I quickly shut the notebook, afraid someone might see.
The week-long military training was wrapping up soon. Our school organized battalions by class—mine was in the Sixth Battalion. The evening before it ended, our drill instructor organized a singing competition. The Fifth and Sixth Battalions were grouped together. The Fifth Battalion... there was... I felt an inexplicable flutter of excitement. Both our classes were pretty quiet, with no one volunteering to perform, while the battalion next to us was buzzing with activity. A cute girl sang a popular love song. Their cheers and excitement came in waves, and our classmates kept glancing over at them. Perhaps finding the atmosphere too heavy, our instructor couldn't stand it anymore and started dragging people out for public performances. I sat on the grass with my knees pulled to my chest, keeping my head down, terrified of being called on. The instructor seemed reluctant to call on shy girls, so he pulled out a boy instead. "Someone this handsome isn't going to perform for us?" I peeked at the boy who'd been pulled out. His familiar face was somewhat blurry in the dim light of the sports field. I slowly raised my head and, bathed in the moonlight, openly began studying him, just like everyone else watching. He stood there surrounded by the crowd, silent for a moment. He lowered his head, seemingly deep in thought. Then, appearing a little shy, he slightly lifted his head and gave the instructor a small smile. He didn't decline anymore. A low male voice hummed a melody. He still kept his eyes slightly downcast while singing. The crowd fell silent, basking in this brief, moving moment. Someone whispered, "What song is this? It sounds so good." I said nothing, simply watching him, focused on his singing. It was "Tong Hua Shun." I recognized it.
"If iron could be ground into a needle,
If one is willing to wait,
If one is willing to love deeply,
Is it possible, then,
To move even a heart of stone?"
He sang with downcast eyes. Despite the pitch-black night, I felt like he was glowing. During evening study hall, I took out my planner again.
September 7, 2018 — Friday — Sunny
"Shadow Boy"
"Tong Hua Shun"
...
After military training ended, we could go home that afternoon. The school bell rang, and I grabbed my packed backpack and rushed toward the gate. Students poured out of the school in a flood. Every second of freedom was precious. I moved like lightning, becoming the first one out of the school. Stepping through the gates of Sycamore City High, I suddenly felt that even the air outside was sweet, and the breeze carried the scent of Cha Bai Dao. I was the first one on the Number 217 bus, still catching my breath. I slung my backpack around to my front. My home was five stops away from school. My stop was called Moon Bay Community. The Number 217 bus's terminus was Sycamore City High. A bumpy twenty-minute bus ride was the distance between home and school. On the way home, you could see elementary school kids walking in groups, couples snuggled together whispering sweet nothings, mothers rushing their children to tutoring classes, and elderly folks leaning on their canes, smiling and chatting about who knows what. Sitting on the bus going home, the exhaustion of the entire week seemed to dissipate in these slices of everyday life. After staring out the window for a while, my eyes grew tired. I leaned against the window and shifted my head slightly. Without meaning to, I looked across the aisle—and saw the shadow boy who'd just gotten on. He walked step by step from the front of the bus toward me, then stopped at a spot not too close, not too far, and held onto a pole. His school uniform jacket hung slightly open. No flashy accessories, nothing attention-grabbing, yet somehow you couldn't look away. For that twenty-minute ride, for the first time, I didn't stare at the scenery outside. I just stared at his side profile, lost in thought. He seemed to have a kind of magic. A magic that drew my eyes to him again and again. That night, I sat at my bedroom desk, the warm light of my desk lamp illuminating the prep book I'd opened—where I'd only written down a single multiple-choice answer. A lone "C" sat on the page. I held my pen, but my thoughts had drifted out the window toward the moon. I pushed the window open, and the cool night breeze drifted in. That night I went home, I had a very strange dream. I rarely dreamed, and when I did, the dreams were simple—gone the moment I woke up. But this time, when I woke up and sat in bed, the dream was vividly clear. The dream was filled with books—piled high, stacking up as tall as a building, towering endlessly upward. They were somewhat haphazard, making it hard to find a place to step. Formulas I recognized and open books floated in the air. Calligraphy scrolls were suspended in the sea of books. I looked down—there was an ink mark on the ground stretching forward, its end obscured by the stacked books. In my dream, I kept pushing aside what felt like clouds and mist, walking backward cautiously. Until I saw a figure sitting in a chair, with a desk in front of them, a book open on its surface. It was somewhat dazzling. I strained to look ahead, one hand slightly shielding my eyes. At the edge of the light, someone stood against the glare. The figure raised its head, and I looked up too. I was stunned. That face I saw so often—familiar yet strange—appeared in my vision, half-hidden by walls of books. I stopped in my tracks, momentarily forgetting what I was supposed to do. I just stared at him.Thinking of him by day, dreaming of him by night? How could I dream about him? He seemed to frown slightly, looking puzzled. As our eyes met, he walked toward me, silhouetted against the light. Then the world spun, and I woke up.
Sitting on the bus heading back to school, I was drowsy. I couldn't stop thinking about that strange dream. It was almost my stop. I opened my eyes, rested my chin on one hand, still in a daze, and turned my head to stretch my neck. And there he was—standing right beside me. The shadow boy. He stood next to my seat, one hand holding the pole, the other resting on the back of my chair, eyes closed, resting. Seeing it was him, I inexplicably froze, sitting perfectly still, barely daring to breathe. My heart raced for no reason. I deliberately looked away, refusing to stare. But I couldn't resist sneaking peeks. His eyelashes were so long. The young man stood in the aisle, the bus packed with students in the same uniform. Yet somehow he stood out even more. His jacket zipper was pulled up to his chest. The slightly low collar revealed a hint of collarbone. On the right side of his chest, his school ID badge was neatly pinned. I squinted, trying to read it, unconsciously craning my neck forward. Suddenly the driver hit the brakes. I was sitting down, but because I'd been leaning forward, the jolt sent my head straight toward the metal handrail. Unexpectedly, I didn't hit the hard pole. Instead, I bumped into something softer—the warmth from someone's palm. It was the heat radiating from a person's hand. I sat there, stunned, and slowly looked up. The shadow boy was looking down at me. He must have opened his eyes at some point, one hand still resting on the handrail where my head would have hit. When he noticed I'd looked up, he unhurriedly withdrew his hand, and no longer looked my way. I touched my forehead, where a trace of warmth lingered. "The bus is approaching the terminal stop, Sycamore City High. Please prepare to disembark." It was like I'd been jolted out of a trance. I saw his school badge. "Class 5, Grade 2018 — Ryan" The announcement sent the students on the bus scrambling toward the back door, pushing to get off. Feeling the person beside me move toward the back, I hurriedly grabbed my bag and followed the crowd off the bus, heading where everyone else was going. In the sea of identical uniforms, I spotted his silhouette immediately. I followed him from a distance through the crowd. We were headed in the same direction, so even if our walking pace was different, it didn't matter. The destination was set. Every path would lead to an encounter. That was the confidence of being sixteen or seventeen. The certainty that we would never drift apart.
...
When Meng Yang came looking for me, I was still wrestling with the physics concept of acceleration, frustrated that I couldn't solve the problem. She told me she was planning to audition for the welcome gala. I lifted my head from the sea of practice problems and fell straight into her starry eyes, full of anticipation. Meng Yang was the girl in the bunk above mine—great figure, but with a very cute face, pale skin, and she and I got along famously. I caught the key phrase in her words—welcome gala. I scratched my head. "What welcome gala? Our school does that?" Meng Yang nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, the homeroom teacher told us. Each class puts on one performance." I asked her what she wanted to perform. She said dance. I looked at her long, pale, slender legs and gave her an approving nod.