduced by a close family friend of his mother. His father had been a capitalist who was targeted and passed away during the brutal struggles of the Cultural Revolution. As the eldest son, he simply could not bring himself to break his long-suffering mother's heart.
Thomas Hardy once wrote, "The call is seldom answered by the caller's true counterpart." Although a premonition had long taken root in my heart, the definitive news of his impending marriage still brought a sense of absolute, crushing despair. It was exactly as the ancient texts described: "As if my skull were split into eight pieces, and half a bucket of ice water were poured directly down my spine." In that moment, I felt like a small, discarded blossom—completely withered, its fragrance entirely lost.
Of course, if the single-log bridge of love can only permit one person to pass, I knew the utter shame of trying to scramble to the front. I did not cross that bridge.
On May 29, 1981, I wrote him a letter containing my final, desperate resignation. Even though it was a passage I had transcribed from elsewhere, it mirrored my soul flawlessly: "Truly, you are like a match, and I am like a candle. You ignited the flames of my emotion, only to extinguish your own. You left me to scorch myself, weeping solitary tears, flickering wildly in the wind. How I yearn for a great gust of wind to blow me out and end my suffering. Yet, I can do nothing but burn my heart down to ash and exhaust every tear before my love for you can finally be extinguished." I recorded it there simply so he might share a fraction of my agony. I wished him happiness.
On February 6, 1982, I finally asked him to return those little paper slips that belonged to me. Those fragments of paper—which once held the manic thumping of a young girl's heart— were returned to me flawlessly. By his letter dated September 23, 1982, it was clear he had already married.
"Having crossed the vast ocean, all other waters pale; save for the clouds over Mount Wu, no other mist can compare."
Between us, we had never watched a single movie together, never shared a meal, and never even drank a single mouthful of water. All of our dates occurred strictly between seven and eight o'clock in the evening, within the park or by its cold gates. We had never exchanged a single gift. I once read a line somewhere: "Since pain is the fountainhead of joy, why weep over sorrow?" Unable to cross that bridge, I could only stand on the opposite bank, silently wishing him happiness from afar.
More than a decade slipped away in a flash. In March of 1998, during a trip back to China, I arranged to meet N—the man I had once loved so deeply and waited for in silent longing for years. On the twelfth of that month, we strolled together through the ECNU campus. We walked a full circle through the garden paths, the artificial rock grottos, the pavilions, the stone bridges, and the lotus ponds we had once trodden, quietly marvelling at how ruthlessly time had slipped through our fingers.
As we reached the back gate, the Hexi Dining Hall stood exactly as it always had. There, within that doorway, was the exact place where our two worlds had first collided on that brilliant, sun-drenched spring day in 1980. With a deep, wistful sigh, he remarked, "The students walking around this campus right now weren't even born yet when we first met."
Epilogue: Two Dreams
The dust has long since settled, separated by vast oceans and mountains. I once believed that an unresolved romance in reality would naturally dissolve over the years, washed away by the mundane realities of domestic life abroad. Yet, the subconscious operates like a fiercely stubborn archivist. Decades later, in the dead of night, it stubbornly pens absurd yet agonizingly real sequels to this futile love.
The first dream occurred on the night of November 4, 2009.
Time had no meaning in this space. I found myself on the ground-floor terrace of our alma mater’s library. Astonishingly, four people were gathered there: N, the woman who would later become his wife, myself, and another young girl who was actively pursuing him. Each of us wore a melancholy expression, consumed by our own inner turmoil. All three women longed to marry N, and N stood there, paralyzed by indecision. The younger girl was easily managed and dismissed; I knew N’s temperament well—he only ever loved women who were reserved, subtle, introverted, and inscrutable.
Even in my sleep, I remained that same person—fiercely proud yet deeply insecure. Sensing that I was no match for the woman who would ultimately become his wife, I chose to walk away alone. I hid inside a profoundly quiet archives room on the third floor of the library, sitting dejectedly on the floorboards right beneath a window in the corner. In that very corner of the floor lay a small square opening, about a foot and a half wide, connecting to the level below. A single bamboo ladder was propped against the opening for people to climb up and down.
To my surprise, N managed to trace my steps and find me. He brought along a set of oil painting materials, explaining that it was a gift he and "she" had purchased for me together—clear evidence that, in this realm, he had already made his choice. The gift was wrapped in large sheets of crumpled newspaper, upon which lay a scattered mess of oil brushes, sharp little dressmaker pins, and countless tiny, star-shaped silver plastic beads glittering in the light.
