if line: If we really get separated
London in December is always gloomy. Lead-gray clouds hang low, and the Thames flows silently toward the North Sea, carrying with it fragments of ice.
Zong Heng stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of his apartment, the whiskey ice cube between his fingers already half-melted. Outside, the first snow of the year was slowly falling. The snowflakes clung to the glass, quickly turning into watermarks, much like the winding rain lines on the classroom windows during the rainy season in Lincheng that year.
The laptop on his desk was still lit, the latest merger and acquisition contract terms densely covering the screen. The old guys on the board had finally signed the agreement—at the cost of conceding three key interests. Ten years ago, he would never have made such a compromise. But now Zong Heng had learned to bow his head at the right time, just as he had learned how to wake up every morning without her.
"President Zong."
Assistant Jessica knocked and entered, her high heels clicking silently on the Persian carpet. She placed down a freshly brewed cup of black coffee, steam still rising from the rim. "The tickets for our trip back home next week are booked; we're departing from Heathrow on Monday afternoon at three o'clock."
Zong Heng didn't turn around, but simply swirled his glass gently. The clinking of ice cubes was exceptionally clear in the empty room. "The trip has been compressed to three days."
"But the dinner at the Swiss bank..."
"Reject it."
Jessica hesitated, wanting to speak but stopping herself. She knew her boss was unusually irritable at this time of year. The stack of documents awaiting signature on his desk had been sitting there for three days, something unimaginable before—the business whiz who once set a record of working 72 consecutive hours was now inexplicably depressed in December.
The snow fell even harder. Zong Heng suddenly reached out and scratched a mark on the fogged glass. The coolness from his fingertips reminded him of a distant afternoon. The fan in Class 7 of Grade 11 creaked overhead, and he deliberately knocked the textbook of the girl in front of him to the ground. When the transfer student named Xu Ying squatted down to pick up the book, a small section of her fair skin was exposed on the back of her neck, almost transparent in the sunlight.
"There's one more thing..." Jessica hesitated before handing over a gold-embossed envelope, "An invitation to the centennial celebration of Nangang No. 1 Middle School. It was written personally by the principal, who said he hopes outstanding alumni..."
"I said I wouldn't participate in any alumni activities." Zong Heng's voice suddenly turned cold.
The assistant hurriedly lowered his head: "I'll refuse right away."
As the office door closed again, Zong Heng walked to the safe. He noticed his index finger trembling slightly as he unlocked it with his fingerprint. Deep inside the safe was a manila envelope, its edges yellowed. He carefully took it out, as if afraid of disturbing some slumbering ghost.
There was only one photo in the envelope.
The graduation photo of Class 7, Grade 12. Fifty-six smiling faces are neatly arranged in four rows. His gaze fell directly on the far right of the third row—Xu Ying, wearing an ordinary blue and white school uniform, stood at the end of the girls' line. Her smile was so faint, as if she might fade from the photo at any moment. This was their only photo together, even though there were two whole rows of people in between.
The date, June 10, 2012, was written on the back of the photo in ballpoint pen. It was the day after the college entrance examination ended, and also the last time they met.
The whiskey suddenly tasted bitter and hard to swallow. Zong Heng walked to the window and noticed that a thin layer of snow had accumulated. Ten years ago, at the airport in the pouring rain, Xu Ying's back was forcibly dragged away by her parents, and now the pale snow scene overlapped with it.
He remembered how he had screamed until his throat bled, only to be pinned to the ground by four bodyguards. His father's voice boomed down from above: "If you dare go to her, I'll make sure her whole family can't stay in Nangang."
My phone suddenly vibrated. It was a message from my father: "[The merger went well, but we made too many concessions. Come to headquarters for a meeting tomorrow.]"
Zong Heng didn't reply. He opened a search engine and typed in "Lincheng Xu Ying". This shameful and futile ritual he performed every December.
A few irrelevant messages popped up on the page: a list of winners for a design competition, a list of volunteers for a charity event... None of them were what he wanted. Ten years ago, he could occasionally see her updates on his classmates' social media profiles, but later all her social media accounts stopped updating. Like a drop of water evaporating on a summer asphalt road, leaving no trace.
