There were way too many people!
I saw Blanket Girl.
Does she live around here too?
She seems to really like chips.
I saw her shopping cart was full of chips.
Well, even though I don't know her yet,
I'll write her a happy Mid-Autumn Festival in my diary anyway!
The newly opened supermarket at Wangyue Cross Street—that must be the New Moon Supermarket!
That place was a bit livelier than others. My dad said their eggs were delicious and cheap, and every morning a crowd would rush to grab them.
Every time my dad picked me up after school, he'd drive me there to buy groceries.
And every time, I'd sneak chips into the shopping cart when he wasn't looking.
"September 25, 2018—Cloudy—Tuesday"
Had to go to school early today.
I took bus 15.
My stop is called Wangyue Jingyuan West Gate.
It's four stops from school, and still early.
The bus was full of grandpas and grandmas, no empty seats.
I stood holding onto the handrail.
After just one stop, Blanket Girl got on.
She boarded at the Wangyue Community stop—pretty close to my place.
She stood next to me but didn't hold onto the handrail properly.
She almost fell, and I caught her.
She said thank you with her head down, so softly.
Hmm, I'm done writing. Going to sleep.
5
In the storage room, I stared blankly at this page.
His home was four stops from school, my home was three stops.
His stop was called Wangyue Jingyuan West Gate.
My stop was called Wangyue Community East Gate.
We must have both taken the number 15 bus.
The number 15 bus's terminal was Sycamore City High.
This bus ran from the hospital in the western suburbs to No. 1 Middle School in the eastern suburbs every day—38 stops total, passing through the most bustling area in the city center. From as far back as I could remember, this bus route had always been there.
When I was little, the areas along the route were all vast stretches of wasteland. As the city developed, they gradually transformed from barren to prosperous, with towering buildings flashing all kinds of lights. Season after season, witnessing an era of earth-shaking transformation.
I'd been riding it from elementary school all the way through high school—riding it until the bus driver uncle recognized me.
I rubbed my sore neck and shoulders, glanced out the window. The red glow had faded, and the sky had turned a misty blue.
I kept flipping forward.
"September 26, 2018—Sunny—Tuesday"
Saw Blanket Girl while carrying books today. She was holding a small stack by herself.
Walking unsteadily and not even watching where she was going.
Sure enough—she tripped and fell.
Theo was right next to me, pointing her out.
He said, "Hey hey hey, your Blanket Girl fell down."
I shoved all the books in my hands straight into his arms.
And ran over to help pick up her books.
She didn't cry when she fell, even though the skin on her elbow was scraped raw.
She just stared down at the wound, looking troubled.
I hesitated for a moment.
Then I pulled out a band-aid and pressed it into her hand.
Because I play ball a lot, I always keep band-aids in my pocket.
Before she could say anything, I said "thank you" first.
Hmm, I awkwardly ran away. Theo chased after me, cracking up.
My head felt like it was burning.
I almost walked with my arms and legs on the same side.
But she really is so tiny.
So well-behaved.
So polite.
"September 29, 2018—Sunny—Saturday"
Nothing much to write about. The school makes us make up classes for National Day again.
Writing about Blanket Girl.
Ugh!
Forget it!
I'm paying a little too much attention to her.
"September 30, 2018—Cloudy—Sunday"
Official holiday today.
Going down the stairs.
Didn't see her.
Walking out the school gate.
Didn't see her. On the bus. Didn't see her.
"October 6, 2018—Sunny—Sunday"
What kind of hell is this? The school only gives us five days off for National Day, and it's gone in the blink of an eye!
Haven't seen Blanket Girl in five whole days. I'm dying of anxiety.
This morning I couldn't wait and came early. At 6:50, ran into her at the bus stop. She got a haircut.
It actually looks quite nice—makes her look well-behaved. I kind of want to reach out and touch it. Why did she suddenly cut her hair short? Is she unhappy?
Reading this, I unconsciously touched my hair.
It's gotten quite long now.
During the National Day holiday of my first year, I'd excitedly rushed to get a haircut.
Nothing major had happened, and I wasn't upset—I just did it on a whim.
I still remember after cutting it, some boys in my class teased me. I already had a habit of slouching, and with the short haircut, they said I looked like a Ninja Turtle.
Though I acted like I didn't care and told them they were talking nonsense, it still bothered me deep down. The very next day, I tied it up.
