Chapter 35
Time: The first autumn after Qiu Yayu left.
Lü Xiaoyan stood in the empty darkroom, the red safe light casting a long shadow. Her scent still lingered in the air—the potted plant she had left behind grew quietly in the corner, and the knot she had braided on the camera strap swayed slightly.
He took out the rare camera, his fingertips tracing its cool metal casing. It was a surprise she had saved up for an entire summer, now her heaviest keepsake.
August 31st.
He took his camera and walked through all the places they had been together.
Under the sycamore tree, he photographed the first falling yellow leaf—at this time last year, she caught the entire autumn captured by his lens here.
On the military training field, he took a picture of the track, which had turned white from the scorching sun—as if he could still see her straight back and serious expression as she stood at attention.
He took a picture of the empty seat in the third row of the library, by the window—where her half-finished strawberry milk tea had once sat.
On a lakeside bench, he photographed the reflection ruffled by the wind—the setting sun still painted the water golden, but no one whispered "So beautiful" in his ear anymore.
Finally, he returned to the darkroom and put the film he had shot that day into the developing solution. The images gradually emerged in the red light—each one perfectly composed and precisely exposed, yet they were unsettlingly empty.
Without her in the frame, even the most beautiful scenery loses its focus.
He took out the last letter she had written; the bloodstains had long since dried into brown flowers.
"Lu Xiaoyan, by the time you read this letter, you should have already received your birthday present, right?"
This camera is like the way I look into your eyes...
The letter was smudged with tears.
She would never know that what he received first was not a birthday present, but news of her death.
Late at night, he sat by the window with his camera. The city lights were bright, but not a single one was lit for her.
"Ya Yu," he whispered to the night sky, "the first birthday without you..."
The words stuck in his throat, turning into suppressed sobs.
Twenty-year-old Lü Xiaoyan didn't yet know how to reconcile with death. He could only stubbornly take photos without her, as if as long as he continued to record, time would be reluctant to truly take her away.
As dawn broke, he nailed a blank photographic paper to the wall of the darkroom.
Next to it, written in her favorite blue marker:
Missing you in the first year
Happy Birthday, My Autumn
The photograph paper was snow-white, like her youth that would never fade.
And his longing had only just begun to unfold.
October - Lingering Warmth
He opened her locker, and on the top shelf lay the gray scarf she had been knitting for him, half-finished. The knitting needles still retained the curve of the last stitch, like a section of time abruptly cut off. He buried his face in the soft wool, and could still smell the faint scent of gardenias—the smell of her shampoo.
December - First Snow
As the first snow blanketed the campus, he walked alone to the path behind the library. This time last year, she had stuffed snowballs into his collar here, laughing so hard she clung to him. Now, only the snow fell silently, melting into droplets on the camera lens, like someone's tears.
March Echoes
During the radio station's leadership change, he sat down in the last corner row. The new female student's voice was clear and bright, and she was reading the opening line she had written: "When the first autumn leaf brushes against your shoulder..." He suddenly stood up and left, only remembering as he lit a cigarette at the end of the corridor—she hated the smell of smoke the most.
May - Nobody knows
He was developing the class's spring outing group photo in the darkroom. Everyone in the photo was smiling, but he was looking at the empty space outside the lens—where a girl in a pale yellow sweater should have been standing, secretly hooking her little finger with his.
July - Relics
Her mother brought a box of her belongings. At the bottom was a locked diary. He tried to recall the date they met—"Today I met a very fierce photography senior, but when I saw the photos he took, I suddenly wanted to cry." The next pages were filled with fragmented daily entries, until the last page: "I'm seeing him tomorrow, where should I hide the camera?"
August · Eternity
On the evening of the 31st, he took his camera and walked to the section of road where the accident occurred. The setting sun stained the asphalt road blood-red, and wild daisies peeked out from the gaps in the guardrail. He knelt down on one knee and took a picture of this scene, but the lens suddenly became fogged up with moisture.