The snow outside gradually covered the windowsill. Zong Heng remembered Xu Ying saying that she had never seen snow. Southern winters were only cold, damp rain. "I'll take you to the North someday," the eighteen-year-old promised, "so you can roll around in the snow."
Now, the snow falls in London year after year, but no one will ever again shout in his ear with delight, "Zong Heng, it's snowing!"
He picked up his pen and signed his name on the last page of the merger agreement. As the ink smudged on the paper, a drop of water fell onto his signature. Zong Heng touched his face in confusion, only to realize that tears were already streaming down his face.
At midnight, Chelsea's bar district was still brightly lit.
Zong Heng sat in a corner booth, his third Macallan whiskey in front of him. The peaty taste of the whiskey burned his throat, but it couldn't extinguish the dark flame in his heart.
"one person?"
A heavily made-up blonde woman moved closer, her perfume making him frown. The woman's fingers, painted with scarlet nail polish, rested on his wrist. "Want me a drink?"
Zong Heng withdrew his hand, his eyes chillingly cold. The woman walked away sheepishly. The bartender shrugged, unfazed—this Asian regular always drank alone until late at night, never letting anyone near him.
The phone screen lit up. The high school class monitor tagged everyone in the group chat: 【Everyone, please try to come to the centennial celebration! I heard Xu Ying will be there too!】
Zong Heng's wine glass jerked suddenly, the amber liquid splashing onto his sleeve. He stared intently at the name, as if trying to touch the person behind the screen. The group chat had already exploded:
[Is it true? How many years has Xu Ying disappeared?]
[Is she married? I think I saw her at the provincial hospital.]
[Her husband is reportedly a surgeon, and her child is already in elementary school.]
Each message felt like a knife stabbing into his heart. Zong Heng closed the group chat, only to find a small red dot in his contacts. Someone had added him as a friend—the profile picture was a cherry blossom, and the nickname was "YING".
His breathing stopped.
The verification message consisted of only four characters: "[Long time no see]".
His fingers trembled as he hovered above the screen. Ten years. More than three thousand days and nights. He had imagined their reunion countless times, yet at this moment he felt as timid as if he had returned to being eighteen.
In the end, Zong Heng pressed the refuse button.
The snow started falling again. He stepped out of the bar, the icy snowflakes landing on his burning cheeks. The Knightsbridge apartment building, brightly lit, was one of London's most expensive mansions, yet it sat empty like a tomb.
In the entryway, Zong Heng noticed that the safe door wasn't closed properly. Xu Ying in the photo remained quietly smiling, completely unaware of the blizzard unfolding in this parallel universe.
He gently stroked the photograph, then locked it back in the darkness.
Xu Ying looked at herself in the mirror and for a moment she didn't recognize herself.
The makeup artist was carefully placing a veil on her head, the pearl hair ornaments shimmering softly under the light. Her mother nodded in satisfaction, "So beautiful, Zhang Chen will definitely be mesmerized."
"Mom..." Xu Ying said softly, her voice a little hoarse, "I want some water."
Her mother handed her a thermos; the warm water slid down her throat, but couldn't dispel the inexplicable tightness in her chest. The air conditioning in the dressing room was too strong, and she unconsciously rubbed her arm, where there used to be a faint teeth mark—left intentionally by a boy during a rough time many years ago.
"Oh dear, why are your eyes red?" the mother suddenly exclaimed anxiously. "Don't ruin your makeup with tears!"
Xu Ying then noticed that her eyes were red-rimmed in the mirror. She forced a smile: "The contact lenses are a little uncomfortable."
The makeup artist tactfully stepped aside, saying, "I'll go get some eye drops."
After the door closed, Lin Xiaoyu rushed in like a gust of wind, phone in hand: "Yingying! Did you check the alumni group chat?"
Xu Ying shook her head. Since deciding to get married, she had left all group chats that might trigger memories.
"Zong Heng..." Lin Xiaoyu lowered her voice, "He went back to China last week, and I heard he's doing very well in London..."