From then on, I never cut my hair short again. I just let it grow.
A few days ago I was chatting with a friend—we were in the same class in high school. She was shocked when she heard I'd had short hair, saying she had no recollection of it at all. I asked the male classmate who said my short hair looked like a turtle, and he said he'd long forgotten.
I suddenly felt so deflated. The thorn that had pierced my heart—only I had ever cared about it. As if my youth was but an insignificant grain of sand.
Only today, reading through this diary, did I see my sand-grain-like youth for what it was. If I'd known back then that someone thought my short hair was quite cute, maybe I wouldn't have been in such a rush to tie it up.
Those short hairs at the back of my head that couldn't be gathered, countless times driving me to frustration when I couldn't get my hair to cooperate.
I let out a long breath, feeling a sense of wistfulness settle in my chest.
The next several pages were scattered and fragmented.
"October 23, 2018—Cloudy—Tuesday"
Been busy with competition stuff lately.
Seems like it's been a while since I wrote in my diary.
I haven't forgotten, though—I've already gotten used to paying attention to Blanket Girl.
Saw her at the gym today.
She walks so fast, her hair tied into a tiny little bun.
But I thought she had short hair last time.
After just a few days, she's already tied it up.
Tied up looks nice too.
But doesn't the loose hair around her neck feel uncomfortable?
Her neck even has some reddish marks from it.
"October 26, 2018—Cloudy—Friday"
Went to the fourth-floor office to hand out materials and saw her. She was asking the teacher about a problem. Seemed to be physics.
I was next to the teacher, and I couldn't resist.
I still listened to what question she was asking.
The weekly quiz question about acceleration.
Why is she crying while asking? I scored 98 on physics.
You... you could ask me too. I know how to do it.
Oh no, the weird thoughts in my head are getting stranger and stranger.
Seeing him write about the acceleration weekly quiz, I immediately remembered which incident he was talking about.
Starting from middle school, I was never good at physics. I still remember what the very first middle school physics lesson covered—solid, gas, liquid, and vaporization, condensation, sublimation, and deposition. When everyone else understood at once, I was still lost in the clouds.
Later, when I couldn't figure it out, I just forced myself to memorize it. But physics isn't a subject you can master through rote memorization alone.
So throughout middle school, I lived under the shadow of physics-induced fear, and it was the same in high school—no progress at all.
My high school physics teacher was a very young female teacher, recently graduated, who spoke and carried herself gently. Everyone liked her, and I liked her too.
But for a blockhead like me, she was at her wit's end. My physics was like a stuck stone—no leverage could pry it loose.
Later, because I chose the humanities track, my brain automatically filtered out physics knowledge. I couldn't even remember what high school physics had actually taught, except for that acceleration problem, which left a deep impression.
There were formulas for acceleration, but I had no idea how to apply them. So on that physics weekly quiz about acceleration, I scored only 18 points.
18 points earned under the premise of desperately trying to memorize—after all, I had barely scraped into the key high school.
Everyone had just entered high school, and we were all at the same starting line for physics. Other students in the class could at least pass. When I got my test back, my smile froze on my face. I remember running to the office with my paper to ask the teacher questions. She patiently explained it to me twice, and I still didn't understand.
I was already upset about doing poorly, and seeing how stupid I was—even the teacher couldn't teach me—made me even sadder. So I was crying while asking questions, and the teacher gently comforted me, saying it was okay.
It was only three years ago, but looking back now, it feels like a lifetime has passed.
I peeked my head out—the lights in the classrooms of the underclassmen's buildings had already been turned on.
Only our building's lights were sparsely lit, probably left on by the students who'd stayed behind to pack up.
It was already 7:20 PM—the time when the first evening class would start.
It was getting late.
I decided to take the diary home and continue reading.
6
I got up and packed the last small stack of books into my backpack.
It was getting late, and there was no one else left in the storage room except me.
The entire wisteria corridor outside the window had an empty, deserted feeling of people having moved away.
I held the diary in my hands and slowly walked out of the storage room. Before closing the door and turning off the light, I took one last look around the room.
It was as if I could see the way it used to be packed with people during exams—everyone coming and going, until in the end, everybody left.
Leaving the storage room, diary in hand, my heart ached with a sour bitterness. I headed toward my classroom.