That year he learned:
It turns out that when the leaves of the sycamore turn yellow 365 times, it's forever.
It turns out that while the developing solution can freeze an image, it cannot retain temperature.
It turns out that the farthest distance in the world is between August and September.
September - Inertia
Two weeks into the new semester, everything on campus seems to be back on track. Lü Xiaoyan is no exception.
He attended class on time, sitting in his usual spot, taking meticulous notes. He went to the cafeteria, ordering her favorite sweet and sour pork, but often stared blankly at the plate until the food was completely cold. He returned to his dorm, washed up, went to bed, and closed his eyes. All his actions followed a predetermined program, like a robot whose core code had been removed, yet still operated by inertia.
Only he himself knew what kind of cataclysmic chaos lay beneath this "normal" facade.
When Lü Xiaoyan walked down the street, he would subconsciously slow his pace, waiting for that familiar figure to skip and hop after him, taking his arm. Hearing a funny joke, the corners of his mouth would barely curve into a smile before freezing instantly, because his clear, bell-like laughter was no longer there. He would even wake up in the middle of the night, vaguely thinking she was just asleep in the next dorm room as usual, only to receive a message complaining of nightmares a second later.
Inertia is terrifying. It keeps every cell in his body remembering the rhythm of her presence. But reality, in the coldest way, crushes the illusion brought about by this inertia time and time again.
The most out-of-control moment came on an ordinary evening. He passed by the girls' dormitory and saw a girl wearing a light blue sweatshirt similar to Qiu Yayu's, with a similar ponytail; the back view was almost indistinguishable from the real thing. His heart skipped a beat, and almost without thinking, he blurted out that name:
"Yayu!"
The sound was abrupt and hoarse in front of the empty building.
The girl turned around at the sound, revealing a completely unfamiliar face filled with confusion.
"Excuse me, classmate?"
At that moment, Lü Xiaoyan felt as if he had been doused with a bucket of ice water, instantly sobering him up. Overwhelmed by immense embarrassment and a profound sense of loss, he hastily lowered his head, mumbled, "Sorry, I mistook you for someone else," and practically fled.
He ran back to the darkroom, locked the door, and slid down to the floor against the cold door, panting heavily. In the darkness, he clenched his fist at his chest, where the pain felt like it was about to burst.
What inertia brings is not comfort, but a fresh, agonizing slow slicing after countless confirmations of loss.
October Traces
The October sky grew high and clear, and the sycamore leaves turned an even more brilliant yellow. Lü Xiaoyan began to search frantically for every trace of Qiu Yayu's existence in this world, like a fanatical archaeologist.
He searched through all his belongings. In the pages of a photography theory book, he found a sticky note with her drawing an ugly little sun; in the pocket of an old down jacket, he pulled out a melted and deformed strawberry candy that she had secretly slipped in; deep in his phone's cloud storage, he found a video clip she had secretly recorded of him working in the darkroom when he wasn't looking—the camera was shaky, and he could only see his focused profile and the occasional suppressed giggles of hers.
Each discovery of these seemingly insignificant "relics" caused him both immense heartache and immense joy.
He also went to the places they had been together, trying to find any trace of her. In the cafe they frequented, in the third booth by the window, under the corner of the table, he found a tiny, almost invisible yellow dot she had lightly painted with her nail polish, next to which was a small "L" carved. In the alley corner where they used to feed stray cats together, the orange cat was still there. When it saw him, it rubbed against him affectionately, as if asking about another familiar figure.
He even mustered up the courage to contact Qiu Yayu's roommate, Shen Yuqi, and cautiously asked if she still had any photos of her, or if she had ever mentioned anything...
Shen Yuqi remained silent for a long time on the other end of the phone before saying in a nasal voice, "Master Lü... we've still kept Yuyu's bed and table for her... sometimes at night, I think I can still hear her turning over... I always feel like she's just gone home and will come back..."