Xu Ying's fingers suddenly gripped the edge of the dressing table, her nails almost digging into the cushions. Five years had passed, and that name still felt like a dull knife, capable of reopening her supposedly healed wounds with the slightest touch.
"Xiaoyu," her mother frowned, "don't mention irrelevant people today."
Lin Xiaoyu awkwardly shut up, but secretly slipped a note into Xu Ying's hand. While her mother went out to greet the relatives, Xu Ying unfolded the note—
"He went to No. 1 Middle School yesterday."
Outside the window, the wedding band was soundchecking, and the piano piece "Wedding March" drifted in, overlapping with a rainy day in her memory. She had played this piece at the talent show in her second year of high school, and when she played the third note wrong, a snicker suddenly came from the back row. She turned around and saw Zong Heng leaning lazily back in his chair, a roguish smile on his lips: "Xu, want me to teach you?"
"The bride should go out to greet the guests now," the emcee reminded her from outside the door.
Xu Ying suddenly snapped back to reality and realized that she had crumpled the note into a ball.
The Shangri-La Hotel's banquet hall was adorned with champagne roses. Xu Ying stood at the entrance, mechanically smiling at the guests. Zhang Chen considerately put his arm around her waist, occasionally whispering in her ear, "Are you tired?"
She shook her head, but her gaze unconsciously swept across the crowd.
"What are you looking at?" Zhang Chen asked.
"...I think I saw my high school teacher."
What she actually saw was a man in a black trench coat looking down at his phone in the corner of the last row of the banquet hall. The man's silhouette looked exactly like the shadow in her memory, but in the blink of an eye, that seat was empty.
"Xu Ying?" Zhang Chen gently touched her hand. "Aunt Li is talking to you."
She turned around hastily, nodding and smiling like a delicate doll at her relatives' well-intentioned teasing. Dewdrops from her bouquet dripped onto her watch; the cool touch reminded her of her high school graduation party, when Zong Heng fastened that silver chain to her wrist, his fingertips burning her with a heat that felt like they were about to scald her.
"Now, please have the newlyweds exchange rings!"
The emcee's booming voice brought her back to reality. Zhang Chen gently took her hand, the diamond ring sparkling under the lights. Thunderous applause erupted from the audience; everyone said they were a perfect match.
Just as the ring was about to be slipped onto her ring finger, the banquet hall door was suddenly pushed open by a waiter. Xu Ying instinctively looked up—
It was just a gust of wind.
"It's time for the bride to toast the elders."
Her mother whispered a reminder, and Xu Ying realized she was staring blankly at the champagne tower. The top glass of the tower was slightly tilted, reminding her of Christmas in her second year of high school when Zong Heng had built a similar structure out of soda cans in the back of the classroom, which she had accidentally knocked over, splashing soda all over him.
"I'm sorry..." she blurted out.
"Hmm?" Zhang Chen looked at her in confusion.
Xu Ying hurriedly picked up her wine glass: "I mean... I'm sorry to have kept you all waiting."
When the toast reached the table of high school classmates, the former class monitor suddenly sighed, "Is Zong Heng the only one missing from our class now? I heard he's in England..."
Under the table, Lin Xiaoyu stomped hard on the class monitor's foot.
The red wine swirled in the glass, and Xu Ying saw her reflection shatter into pieces. She tilted her head back and drank it all in one gulp. The alcohol burned her throat, but she couldn't suppress the bitterness surging in her heart.
"Drink slowly," Zhang Chen said, patting her back with concern.
Xu Ying wanted to say she was fine, but instead, she burst into a violent cough. Her pearl earrings swayed with her movements; they were a birthday gift from Zhang Chen last year. And at the very bottom of her jewelry box, there was a silver chain that had oxidized and turned black.
"I'm going to touch up my makeup."
Xu Ying practically fled into the restroom. The moment she locked the stall door, she finally allowed herself to breathe heavily. The bride in the mirror had exquisite makeup, but her lips drooped, like a failed imitation.
