Never mind.
Didn't see her anyway.
"November 24, 2018—Cloudy—Saturday"
My mom asked me what was going on.
She said I've seemed distracted lately.
I didn't say anything.
But when I returned to my bedroom.
Staring at my spread-out physics worksheet.
For the first time, I had the thought of not being able to focus on studying.
So... why is it that today, when I open my notebook, every single entry's main storyline and sub-storyline are all about Blanket Girl?
Have I lost my mind?
Following her off the bus for no reason.
Trying the cucumber-flavored chips she likes.
Unable to stop myself from preparing a holiday gift for her.
Lucas, you are absolutely done for.
"November 26, 2018—Cloudy—Monday"
What counts as liking?
Is it liking?
So.
Is it really liking?
So conflicted.
"November 27, 2018—Cloudy—Tuesday"
Results are out.
On the class ranking posted on the homeroom teacher's computer.
You can see the rankings for the entire grade.
The office was packed with people trying to squeeze in.
I scrolled through the results table.
Lucas, ranked 13th in the grade... lower than I expected.
I kept scrolling down.
Bea, ranked 1,103th in the grade.
Physics: 24, Chemistry: 32, Biology: 55.
Is Blanket Girl not good at science?
The passion in my bones made me want to rush downstairs and tutor her, but I was afraid she'd think I was crazy.
Under the streetlight, the elegant handwriting on the white paper pulled my thoughts back to my first year of high school.
A blurry silhouette of a boy with his back to me appeared in my mind.
Lucas? This name was so familiar. It was like I'd heard it somewhere before.
But where exactly had I heard it?
7
At the end of our first semester of high school, our school organized a comprehensive assessment exam.
Even though I'd been cramming, I only scored 24 on physics.
I still remember that score now. I vaguely recall feeling like I'd been struck by lightning—I spent fifty minutes on those problems, only to earn fewer points than someone could get in fifteen minutes.
I think if a person keeps failing at something, it's just frustration and defeat. But when you've put in double the effort and still stay in the same place, that feeling is an all-consuming despair.
I didn't even dare look at the grade rankings. Among 1,260 students in the grade, I was near the very bottom.
Though when classmates tried to comfort me, I'd casually say I deserved to score an 18—who told me not to understand during physics, chemistry, and biology classes?
The truth was, my science subjects had been weak since middle school. These logic-heavy subjects were my Achilles' heel, and I had a strong resistance to them.
I acted like I didn't care, but how could I truly not care? I didn't want to disappoint my parents either.
In my high school, everyone was outstanding. Everyone was smart and hardworking. How could I catch up? Every day I faced an insurmountable gap ahead of me.
I felt like I was useless. Everyone was studying hard, and it seemed like I was the only dummy just playing around. Even people who played as much as I did scored better. I couldn't compete at anything.
I tried hard, but the results were still terrible.
During that period, I fell into extreme contradiction, stuck in a constant state of self-doubt. It was pretty miserable.
One moment I'd doubt myself, the next I'd comfort myself.
And I couldn't voice any of these thoughts. What good would it do to say them aloud? The road was mine to walk alone.
On countless nights of breaking down, I'd often stare blankly at the moon rising outside my window.
In this world, people came and went, yet it felt like I was the only one.
I came back to my senses, staring blankly at the open diary.
It turns out I was someone who could be cared about too.
"November 28, 2018—Sunny—Wednesday"
The answer sheets for the entire grade were all jumbled together.
Twenty-four classes took turns sorting them and distributing them to each class.
This was the first major exam.
Starting from our class.
I originally didn't want to go sort answer sheets.
But in the end, I went anyway.
To sort Class 22's.
The first big problem in physics can actually be solved just by applying a formula.
I wrote the step-by-step solution for every problem on her answer sheet.
I hope you can see it.
The "rumble rumble" of the old bus approaching the stop through the near-empty streets.
I boarded bus number 15 in a daze.
It felt like my brain was buzzing, as if something had suddenly clicked into place.
The case was finally cracked.
When the answer sheet was handed back that time, I was puzzled by the red annotations on it. At first I thought the teacher had made notes for everyone, but later I found out only my answer sheet had detailed solutions.
