unfinished portrait

Since then, Gu Nanxiao has never appeared on the campus of Nancheng No. 1 Middle School again, like mist blown away by the wind, disappearing without a trace.

At first, some people said he was just taking a long vacation to deal with urgent family matters.

Later, the rumor spread that he had taken a long-term leave of absence and might not be able to take the college entrance examination.

Later, more informed people whispered that his family had arranged for him to study abroad, to a distant country, and that he would never return to this small town that carried so many heavy memories.

Rumors, like willow catkins in early spring, floated briefly in the anxious and depressing atmosphere of the graduating class, carrying with them a hint of sigh and regret.

But it was soon blown away by the more urgent and overwhelming pressure of reality, such as mock exams, rankings, and volunteer applications.

Finally, he landed silently and fell into silence, as if he had never appeared.

The wheel of youth rolls forward and never stops for anyone.

Jiang Yile did not ask or verify with anyone, and even deliberately avoided the discussions about him.

After knowing the bloody and suffocating truth, it seems that there is no point in asking any more questions.

That name, that figure, along with those heart-pounding moments that were as brief as a flash in the pan but now seem so ironic, were carefully sealed away by her, along with that night's cold rain, scorching tears and his desperate confession, in the deepest part of her heart, a corner that she dared not touch easily and would bleed if touched.

Every memory is like a torture.

Her body seemed to have been completely hollowed out by the raging high fever and the devastating emotional storm that followed. It was sometimes better and sometimes worse, becoming increasingly fragile, like a piece of exquisite but cracked porcelain that could not withstand any slight shock.

The number of visits to the hospital became more and more frequent, from regular checkups once a month to careful monitoring once every two weeks, and finally to the need to report to the hospital almost every week to undergo various instrument inspections and medication adjustments.

The familiar white walls of the ward, the smell of disinfectant, the cold medical equipment, and the nurses' smiles of professional compassion formed the lingering and depressing background of her life.

The doctor's private conversations with the parents became more and more serious in tone, his eyes more and more helpless, and even took on a kind of calmness that was close to giving up.

Those complex, cold medical terms, such as "progressive organ failure", "immune system near collapse", "requiring continuous drug support and possible external intervention to maintain basic metabolism"...

Even though her parents tried their best to conceal their worries, hiding them behind a relaxed expression, she could clearly sense the approaching, unavoidable end from their increasingly haggard and gray faces, the stiff corners of their mouths that forced smiles, and the extremely suppressed sobs that leaked out from the crack of their bedroom door late at night.

Life is like the sand in an hourglass, flowing away relentlessly at a speed visible to the naked eye.

She knew that the time was almost up.

The curse about "eighteen years old" that has been following her since she was old enough to understand, hanging over her head like a sword, is now spreading its huge black wings and slowly descending, casting an indispellable shadow.

Summer comes quickly in the south city. Almost overnight, the chirping of cicadas fills all the branches, screaming tirelessly, stirring the hot and sticky air with a frenzy as if it were the end of their lives.

The sunlight was so blazing that it shone through the ward window, casting bright spots of light on the floor, but it did not bring any warmth. Instead, it made the ward seem even more desolate, like an isolated island.

On the eve of the college entrance examination, when senior high school students across the city were making their final sprint and the air was filled with the tension of a do-or-die battle and anticipation for the future, Jiang Yile was once again rushed to the hospital due to a sharp decline in multiple organ functions and a serious infection.

This time, the doctor did not mention the matter of being discharged from the hospital. He just silently arranged various examinations and enhanced treatment equipment.

Various monitoring devices were reconnected to her frail body, and a thicker indwelling needle was inserted into her slender, pale arm with almost no veins.

Transparent, milky white and light yellow liquid medicine was injected into her increasingly exhausted body day and night through different tubes, trying to forcibly retain the dying fire of life.

She was lying on the hospital bed that was tilted at an angle. Her body was so thin that it was almost completely swallowed by the white sheets, like a fragile bird with broken wings.

His face was so pale that it was almost transparent, and his skin was as thin as a layer of fragile rice paper, as if one could see the blue, tiny blood vessels pulsating weakly underneath.

His lips had lost all their color and were cracked and peeling, but his big eyes, which were once filled with smiles and starlight and were now sunken in their eye sockets, still retained an astonishing clarity.

But that clarity is filled with unspeakable fatigue, a deep and infinite nostalgia for this world, and a kind of almost transparent and resigned calmness after all the painful struggles.

She looked at her parents and out the window, her eyes gentle and sad, as if she was saying a silent goodbye.