She opened her handbag with trembling hands, inside lay a faded basketball keychain—a souvenir from the school league season in her senior year of high school. After Zong Heng won the game, he tossed it to her in front of the whole school: "Keep it safe; you'll need it next time you win the championship."
Footsteps and laughter came from outside the door, and Xu Ying hurriedly stuffed the keychain back in. While touching up her makeup, she accidentally smudged her lipstick, and in her flustered state, she noticed someone standing by the sink.
"Do you need any help?" A strange woman handed me a tissue.
Xu Ying thanked him and accepted the ring, but froze when she looked up—the diamond ring on the woman's ring finger was exactly the same design Zong Heng had casually sketched for her years ago. It was a drawing he had made in the corner of her notebook with a ballpoint pen while he was leaning over his desk: "How about proposing with this sometime?"
"Your ring..." Xu Ying heard her own dry voice.
"Oh, my husband designed it," the woman smiled sweetly. "He's a jewelry designer with his own brand in London."
The tap was running, and Xu Ying's vision blurred.
"Are you tired?"
Inside the new house, Zhang Chen considerately helped her remove her veil. Xu Ying shook her head and walked to the French windows. The city lights of Lincheng were dim in the night, and the outline of Lincheng No. 1 High School could be seen in the distance.
"Today..." Zhang Chen wrapped his arms around her from behind, "you seem to have something on your mind."
Xu Ying remained silent for a long time, so long that Zhang Chen thought she wouldn't answer.
"I used to..." she said softly, "know someone."
Zhang Chen's hand paused, then tightened: "And now?"
I've never seen him again.
A light rain suddenly began to fall outside the window, much like the weather on the day they parted. Xu Ying remembered the last time she saw Zong Heng was at the airport security checkpoint. He mouthed to her through the crowd, "Wait for me."
This wait could last a lifetime.
The wedding photo on the bedside table was illuminated by the moonlight, and the bride's smile in the photo was as perfect as a mask. Xu Ying slowly took off the bridal corsage from her wrist, revealing a faint scar on the inside—it was from when Zong Heng climbed over the wall to buy her milk tea in her senior year of high school, and she was accidentally cut by a wire.
At the time, he was scolding her for being stupid while carefully putting a band-aid on her, saying, "I'll take responsibility if it leaves a scar."
As the moon sank in the west, Xu Ying threw the wrist corsage into the trash can.
Zong Heng received a call from his assistant as soon as his flight from London to Southport landed.
"Mr. Zong, the Nangang government's reception arrangements have changed; they would like to move an hour earlier..."
"Cancel it," Zong Heng interrupted him. "Proceed with the original plan."
He hung up the phone and rubbed his temples. This trip back to China was to acquire a redevelopment project in the old town of Lincheng. The board of directors wasn't optimistic about it, but he insisted on coming in person—nobody knew why.
As Zong Heng crossed the jet bridge, he habitually glanced at the sky outside the terminal. In May in Lincheng, the sunlight was always so dazzling that it reminded him of certain deliberately forgotten memories.
The VIP lane was nearly empty; his leather shoes clicked rhythmically on the marble floor. As he passed the duty-free shop, a childish voice suddenly pierced through the noisy crowd:
"Mom! That panda can blink!"
Zong Heng suddenly stopped in his tracks.
The voice was so similar—it sounded exactly like the little girl from his memory who always followed him around, softly calling "Aheng." As if possessed, he turned towards the source of the sound.
A familiar figure was reflected in the glass display window of the toy section.
A woman squatted on the ground, the hem of her beige trench coat flared out, patiently helping a little girl fix her bow hair clip. As she looked down, a few strands of hair fell beside her ears, the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows giving her a fuzzy, golden edge.
Zong Heng's breathing stopped.
Ten years have passed.
Xu Ying.
The little girl excitedly pointed to the display case: "Mommy, can I have that panda?"
"I already have so many dolls at home." Xu Ying's voice was filled with laughter, gentle yet helpless.
