I perfunctorily dabbed at my hair with the towel, then hung it back on the drying rack.
I sank into the sofa, grabbed the remote, and turned on the TV.
Grandma was frugal—whenever the TV was on, she refused to let us turn on the room's light.
Winter nights fell early. By six or seven, it was pitch-dark outside. The faint glow of the TV illuminated only my corner of the room.
I glanced sideways through the glass partition at Grandma bustling at the stove. Sure enough, she hadn't turned on the kitchen light either—just the dim, flickering glow of the burner outlining her slightly hunched silhouette.
The house wasn't big. Just Grandma and me. It felt emptier than it should have.
Grandma emerged with a bowl of steamed rice in one hand and a plate of king oyster mushroom stir-fried with pork in the other. Walking toward me, she was still talking: "Your mom called me yesterday. She said your Uncle Wang's family is strict, so she won't be coming back for New Year's."
On the TV screen, a sweet-faced actress smiled as she pitched the product she endorsed. I stared at the TV without blinking. A knot of anger flamed in my chest with nowhere to go. I said nothing. Just sat there.
Grandma set down the plate, turned back to fetch a pair of chopsticks, and placed them across my bowl.
"Your mom can't help it."
The moment she finished speaking—
That nameless fire found its fuse. I tore my eyes from the blaring TV and shot to my feet.
I was nearly screaming as I confronted her: "Can't help it, can't help it—that's all she ever says. I've grown up all this time, how many times has she actually come to see me? If she couldn't be my mom, why did she even have me? Why?"
I poured every ounce of strength into those words. My eyes redded instantly. My whole body trembled. I stared at Grandma—she stood helpless, wiping her hands on her apron, lips moving but no words coming out.
In the end, she said nothing. Just shuffled back, lonely, to the kitchen where even the burner's glow had now gone out.
I realized I'd yelled at Grandma. Tears that had been pooling finally spilled over.
I hate rainy days.
Because it was on a rainy day that Mom threw me away.
She'd dropped her schoolbag with one hand and me with the other at Grandma's house.
Then waved goodbye and left.
I can't even remember what my dad looked like anymore.
I only remember the adults always avoided his name when I was around.
When I was little, every time I asked Grandma where Dad went—
She'd pat my head.
"Your dad did something wrong. He went somewhere to make up for his mistakes."
And when I followed up by asking where Mom went—
Grandma never said a word. She'd just wrap her arm around me.
One day, I finally understood.
I told Grandma.
I know where Mom went.
She didn't want me anymore. She had a new little brother and sister now.
I hoped she wouldn't throw them away on a rainy day either.
Grandma just cried, tears streaming down her face, falling onto my cheeks as if I were the one crying.
I scooped half of the king oyster mushroom and pork onto my own bowl.
Ate big mouthfuls of rice. Tears fell from the little-girl version of me all the way down to the grown-up me sitting at this table.
In the end, they mingled with grains of rice, swallowed back into my body.
Grandma always said you shouldn't cry while eating—you could choke and die.
I wiped my tears on my sleeve and forced a smile.
I called out toward that dark kitchen: "Grandma, you made too much. Come sit and eat with me. If we don't finish it, it'll go to waste."
4
The next day was the senior class's oath-swearing ceremony ahead of their high school entrance exams.
We eighth and seventh graders were seated in the audience as witnesses.
"Please welcome the outstanding student representative, Lucas, to deliver his speech."
Seated in the front row, I glanced up without thinking.
And there he was. He looked different from yesterday.
Yesterday, in the rain, his hair had been messy and damp, and he hadn't been wearing his school jacket. Today he was dressed formally, standing ramrod straight, his hair neat and clean.
Striking. One of a kind.
He spoke softly from the podium, reading his speech. I could hear the students around me whispering, asking for information about this senior.
I strained to listen, and from the fragments of conversation I finally learned his name. Lucas. Ninth grade, Class 5. Top of his class.
Nothing else.