Her parents' eyes were always red and swollen like ripe walnuts, but they tried their best to force a relaxed smile in front of her, carefully moistening her cracked lips with cotton swabs, and saying over and over again, "It's okay, Lele, you will be fine, the doctor is trying a way", but their voices trembled uncontrollably, with unconcealable tears in their voices.

When their hands touched her, they were always cautious, almost pious, for fear of losing her.

The weather was unusually mild this afternoon.

The scorching heat of several days seemed to be dispelled by a breeze, and the sun was no longer so scorching.

Through the half-drawn, plain curtains, soft spots of light were cast on the floor of the ward, like broken gold.

Jiang Yile's spirit seemed to be awakened a little by this rare, gentle warmth.

She felt a strange, last-minute clarity and strength, as if all the last strength of her life was concentrated in this moment.

She asked her mother to bring her sketchpad and the unfinished portrait of Gu Nanxiao from home to the hospital.

The mother's eyes were red and she wanted to say something but hesitated. In the end, she did it silently. She knew that this was her daughter's last wish.

The drawing board was placed beside the bed, and the painting stood quietly on it.

The boy in the painting is sitting in the light and shadow of a cafe, looking quietly out the window. The lines of his profile are clear and sharp, as if he will turn around at any moment, with the brief tenderness unique to that afternoon.

The sunlight was fixed on his dark gray sweater, giving it a soft and warm texture.

That was the most beautiful image of him in her memory, and had nothing to do with the pain and despair that followed.

She leaned against the raised headboard, and with her slightly trembling hands, so weak that she could barely hold the brush, she picked up the palette persistently, even stubbornly, and squeezed out a little of the remaining paint.

Then, using a tiny brush, he dipped it into tiny amounts of color and added the final details to the painting little by little.

She deepened the light shadow under his eyelashes, making the subtle melancholy more real.

She brightened the highlights in his pupils, making the deep water seem to have a slight ripple, as if reflecting her figure.

She carefully traced the texture of his sweater, as if she could touch the fleeting, real warmth again through the brush.

Every transaction consumed her enormous, almost overdrawn energy.

Fine beads of cold sweat oozed from his forehead, his breathing became rapid and shallow, and the rise and fall of his chest was so weak that it was frightening.

The mother was heartbroken watching this and turned her back to secretly wipe away her tears.

I tried to dissuade her several times and ask her to rest, but was stopped by the almost pious concentration in her eyes, the unquestionable persistence and the tranquility as if she was about to complete a ritual.

She knew that her daughter was saying her final goodbyes to the world and that person in her own way.

She knew she might never finish the painting.

Just like she would never be able to finish her life journey which was supposed to be long and full of infinite possibilities.

Just like she would never know whether she and the boy in the painting would have had a different ending if fate had not played that cruel joke on her.

Regret, like the boundless night, enveloped her.

After painting for a while, she finally ran out of energy.

The last bit of strength that supported her seemed to be drained away, and the paintbrush slipped from her trembling, uncontrollable fingers. With a light "plop", it fell on the white bed sheet, leaving a glaring, wet blue mark, like a solidified tear mark.

She leaned weakly on the pillow, breathing slightly, her chest heaving violently.

But his eyes still lingered deeply and fondly on the face of the young man in the painting, as if he wanted to carve his appearance into the depths of his soul and take it to the next reincarnation.

"Mom," she turned her head and looked at her mother who had been guarding the bedside, holding her hand tightly, as if she would lose her if she let go. Her voice was as light as a feather, but it reached her ears clearly and calmly, "If...if Gu Nanxiao comes, let him in. I...want to see him."

When she said the name, there was no resentment or anger in her voice, only a complex, deep calmness and a barely perceptible, final expectation.

The mother's body suddenly stiffened, and an extremely complex emotion flashed in her eyes - there was shock, long-suppressed resentment and confusion towards the family that indirectly caused her daughter's tragedy, and a heartache over her daughter's current condition, but more of it was a clear and huge sadness and a determination to respect her daughter's wishes.

Her eyes were red and her lips moved a few times, but in the end, she didn't ask anything, but nodded vigorously and heavily, and her tears rolled down silently and violently, dripping onto the tightly clasped hands of mother and daughter.

What is meant to come will always come.

Those who are destined to meet will eventually meet.

This was her daughter's last wish, and she had to fulfill it.

In the evening, the setting sun was like a huge, burning fireball, struggling to cast its last light and heat onto the world, dyeing the sky a sad and magnificent orange-red like an oil painting. The ward was also coated with a warm but extremely sad halo, like the prelude to a grand funeral.