That tone was like a dull knife, slowly cutting open Zong Heng's long-buried memories. Back in his second year of high school, when he had a fever and was absent from school, Xu Ying braved the rain to bring him his notes. When he grabbed her wrist, she said in the same helpless tone, "Zong Heng, stop messing around..."
His fingers unconsciously tightened around the carry-on suitcase handle.
Three meters.
They were only three meters apart, yet it felt as if ten years had passed between them. Zong Heng found himself unable to move—should he greet him casually, or pretend he hadn't seen him?
The little girl suddenly turned her head to look in his direction, and Zong Heng reflexively took half a step back and hid behind a pillar.
"Mom, why is that uncle staring at us?"
Xu Ying turned her head following her daughter's finger, and Zong Heng quickly turned his back. His heart was pounding wildly, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. A thirty-year-old man, yet he was acting like a flustered young boy.
"There's no one here!" Xu Ying looked around. "Is Mengmeng seeing things?"
"There was clearly a very tall uncle just now..."
Zong Heng took a deep breath and was about to leave when a man in a white coat rushed over: "Yingying, I'm sorry, there's just an emergency at the hospital..."
This title made Zong Heng freeze.
"It's nothing," Xu Ying stood up and naturally took the bag from her husband's hand. "Mengmeng just finished choosing a gift."
The diamond ring on her ring finger sparkled under the light.
Zong Heng practically fled in panic.
He strode toward the boarding gate, his pace quickening until it almost became a jog. At the corner, he accidentally bumped into a passerby, spilling coffee all over him.
"Sir? Are you alright?"
Dark brown stains spread across his expensive suit, but Zong Heng seemed oblivious. His ears were ringing, and the scene from just moments ago kept flashing before his eyes—
Xu Ying took the man's backpack with such practiced ease, and her gaze towards her husband was so calm, just like any happy wife.
This is reality.
The girl who would blush and hand him water in his memory, the girl who would run away in panic after he questioned her on the rooftop, had disappeared ten years ago.
"Sir? You've lost your boarding pass."
Zong Heng looked down and realized that he had let go of his hand at some point, and his boarding pass and passport were scattered all over the ground. He bent down to pick them up and suddenly saw a photo tucked inside his passport—the graduation photo of Class (7). Xu Ying was standing on the far side of the third row with a faint smile on her lips.
He carried this photo with him for ten years.
"Zong Heng?"
A voice sounded behind me.
He stood frozen in place, too afraid to turn around.
Xu Ying thought she must be seeing things.
That tall figure looked so much like Zong Heng, even the small black mole on the back of his neck was exactly the same. Ten years ago, during countless self-study periods, she had secretly stared at that mole in a daze.
"What's wrong?" the husband asked, puzzled.
"It's nothing..." Xu Ying shook her head, "I think I saw an old classmate."
She glanced in that direction one last time; the man had already disappeared into the crowd. It must be her imagination. How could Zong Heng be here? She'd heard he'd settled in London long ago and become a rising business tycoon.
"Mommy!" Mengmeng tugged at her clothes, "Are we still going to buy the panda?"
Xu Ying squatted down and gently pinched her daughter's cheek: "I'll buy it, but you have to promise Mommy you'll take good care of it, okay?"
"Yes!" the little girl nodded vigorously, "I will brush its fur every day!"
Looking at her daughter's radiant smile, the inexplicable bitterness in Xu Ying's heart gradually dissipated. She took Mengmeng's hand and walked towards the cashier, never looking back.
Meanwhile, in the VIP waiting room, Zong Heng tore the graduation photo into pieces, bit by bit.
"Sir, do you need any assistance?" the flight attendant asked cautiously.
"No need." He tossed the shards into the trash can. "They're just useless stuff."
As the plane took off, Zong Heng looked out the window at the city that held so many memories. Ten years ago, on that rainy night, if he had been a little braver, if he hadn't heeded his father's threats, would the person holding Xu Ying's hand now be...?
He closed his eyes, suppressing the absurd thought.
In some non-existent spacetime—
Xu Ying turned around and recognized Zong Heng.
They smiled at each other and exchanged pleasantries like old friends. She introduced her husband and daughter to him, and he politely complimented the little girl on how cute she was.