I gazed up at him, unable to suppress my excitement.
Only I knew that he was also someone who loved cats, who had a tender heart.
That was my secret.
Eighth grade got out half an hour earlier than ninth grade.
I deliberately dawdled in the classroom, refusing to leave, dragging it out.
Entrusting my hope to whatever gods might be listening, praying for one more glimpse of him.
Perhaps some kind deity heard my prayer.
From the stream of identically uniformed students pouring through the gates, I spotted him at once.
He was surrounded by people. He smiled, but didn't say much—just nodded occasionally.
His eyes were half-lowered, as if the world around him held no real interest.
He looked like a gentle person, yet something about him always felt distant.
Polite but remote.
My umbrella was tucked in the side pocket of my bag. I quickened my pace until I was walking ahead of his group.
I wondered whether he'd notice me, and then remember the girl with the umbrella from yesterday.
Caught up with them, I slowed down—stumbling over my own feet, nearly walking in syncopation.
Finally we reached the intersection. I pretended to turn right—but in the instant I pivoted, I whipped my head around.
I watched him turn left, leaving me with only his retreating back.
Only then did I dare turn my whole body toward the direction he'd gone.
At the empty street corner, facing the wall, I curved my lips into a smile for no reason at all.
At lunch, we always ate in the school cafeteria.
I'd flit between the two cafeterias, trying to spot his silhouette in the sea of students.
Eventually I noticed a pattern.
He always went to the same cafeteria.
Always the same food stalls.
Sometimes I'd catch him at the basketball court.
He loved playing basketball.
Always wore the same clothes when he played.
Always claimed the same spot on the court.
Stubborn and unchanging.
I mentally cataloged it all. Lucas.
The one who was brilliant at studying.
Tall and handsome.
Loved cats.
Loved sweet and sour pork.
Loved playing basketball.
Who always kept his eyes cast down.
Lucas.
The person who shone like a star in my sky.
Perhaps Lucas was simply too outstanding.
I tried to reach for the moon.
But the moon was too far away.
I threw everything I had into closing the distance between us.
Only to discover, later—
Some distances are impossible to bridge, no matter how hard you try.
Like time.
Like the order of arrival.
Perhaps.
I'd already lost from the start.
Only the me of that moment didn't understand it yet.
I wrote myself a new schedule from scratch.
I packed every sliver of free time into studying.
I didn't know any other way to get closer to him.
This seemed to be the only road left.
I pinned all my hopes on getting into the same high school as him.
From the moment I realized I wanted our story to continue—
I started studying.
I picked up my abandoned books, one after another.
Picked up my pen and wrote down symbol after symbol.
I told myself: just endure through the seasons.
Wait.
My flowers would bloom eventually.
5
The day Lucas graduated, it rained again.
I held my umbrella.
Watching his back grow smaller and smaller until it vanished through the school gates.
And I stayed rooted to the spot.
I so badly wanted to run after him and say:
Hey, Lucas, senior. I'm Zhuo Ting, a grade below you.
I didn't.
I just buried the seed of my feelings deep in my chest.
I told that seed, over and over:
When I get into Lucas's high school—
It'll sprout into a towering tree.
Day after day.
Year after year.
I kept believing I'd harvest what I'd sown.
But disaster came faster than I expected.
The semester I started ninth grade—
Grandma got sick.
At first I didn't think much of it.
A while back, Grandma had been carrying three radishes and couldn't walk another step—she'd had to stop and rest several times on the way home.
When I asked what was wrong, she just smiled and said it was nothing—just getting old, getting winded.
Maybe Grandma herself had sensed something was off.
Grandma had three children.
I had two uncles.
She carefully called her youngest son.
She said she wanted to go to the hospital for a checkup.
On the other end of the line came a dismissive, perfunctory voice.
Finally, the busy younger son managed to carve out time from his household obligations.
He took his mother to the hospital.
Only—
What no one expected—
The checkup turned into an immediate hospital admission.