"You know that I have always loved you," the dream-version of myself said to him.
"I love you too," he replied, looking into my eyes. "Remember, I will come back to see you on October X."
"I love you too," he replied, looking into my eyes. "Remember, I will come back to see you on October X."
Before the words could fully settle, he hurriedly prepared to descend through the opening via the bamboo ladder. He couldn't linger; he held a thick stack of books in his arms, forced to pretend he had merely been delayed by "borrowing books." In his haste, half of the books slipped from his grasp and plummeted below; he simply let go of the remaining ones, letting them scatter downward. This erratic behavior drew the ire of two or three professors below, who attempted to climb up the ladder to confront him. In a panic, I slammed the wooden trapdoor shut over the opening. They pushed fiercely against it from below a few times, but finding it immovable, they finally gave up.
Turning back, I idly sorted through the heavy pile of gifts. Hidden among them, I suddenly discovered a paper lot used for drawing straws in the old days—made by folding paper into a long strip and bending it three times at ninety degrees.
Gently, I unfolded the paper charm, only to find it was composed of several layers of incredibly thin tissue paper. Every single page was covered in frantic, cramped handwriting, subtly and cryptically chronicling the complex, conflicted, and agonizing psychology of the writer, N. Yet beneath the tension, the spaces between the lines overflowed with a desperate love for me—reproaching me for never having openly demonstrated my affection back then, weighing the heavy anxieties of our age difference, worrying over...
Before I could read to the very end, I woke up with a heavy heart.
The second dream came eight years later, on February 2, 2017.
I dreamt that N came to visit our school. Miraculously, my current classmates all knew that he and I had once "been together." He was in an adjacent room, and I whispered to those beside me, "That's N." My classmates dispersed as they chatted, eventually leaving only N and another male student in the room next door.
N offered to take us out to lunch. He was standing by a small, high-legged wooden table near the classroom entrance, flipping through a few colorful takeout menus. Standing nearby, I quietly debated whether I should fulfill my duty as host and treat him to a meal. Just then, N turned to me and asked if I had an obsolete, discarded computer lying around that he could "trade for a meal." Recalling that I did indeed possess an old machine, I agreed to take him upstairs to find it.
The moment we reached the second floor, we ran straight into a male classmate from my track. I asked him about the whereabouts of the old computer. The second his eyes landed on N standing behind me, his expression darkened with intense displeasure. Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked away, throwing a cold sentence over his shoulder: "That computer is in your own office."
Left with no choice, N and I had to head back down. Bizarrely, the stairwell that had been perfectly wide and normal on the way up had transformed into a vertical, cylindrical iron cage ladder. It wasn't enclosed; it was merely surrounded by a series of white iron rings, allowing only one person to descend at a time. Taking the lead, I let go of the bars with both hands and simply slid straight down the shaft. The drop was incredibly deep, though I could stop myself at any moment by firmly gripping the bars. Near the bottom, I encountered a young girl trying to climb up. As I leaned sideways to let her pass, the iron rings miraculously expanded by a fraction, allowing us to cross paths suspended in that narrow space.
The exact second my feet touched the ground, a sharp, crystalline shatter echoed in my ears. Looking down, I saw several delicate porcelain spoons painted with blue orchids, shattered into pieces on the floorboards.
Instantly, the scene shifted to the corridor of what looked like an old, decaying museum. The walls were weathered and peeling, entirely devoid of decoration. The steel frames of the windows were thoroughly rusted and warped, jutting outward so violently that they could no longer be shut. N and the other student continued walking ahead, calling back that they were taking me to eat.
Yet there I stood in the middle of that vast, empty hallway, holding a set of unwashed, tarnished silverware, my eyes entirely glazed over. The other student suddenly sighed, "How time flies. Four years ago, we wanted to go out for a meal too."
Ah, so four years had already slipped away. That meal—the one N had tried to purchase by trading away my old computer—did we ever actually get to eat it? In the dream, I couldn't remember at all.
The moment the words left his mouth, the two of them pushed open the broken window, nimbly climbed out, and vanished into the open air. And I was left entirely alone, stranded in that vast, desolate corridor thick with the scent of rust, staring blankly at the ruined, decaying steel frame.
Before waking, my final, lingering thought was purely practical: This window is far too broken. I really ought to hire someone to come and renovate it.
特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。
Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.
第三百六十三篇