As they parted, Zongheng said, "I wish you happiness."
Xu Ying smiled and replied, "You too."
But in the real world—
One of them didn't turn back, and the other didn't dare to recognize them.
As the plane soared into the sky, Xu Ying received a group notification on her high school's anniversary celebration. She glanced at it and gently clicked "not to attend."
Outside the window, pear blossoms in May fluttered down like a belated snowfall.
At 3:17 a.m., Zong Heng woke up with a start.
Cold sweat soaked his silk pajamas, clinging stickily to his back. He gasped for breath, his right hand unconsciously gripping the fabric at his chest, as if that could ease the dull pain in his heart.
It's that dream again.
Eighteen-year-old Xu Ying stood at the airport security checkpoint, wearing her faded light blue school uniform jacket, trembling with sobs. Her parents held her arms, while the Zong family's bodyguards stood between them like a wall. In his dream, he struggled desperately, but could never touch her outstretched fingertips.
"Xu Ying—"
The moment he uttered that name, the dream shattered.
The rain in London pattered against the French windows, and the lights on the Thames in the distance were blurred into hazy spots of light through the rain. Zong Heng reached for the bedside table; the whiskey glass was empty, with only a few melted ice balls reflecting a faint light.
His phone screen lit up; the schedule sent by his assistant showed a multinational meeting at 9:00 AM. Zong Heng rubbed his temples, threw back the covers, and headed for the bathroom.
As the cold water splashed on his face, he stared at himself in the mirror—his eyes were dark and swollen from years of staying up late, his jawline was sharper than when he was younger, but his eyes were much more somber than the arrogant young man he remembered.
Ten years have passed.
In the study, the electronic lock on the safe emitted a soft "beep" sound.
Zong Heng's fingers trembled almost imperceptibly as he took out the faded kraft paper envelope. Inside were only three things: a graduation photo from No. 1 High School, a silver button, and a note that had been repeatedly opened and folded.
In the photo, Xu Ying stands at the far end of the third row, sunlight filtering through the pear trees and falling on her shoulders. It was May 2012, thirty days before the college entrance exam, and forty-seven days before they were forced to separate.
The button was from Xu Ying's school uniform. During their last meeting, she struggled so fiercely that Zong Heng accidentally ripped it off. Later, it became the only thing he took abroad, and in countless nights when he wanted to give up, this small metal object became his reason to persevere.
"wait for me."
The note was written in Xu Ying's neat handwriting on the day the college entrance exam ended. She had also secretly slipped a bus ticket into his pocket—a long-distance bus ticket to Hangzhou, with the address of a small hotel written on the back.
They had originally planned to spend three days there and then apply to a university together.
Zong Heng pressed the note close to his forehead, as if that would allow him to travel through time and touch that hopeful summer. A flash of lightning streaked across the window, illuminating the ring mark on his left ring finger—there should have been a ring there, one he had inexplicably bought when he was twenty.
The Macallan liquor in the cabinet is almost empty.
Zong Heng walked barefoot on the carpet. As the cold liquor slid down his throat, he remembered Xu Ying's dislike of the taste of whiskey. During their senior year of high school, he secretly brought the liquor to the rooftop, and she took a small sip and her face contorted: "It tastes like disinfectant!"
Later, she would always keep a can of peach-flavored soda in her schoolbag, specifically to help him when he choked on strong liquor.
The projection screen on the study wall slowly descended. Zong Heng opened the encrypted folder, which contained only a ten-second video—the Nangang No.1 Middle School Spring Sports Meet on April 16, 2012.
The camera was shaky, and the background noise was terrible. Suddenly, Zong Heng, a boy wearing a basketball jersey with the number 7, burst into the frame, laughing as he snatched the phone from the person filming: "Xu Ying, stop filming!"
"Give it back to me!" the girl said with a laugh.
The moment the camera panned, eighteen-year-old Xu Ying burst into the frame. She had her hair tied in a high ponytail, tiny beads of sweat on the tip of her nose, and fine downy hairs on her cheeks were visible in the sunlight. Zong Heng's hand suddenly appeared at the edge of the frame, gently wiping the sweat from her forehead.
