Broken string

Zhang Ya never contacted me again.

When I ran into her in the hallway, she would deliberately turn her face away and chat and laugh with other girls, her voice so loud it sounded like she was deliberately showing off. Once, when I went to the water room to get water, I overheard her talking to someone in a cubicle: "Chen Zhixia is just too pretentious. She always acts like the whole world owes her something. Who can stand it?"

"Then why did Li Zichen talk to her for so long before?" another voice asked.

"Who knows? Maybe they just feel sorry for her." Zhang Ya's voice was a little dismissive. "Honestly, who doesn't know about her mess? Her family favored boys over girls, she was bullied in junior high, and now she keeps self-harming... I think she's just trying to gain sympathy."

The water was gurgling, but my hand holding the glass was trembling, my knuckles turning white.

So that's how she sees me. All those heartfelt words I spoke, all those moments when I held her and cried in the middle of the night, were seen by her as "pretending" and "trying to gain sympathy."

I pushed open the door to the washroom, and the sounds from the cubicle abruptly ceased. Zhang Ya came out, her face paled when she saw me, then she raised her chin like a victorious rooster.

"You heard everything?" she asked curtly, without a trace of remorse.

"I heard you." I looked at her, my voice as calm as ice. "Zhang Ya, how many years have we known each other?"

"Four years." She turned her face away, her voice a little weak.

"Four years," I smiled, but tears welled up in my eyes. "I treated you as my only friend and told you everything. I thought you understood how hard it was for me, I thought you would stand by my side... But it turns out that in your eyes, this is just the kind of person I am."

"I didn't say anything wrong!" she retorted, as if a sore spot had been hit. "You just feel wronged, right? Who doesn't feel wronged? My parents always compare me to the neighbor's kid! Who are you trying to fool by self-harming? Li Zichen? Or do you want everyone to revolve around you?"

"I didn't!" I finally couldn't hold back my voice any longer, a wave of pain washing over me. "I just... I just hurt so much! I have no one to tell, I can only tell you, how could you..."

"Why can't I?" she interrupted me, her eyes as cold as ice. "Shen Zhixia, you always portray yourself as so pitiful. Have you ever thought about others? I'm tired of hearing you talk about those things! Do you think I want to be your emotional dumping ground?"

The tiles in the washroom were cold, and I had to hold onto the wall to keep from falling. It turns out that in her eyes, this four-year friendship was nothing more than an "emotional dumping ground."

"Okay." I sniffed and wiped away my tears. "Since you're so annoying, then you don't have to listen to me anymore."

"What's the meaning?"

"What I mean is, let's break off our friendship." I looked at her and said, word by word, "Zhang Ya, from now on, you are you, and I am the 'feigning pitiful' Shen Zhixia you mentioned. We owe each other nothing."

She was stunned, probably not expecting me to be so resolute. A hint of panic flashed in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by stubbornness: "Fine, let's break up! Who cares!"

After saying that, she turned and walked away, her high heels clicking on the tiles as if she were smashing something.

I stood there until the sound disappeared at the end of the corridor, then slowly squatted down, hugged my knees, and began to cry. The sound of rushing water was like a mournful dirge for this dead friendship.

I didn't go to evening self-study that day.

Hiding in the studio, staring at the unfinished painting of backs on the wall, tears fell onto the canvas, spreading into a small water stain. I picked up a palette knife and scraped away the two figures bit by bit, the paint mixed with my tears, forming an ugly mess.

"Stop scraping." A voice suddenly rang out from the doorway.

I looked up and saw Zheng Yiming standing there, holding two bags of bread. "The homeroom teacher said you didn't go to evening self-study, so she sent me to check on you."

He came in, saw the mess on the canvas, and glanced at my red eyes. Without asking any questions, he simply put the bread on the table and said, "Eat something first."

I didn't move; I just stared blankly at the blob of paint.

He sat down next to me, picked up a paintbrush, dipped it in white paint, and slowly began to paint over the mess. "If you mess it up, you can repaint it; there's no need to scrape it off."

"It'll be clean if you scrape it off." My voice was hoarse, like a broken gong.

“It’s clean, and empty.” He smiled, the white paint spreading on the canvas like a snowfall. “Keep it, at least it proves it was painted.”

I watched him paint, watching the mess slowly turn into a snowy field, where a small figure stood, carrying a drawing board on his back, all alone, yet with his back straight.

"Does it look like you?" he asked.

I paused for a moment, then nodded.

“Look,” he put down his paintbrush, “even if there’s only one person left, they can still stand very straight.”

The aroma of bread wafted over, the creamy scent I love. I picked up a bag, took a bite, and although it was cloyingly sweet, I still swallowed it.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He looked at me. "I heard everything in the washroom just now."

I tightened my grip on the bread, but didn't say anything.

“It’s not your fault.” He paused, his tone serious. “A true friend wouldn’t make fun of your wounds.”

These words were like a warm current, slowly flowing across the frozen lake in my heart. Looking into his clear eyes, I suddenly felt less sad.

At least, someone knows "it wasn't my fault".

When the bell rang to signal the end of evening self-study, Zheng Yiming walked me to the alley entrance. The streetlights cast long shadows of us. "Tomorrow... if you don't want to be alone, I can go to the cafeteria with you."

I looked at him, his eyes shining brightly in the night. "Okay."

When I got home, I dug out everything related to Zhang Ya—the bookmarks she gave me, the star-shaped bottles we collected together, the diaries we exchanged in junior high. I put these things in a box and placed them on the top shelf of the bookcase, as if sealing away a dead memory.

Lying in bed, my heart started to ache again, but it wasn't as unbearable as before. I took out my phone and saw a message from Zheng Yiming: "Go to sleep early, see you tomorrow."

I replied with an "Mm," then held my phone and slowly closed my eyes.

Perhaps friendship, like love, has an expiration date.

If it's expired, it should be thrown away.

Although it will hurt and feel empty, at least I won't be bothered by rotten things anymore.

The moonlight streaming through the window fell onto the desk, illuminating the painting that had been scratched and repainted. The small figure in the snow appeared exceptionally clear in the moonlight.

I know that from now on, I'll probably have to walk this road alone.

But it seems... not so scary after all.