I carefully studied the handwriting on the test paper and compared it to the teacher's chalk writing on the board—it was obviously not from the same person.
I looked at the solutions that person had written. Honestly, I thought the steps were very easy to understand—even clearer than the teacher's explanations.
Some of the trickier parts even had simple annotations like "This part is a bit hard, try shifting your thinking... this part isn't hard, think about the after-class exercises in the textbook"—concise and clear.
The first time I received an answer sheet like that, I thought maybe some classmate had accidentally written the solutions on my paper. But the second time, I received another answer sheet filled with solutions, and then for the entire first year of high school, every physics answer sheet that came back always had solutions on it, always in the same handwriting.
Along with them, there were always short notes like "You've improved from last time... You answered this question better than before."
It wasn't that I'd never wondered and been curious about who wrote them, but in a sea of over a thousand students in the grade, finding someone identifiable only by their handwriting was like looking for a needle in the ocean.
Was it a boy or a girl? A classmate or a senior? A fellow student or a teacher?
How would I know? Every time after an exam, seeing the handwriting on the answer sheet gave me peace of mind, as if someone were standing beside me, keeping me company.
His patient explanations and handwriting stayed with me through every night I broke down over exam scores. I regarded them as a gift from the gods, carefully organizing that entire year's answer sheets into a clamp folder.
An unseen guide, transmitting the signal of wanting me to do better and better through answer sheet after answer sheet, question after question.
Maybe without those answer sheets, I'd still be trapped helplessly in low scores over and over again. At my lowest moments, those handwritten words were the dawn of hope. Each answer sheet was like another rung on a ladder, gradually dispelling the darkness and dampness at the bottom of the well.
I stared at the handwriting in the diary for a long time, lost in thought.
So it was you all along.
Bus number 15 stopped precisely at the bus stop.
I took a deep breath and exhaled, stepping onto the bus, giving the familiar driver uncle a small smile, and walking further inside.
There were plenty of empty seats on the sparsely populated bus. I sat in my usual seat by the window.
Leaning against the faint glow of the interior lights and the streetlamps flashing by one after another, I continued reading, the sourness in my heart climbing higher and higher.
"November 29, 2018—Cloudy—Thursday"
It might snow in the next few days.
The clouds are thick.
It's almost December.
The first snow of this winter still hasn't fallen.
I overheard two girls in the back row chatting.
I forgot most of what they said.
I only caught one line.
"The first snow is the best time to reveal your feelings."
I don't know why, but Blanket Girl suddenly came to mind.
In my dry, monotonous life.
I never dared to hope that feelings like love would ever descend upon me.
Year after year, swept along by waves of practice papers.
I seem to have long since gone numb.
I think.
I am someone who rejects love and runs from it.
Countless times deceiving my own heart.
Yet countless times wanting to draw closer to you.
I appear free, yet I am like a caged beast.
During this time, I've asked myself over and over.
What counts as liking.
Feeling moved, for me, is a luxury, but I still yearn for it.
Just this once, and an unprecedented kind of liking.
These messy, incoherent words.
How do I avoid them.
This beating heart of mine.
"November 30, 2018—Light snow—Friday"
It snowed.
This is the first snow of the year.
I've been reading this diary for a day.
"The first snow is the best time to reveal your feelings"—this phrase kept looping in my head.
Blanket Girl.
I think I should admit that I like you.
Among all the billions of possible endings and outcomes I've imagined.
I still want to like you.
No exceptions. True to my heart.
My hand flipping through the diary paused.
My breath caught. My eyes began to sting.
I don't know since when, I stopped liking to look in the mirror.
In that four-sided frame, nothing more than bangs covering my high hairline, eyebrows unkempt from having no time to trim them.
At an age that should have been confident and radiant, my eyes instead always held the drowsiness of insufficient sleep. The dark circles underneath constantly reminded me that I was someone with no energy.
I didn't have a high-bridged nose, I didn't have cherry lips, and occasionally pimples would pop out. My unremarkable features combined to form a distinctly ordinary-looking me.
I wasn't like other girls who were skilled at musical instruments, I didn't have a prestigious family background, I didn't have outstanding grades.