Then the video abruptly ended.
This is the only image they left behind.
Zong Heng played the video repeatedly until the alcohol began to erode his reason. He fumbled for his phone and found a number in his contacts that he hadn't dialed in ten years.
When the international call notification sounded, he realized what he had done and abruptly hung up.
The rain outside the window was getting heavier.
At five in the morning, a hangover headache forced Zong Heng to abandon his plans to continue working.
He stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the London sky gradually awaken. The lights of the financial district lit up one after another, like stars falling to earth. From this vantage point, he could see The Shard, London Bridge, and countless office lights that, like his, had stayed up all night.
But the pear tree in Nangang, covered in blossoms, was nowhere to be seen.
Beside the merger and acquisition documents spread out on the desk lay a letter that had just arrived that morning. The gold-embossed invitation to Nangang No.1 Middle School's centennial celebration shimmered in the morning light, its inner page listing alumni—Xu Ying, a renowned fashion designer.
Zong Heng traced the familiar yet unfamiliar name with his fingertips, recalling his assistant's words from yesterday: "The school said Ms. Xu has confirmed her attendance and is also in charge of designing the commemorative school uniform..."
He suddenly stood up and grabbed his car keys.
Ten minutes later, the black Bentley pulled up in front of an antique shop that had just opened in Chelsea. The shop owner watched in surprise as the soaking wet Asian man rushed in and slammed a yellowed photograph on the counter.
Can it be repaired?
The photo shows two figures in school uniforms standing in a schoolyard filled with falling pear blossoms. The angle of the shot is skewed, clearly taken without consent. The shop owner examined the photo carefully with a magnifying glass and shook his head: "The fading is too severe, but..."
He pointed to the faintly visible date stamp at the edge of the photo: "I can try to restore this."
When the clearly visible "2012.04.05" appeared on the screen of the repair device, Zong Heng closed his eyes. That was the day they first held hands. Xu Ying's hands were small and soft like cotton candy; her palms were sweaty with nervousness, yet she never pulled away.
When I got back to the apartment, it was already broad daylight.
Zong Heng stood under the shower, letting the hot water wash away the exhaustion from a sleepless night. In the rising steam, he remembered Xu Ying's last words to him in his dream: "Zong Heng, you must take care of yourself."
She's always like this. Even though she's crying so hard she can't breathe, she's still worried about whether he'll clash with his father, whether he'll stop eating properly, whether he'll... forget her.
My phone vibrated; it was a message from my assistant: "I've cancelled all your travel plans for the next three days as requested. Which flight would you like to rebook?"
Zong Heng turned off the shower, water droplets dripping from his hair onto his phone screen. He slowly typed a reply:
"The earliest bus from Beijing to Nangang."
Outside the window, the rain has stopped.
Xu Ying squatted on the study floor, her forehead slightly damp with sweat. The May sunlight slanted in through the half-open curtains, and dust motes floated slowly in the beams of light.
"Mommy, do we need to move this box?" Eight-year-old Mengmeng stood at the door, holding a plush toy, looking at her curiously.
"Okay, let's put them over there for now." Xu Ying wiped her sweat and continued organizing the old books on the bookshelf. This was the first time she and Zhang Chen had moved since they got married, from their marital home to a school district house closer to the hospital.
As she moved the last stack of high school textbooks, a rusty iron box fell to the ground with a clatter.
"What is this?" Mengmeng immediately came over.
Xu Ying's fingers froze in mid-air. She was all too familiar with this tin box—she had bought it at the stationery store near the school gate the year she graduated from high school, and there was still a faded dimple sticker on the lid.
"They're my mother's old things," she said softly, her heart suddenly racing for some reason.
Mengmeng couldn't wait to open the box: "Wow! So many letters!"
Xu Ying's breath hitched for a moment. The box contained dozens of envelopes neatly stacked, each addressed to "Zong Heng" in black ink, the handwriting evolving from youthful to mature, recording ten years of change. The top envelope was yellowed, its edges slightly curled.
