Farewell intersection

The bell that signaled the end of the party rang out clearly in the cold night. Students walked out of the KTV in groups of two or three, saying goodbye at the neon-lit intersection. Lin Weixi stood at the bus stop, watching the white air from her breath curl upward under the streetlights. She tightened the collar of her coat, her fingertips accidentally touching the small ball of yarn on her scarf—the one she'd accidentally hooked in the KTV earlier.

"Do you need me to take you there?"

A familiar voice rang out from behind her. She turned and saw Chen Wang standing three steps away, car keys in hand. The light from the street lamp fell on his shoulders, outlining his thin figure.

"No thanks," she shook her head gently, "The bus I'm waiting for will be here soon."

This refusal was almost subconscious. Just like in high school, every time he offered to help her, she always declined at first. It wasn't that she didn't want to, but she was afraid that if they were alone, her restless heart would burst out of her chest.

He nodded, not insisting. This reaction was within her expectations—he always respected other people's choices and never forced them.

The red light at the corner was counting, the numbers jumping up and down. She noticed that he had changed his glasses. The frames were thinner than his previous ones, which made his eyes look more profound. Maybe it was a habit he developed abroad, she thought.

"I heard you are going to Norway to photograph the aurora?" he asked suddenly.

"It's leaving next month," she said, a little surprised that he knew. "It's a special feature for the magazine."

"It's very cold there in the winter," he said, his voice filled with concern, "please bring some warm clothes."

Such ordinary conversations, however, seemed incredibly precious to them. She recalled their college days, when every chance encounter involved simple greetings like, "Have you eaten?" or "Are you busy lately?" Yet, it was these seemingly ordinary exchanges that sustained her secret crush throughout adolescence.

The bus appeared at the corner, its lights piercing the night. She subconsciously tightened her grip on the strap of her backpack, a wave of reluctance welling up in her heart.

"The car is coming." He reminded softly.

She nodded, but did not move immediately. At this moment, she suddenly hoped that the bus would come later, even if it was just for one more minute.

"Keep in touch," he said.

The words brushed past her ears like a gentle breeze. She nodded and smiled back, knowing deep down that they were merely polite farewells. Just like the "keep in touch" phrases at graduation, they ultimately ended up lying quietly in the address book.

The bus door slowly opened before her. She stepped onto the steps, glancing back at him as she swiped her card. He stood there, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, watching her board the bus. The streetlight cast a faint halo around him, a striking resemblance to his sweat-soaked silhouette on the basketball court that year.

The car door closed, shutting out the outside world. She found a window seat and watched his figure gradually blur through the misted glass. As the car started, he raised his hand and waved, his movements so light that they were almost invisible.

She rested her forehead against the cool glass, letting the neon lights outside blur into a blurry patch of light. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. It was a message from Shen Siyu: "How was it? What did you talk about?"

She stared at the screen, her fingers lingering on the keyboard for a long time, and finally replied with only two words: "Not bad."

The bus moved smoothly through the night, the heat inside the car blazing. She closed her eyes, and the image of him standing under the streetlight just now surfaced in her mind. So close, yet so far away.

When she arrived at the station, the snow started falling again. She walked slowly back home. When she took out her key at the door, she found that the ball of yarn on her scarf was missing. She thought that she might have accidentally pulled it off on the bus.

Back in her room, she opened the box of mementos. On top was a high school graduation photo. In it, they stood in the sunshine, smiling carefree. But now, standing on the winter street, even saying "goodbye" was a cautious gesture.

She gently closed the box and walked to the window. Snowflakes fell quietly, covering the footprints they had left behind. Just like the unspoken words between them, they were eventually buried gently by time.

Her phone screen lit up briefly, a message from the class group chat. She clicked it, took a quick look, then silently closed it. Some distances can't be bridged by simply saying "stay in touch." Just like tonight's bus, it was bound to go in different directions.

But at least, on this winter night, they had a brief encounter. That was enough, she thought. For a relationship that had never even begun, this ending was perhaps the most perfect.