Osmanthus and warm sunshine

In September, the osmanthus blossoms seemed to have gathered all their strength, and overnight they soaked the entire alley in sweet fragrance. I stood in front of the mirror, straightened the collar of my school uniform, and as my fingertips touched my collarbone, I could still recall the warmth of Zheng Yiming's fingertips brushing against my skin when he handed me milk yesterday—like the gentle, warm touch of osmanthus honey.

It was five minutes to seven, and the streetlights at the alley entrance were still on. Zheng Yiming was already standing in front of the newly opened soy milk shop, carrying a backpack, his school uniform jacket neatly buttoned up, and two steaming paper bags in his hands. When he saw me walk over, his eyes shone like morning dew: "Freshly made, still hot."

The paper bag contained soy milk and sweet rice cakes, their sweet aroma mingling with the scent of osmanthus, warming my senses. "Thank you." I took the bag, my fingertips brushing against his. This time, I didn't pull away, but quickly moved my fingers away, pretending to be focused on the sweet rice cakes in my hand.

"Want to try some?" He took a bite of the one in his hand, a little sugar syrup on the corner of his mouth, like a squirrel that had stolen a bite of honey. "This sugar cake has osmanthus in it, you'll definitely like it."

I took a small bite; the soft, chewy glutinous rice, combined with the sweetness of osmanthus, was just as he had said. The warmth spread from my throat to my stomach, even making my heart flutter slightly. "Delicious."

"That's good." He smiled even more happily, raised his hand to wipe the sugar crumbs from the corner of my mouth, but stopped halfway through, casually touched his nose, and his ears turned red.

We walked side by side towards school, our footsteps rustling on the stone path strewn with fallen osmanthus blossoms. He talked about the practice questions for the physics competition, pointing out common mistakes and formulas that needed special memorization; I mentioned the sketch I'd drawn yesterday, lamenting that I couldn't quite get the eyes of the cat on the windowsill right. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on his profile, his long eyelashes trembling slightly as he spoke, like a pale butterfly perched there.

As we approached the school gate, Lin Xi and Meng Meng were already waiting there. Upon seeing us, they immediately waved with smiles: "You two are finally here! Zheng Yiming, you promised to teach us force analysis today, so don't be biased!"

Zheng Yiming's ears turned even redder: "I won't be biased, we'll learn together."

I followed them to the classroom, listening to Lin Xi chattering about last night's TV drama, Meng Meng complaining about the art teacher's assignment, and Zheng Yiming occasionally chiming in with a gentle voice like the early autumn breeze. This kind of liveliness, which I used to find noisy, now felt comforting—like falling into a bowl of lukewarm porridge, each sip carrying the warmth of home cooking.

During the morning physics class, the teacher let us discuss competition problems freely. Zheng Yiming moved a chair and sat next to me, spreading out a piece of scratch paper between us. His pen tip slid across the paper, drawing a clear force diagram: "The direction of friction here is easy to get wrong, look..."

His breath was very close, carrying a faint scent of soapberry mixed with the sweetness of osmanthus. I stared at the tip of his pen, but couldn't hear what he was saying. I only felt my ears burning and my heart pounding in my chest. "Do you understand?" He turned his head, his nose almost touching mine, his eyes filled with serious doubt.

"Ah... I understand." I nodded hurriedly, lowered my head and pretended to do calculations, but I didn't actually understand a single word.

He seemed oblivious to my unease and continued speaking, his fingertips occasionally brushing against the back of my hand, like a feather gently brushing against it, leaving a trail of tiny tickles. Lin Xi, sitting next to me, nudged me with her elbow, winking and gesturing at us both. I glared at her, but my cheeks burned even hotter.

During recess, an old-fashioned athletes' march played over the loudspeaker. I stood in line, my movements a little stiff. Zheng Yiming was in the next class's line, not far away, and I always made eye contact with him when I turned around. He seemed to notice my clumsy movements, and every time our eyes met, he would secretly mouth "Go for it!" to me, like a childish gesture.

Once, during a twisting exercise, I lost my balance and almost fell. He instinctively took a step forward to help me, but then suddenly stopped, standing there with worry practically overflowing in his eyes. After I regained my balance, I shook my head at him to indicate that I was alright. He then breathed a sigh of relief, but couldn't help but smile slightly.

The sunshine was warm and comforting, and the scent of grass on the playground mingled with the sweet fragrance of osmanthus blossoms, making me feel a little dizzy. So this is what it feels like to be cared for like this—like carrying a little sun within me, making everything I do feel bright.

At lunchtime, Zheng Yiming saved us seats at the cafeteria. His plate was already filled with rice, and mine had an extra fried egg, golden brown on both sides—just the way I like it. "The auntie says this egg is good for the brain," he said, pushing the plate towards me with a serious tone, though his ears were red.

"Thank you for your concern, Zheng Xueba!" Meng Meng deliberately dragged out her words as she picked up the green pepper from her plate. "But I think I need to work on my art skills more. Zhixia, could you teach me a few strokes in art class this afternoon?"

"Okay," I replied with a smile, stuffing the fried egg into my mouth. The runny yolk was so hot it made my tongue tingle, but my heart was filled with a sweet, almost cloying sweetness.

The afternoon art class was in the studio. Sunlight streamed through the skylight, falling on the easel like a layer of gold dust. I was teaching Mengmeng how to mix colors, but she kept confusing blue and purple, stomping her feet in frustration: "Does this lousy paint have a grudge against me?"