"Who is Zong Heng?" Mengmeng asked, tilting her little face up.
Xu Ying's fingertips trembled slightly: "It's my mother... a classmate from before."
Xu Ying closed her eyes, as if she had returned to that sweltering summer. In the classroom after the college entrance examination, her classmates cheered and threw their test papers into the air, while she sat alone in her seat, refreshing her empty email inbox again and again.
"Mommy, are you crying?" Mengmeng's little hand suddenly touched her cheek.
Xu Ying then realized that her tears had soaked the letter. She hurriedly wiped her eyes, saying, "No, it's just dust in my eyes."
She continued flipping through the pages, her finger stopping at a letter without a stamp. The postmark showed it was from September 2014, and the envelope still had creases from being soaked and dried.
September 15, 2014
Zong Heng:
Today is the day I register for university.
I dragged my luggage to school alone and stood at the school gate waiting all day. I told myself that if I were to come, I would definitely choose today. But it wasn't until dark that the security guard came over and asked if I was lost that I had to leave.
My roommates are all curious why I'm always staring at my phone. They don't know that I even put it in a waterproof bag and take it into the bathroom when I shower, afraid of missing a call from you.
Zong Heng, where are you?
If you've forgotten me, at least tell me, okay?
Xu Ying.
There were a few blurry marks on the letter, as if they had been touched up again after being wet with tears. Xu Ying remembered that it had rained all night the day she wrote this letter.
The letter at the bottom was exceptionally thick, with a pure white envelope and no postmark. Xu Ying took a deep breath and slowly opened it.
May 19, 2022
Zong Heng:
I'm getting married tomorrow.
My partner is a doctor introduced by my parents. He's a very nice person and very considerate towards me. My mother says that this kind of marriage is the most stable.
Over the past five years, I've written thirty-five letters, but I've never had the courage to send them. Now I can finally let go.
Sometimes I think, what if we had been braver at the airport that summer; what if I had chased after you without hesitation; what if you had broken free from the bodyguard's grasp...
Unfortunately, there are no "what ifs".
I wish you happiness.
Xu Ying.
The handwriting on the letter was trembling, and the last few lines were almost illegible. Xu Ying gently stroked the strokes, as if touching her desperate self at twenty-five.
"Mom, why don't you mail these letters?" Mengmeng asked, tilting her head.
Xu Ying carefully placed the letter back into the box: "Because... some things, if said aloud, will only make everyone sad."
"So what happened to Uncle Zongheng afterwards?"
Xu Ying looked out the window. The sun was shining brightly, and the cherry blossoms below were in full bloom. The arrogant boy in his school uniform from ten years ago had now become a blurry shadow in her memory.
"He...should be doing well."
Mengmeng nodded, seemingly understanding, then suddenly pointed to the bottom of the box: "Mommy, there's another photo here!"
Xu Ying was taken aback. At the very bottom of the metal box was indeed a photo she had never seen before—at the high school sports meet, she was tying her shoelaces by the track, while in the distance, Zong Heng, wearing a basketball uniform, was looking in her direction with an incredibly gentle gaze.
A line of small print was written on the back of the photo:
"Xu Ying, I'm doomed for you."
Xu Ying's tears finally broke free. She hugged the photo tightly, as if she were hugging the entire summer of her eighteenth year.
In the evening, when Zhang Chen returned home from get off work, he found his wife sitting on the balcony, lost in thought.
"I heard from Mengmeng that you found some old things?" he asked gently, handing her a cup of hot tea.
Xu Ying took the teacup, her knuckles slightly white: "Hmm, some odds and ends from my student days."
"Should we keep it?"
She glanced at the cardboard box in the corner, ready to be thrown away, with the tin box lying quietly on top. Sunlight gilded the rusty lid, and the dimple stickers had faded with time.
"No," Xu Ying finally said, "it's all in the past."
As the movers sealed the cardboard boxes, Xu Ying stood at the door, and vaguely heard that familiar voice from her youth:
"Xu Ying, are you going to follow or not?"
She gently closed the door.
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