"Take your time." I held her hand and added white paint little by little. "Look, this makes the purple lighter, like the evening sky."

Zheng Yiming sat in front of an easel not far away, not painting, but holding a physics book in his hand, his eyes kept glancing this way. Meng Meng nudged my arm: "Look at Zheng Yiming, he's not here to read, he's clearly here to watch you paint."

I looked up and met his gaze. He looked like a thief caught red-handed, and hurriedly lowered his head, his ears as red as ripe cherries. The studio was quiet, with only the soft scratching of paintbrushes across the canvas and the occasional birdsong from outside the window. The air was filled with the scent of turpentine mixed with the sweetness of osmanthus blossoms, making time seem to slow down.

When school ended, Zheng Yiming said he needed to go to the competition office to submit his registration form and asked me to wait for him in the art studio. I sat in front of the easel, staring blankly at the sketch of the cat, feeling like something was missing from my eyes. Outside the window, fallen osmanthus blossoms covered the ground like a layer of scattered gold, rustling softly in the wind.

When he returned, he was carrying a small glass jar filled halfway with dried osmanthus flowers, the kind that are golden yellow and have a faint fragrance. "I picked them when I passed by the flower bed," he said a little embarrassedly, handing me the jar. "I heard you can steep them in water to make tea."

The glass jar was cool to the touch, but when I held it in my hand, it felt surprisingly warm. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He looked at the cat on my easel. "Didn't you paint the eyes well?"

"Hmm, it just feels like something's missing."

He leaned closer to take a look, picked up a paintbrush, dipped it in light brown, and gently dabbed it on the pupil: "Look, doesn't this look like there's light?"

It really does look like him. That touch of light brown is like a hidden star, bringing the whole cat to life. I looked at his profile; his eyelashes were long, and his lips were slightly pursed when he was focused. Sunlight fell on the tips of his hair, gilding them with gold. "How can you do everything?" I couldn't help but ask.

He paused for a moment, then laughed: "After doing a lot of physics problems, you'll know where to apply force. As for drawing... I guess I've learned a bit from watching you draw so much."

My heart skipped a beat. I lowered my head, pretending to tidy up my paintbrushes, but my ears were burning red. The studio was quiet, with only our breathing and the rustling of osmanthus blossoms in the wind outside the window, like a poem left unspoken.

It was already dusk when we left the art studio together. He insisted on walking me to the alley entrance. The streetlights came on, casting long shadows that almost overlapped. "Tomorrow..." he scratched his head, a little hesitant, "will we still buy soy milk tomorrow?"

"Okay." I nodded, my voice as soft as a sigh.

He smiled, his eyes shining brightly under the streetlights: "Then I'll wait for you at seven."

"Um."

Watching his retreating figure, I stood there, the glass jar in my hand feeling heavy. The fragrance of osmanthus blossoms wafted from the jar, mingling with the evening breeze, so sweet it made me a little dizzy. I looked down at my own shadow and suddenly realized that even a person's shadow can become less lonely because of the presence of another.

When I got home, I poured the osmanthus flowers into a clean glass jar, added some sugar, and sealed it tightly. My mother came in, saw the jar, and paused, asking, "Where did these osmanthus flowers come from?"

"A classmate gave it to me." I placed the jar in the most conspicuous spot on my desk, next to the sketchbook filled with cat drawings.

"Is it that... boy who always gives you notes?" The mother's tone was a little subtle, but she didn't scold her. She just sighed, "That boy seems quite mature."

"Mmm." I nodded, feeling a warm glow inside.

I had a dream last night. I dreamt that I was sitting in an art studio, and Zheng Yiming was sitting next to me teaching me to paint cats. Sunlight streamed in, and osmanthus blossoms fell on his hair. He turned his head and smiled at me, his eyes looking like they were filled with stars.

The next morning, I deliberately left five minutes early. Zheng Yiming was already waiting in front of the soy milk shop, holding two paper bags. When he saw me coming, he smiled and handed me one of them: "Today's sugar cake has walnuts added, which is even more good for the brain."

I took the paper bag and walked with him to school. Osmanthus blossoms were still falling, like a sweet rain. He talked about the precautions for the physics competition, and I mentioned that my grandfather used to make cakes with osmanthus blossoms. He listened attentively, nodding from time to time, and said, "I'd like to try it sometime."

When we got to the school gate, Lin Xi and Meng Meng were waiting for us again. When they saw the paper bags in our hands, they immediately surrounded us with smiles: "You went to buy soy milk again? Zheng Yiming, you're so biased! You didn't even invite us!"

"I'll call you next time," Zheng Yiming said with a smile, pulling me to his side. "Let's go inside first, it's time for morning reading."

I followed him inside, listening to Lin Xi and Meng Meng's laughter behind me, my heart felt filled with something. The sunlight fell on us, warm and cozy, and the fragrance of osmanthus followed our footsteps, like a sweet path paved behind us.

The autumn of my first year of high school seemed really different.

No more cold arguments, no more backstabbing, no more licking my wounds alone in the dead of night. Only the sweetness of osmanthus, the warmth of soy milk, and the bright-eyed boy beside me, guiding me little by little out of the darkness and towards the light.

I watched Zheng Yiming's retreating figure; he walked steadily, like a tall, straight tree. Suddenly, I felt that although the road ahead might still be filled with storms, as long as I had someone like him by my side, there was nothing to fear.

After all, the osmanthus will bloom every year, the warm sun will shine every day, and he will be right beside you.