These words offered no comfort; instead, they made the sense of loss more concrete and heavier. It turned out he wasn't the only one feeling disoriented. It turned out her departure had left an unfillable void in so many people's worlds.
The process of searching for traces was painful. Each discovery felt like tearing open a scabbed wound. But he couldn't stop. It was as if only through these scattered, tangible pieces of evidence could he confirm that the girl named Qiu Yayu had truly existed so vividly and profoundly in his life, and not just a beautiful illusion conjured up by his overwhelming grief.
November - A Silent Dialogue
The north wind began to howl, and winter revealed its fierce claws. Lü Xiaoyan spoke even less, almost falling silent.
But in his heart, the conversation with Qiu Yayu never stopped.
This kind of dialogue happens silently, in every moment of solitude.
When he sees a strangely shaped cloud, he silently thinks to himself, "Ya-Yu, doesn't that look like the cotton candy we saw in the botanical garden last time?"
When he successfully develops a stunning photograph in the darkroom, he thinks, "If you were here, you would definitely clap your hands and say, 'Senior, you're amazing!'"
When he tastes a new dish in the cafeteria that tastes strange, he will subconsciously complain: "This is definitely not to your liking, it's too salty."
As he wraps himself up in his coat on cold nights, he mutters to himself, "You never remember to wear a scarf, now... are you cold?"
These silent conversations became his only way to alleviate his immense loneliness. He would ask questions of the air, then search his memories for her possible answers. Sometimes it was her laughter, sometimes her grumbling with a hint of temper, and sometimes just her clear eyes as she quietly gazed at him.
He knew it was foolish, even somewhat morbid. But he couldn't control himself.
Once, he even whispered to the cold lake water late at night, "Ya Yu... I miss you so much... Can you... come back and see me?"
The only answers he received were the rustling of the wind through the withered lotus leaves and the hollow echo of the lake water lapping against the shore.
At that moment, he crouched down, buried his face in his knees, and his shoulders trembled violently. He realized he couldn't even deceive himself. The silent dialogue was ultimately just his own monologue. The person who could respond to him was no longer there.
December - The first winter without her
As the first snow fell, Lü Xiaoyan was coming out of the library. Snowflakes fluttered down, landing on his hair and shoulders. He stopped, looked up, and gazed at the pure white world.
Last year when it snowed, she was as excited as a child, running around in the snow, making snowballs and trying to stuff them up his neck. After succeeding, she laughed so hard she almost fell over. In the end, he caught her and wrapped her in his scarf, turning her into a clumsy little bear.
This year, the snow is still falling, but I am all alone.
The cold is physical; it can be warded off with thick clothing. But the hole in my heart, created by losing her, lets in a howling wind, and no amount of warmth can help.
On Christmas Eve, the campus was filled with a festive atmosphere. Couples strolled hand in hand, and exquisite gifts were displayed in shop windows. Lü Xiaoyan avoided all the bustling areas and returned to her quiet dormitory.
He opened the light blue camera box, took out the rare camera, and gently wiped it clean. This should have been the most precious birthday gift he received this winter. Now, it had become a symbol of sorrow.
“Ya Yu,” he said, speaking to the camera as if she were his own, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible, “Merry Christmas.”
There was no response.
He took out his phone, tapped the profile picture that would never light up again, and typed: "It's snowing, is it cold where you are?" His finger hovered over the send button for a long time, but in the end, he deleted it word by word.
He turned off his phone, lay on the cold bed, opened his eyes, and listened to the faint Christmas carols coming from outside the window until dawn.
The first winter without her was exceptionally long and exceptionally cold.
January - Year-end
Final exams are over, and winter break has officially begun. Students, dragging their suitcases, happily head home. The campus is empty again.
Lü Xiaoyan didn't go home immediately. He was afraid to face his parents' worried eyes, afraid of the seemingly reunited home without her.
He stayed in the empty dormitory for a few more days. Every day he just looked at the bare branches outside the window, or flipped through the photo album full of her pictures over and over again.
As the year draws to a close, the air seems to be filled with an anxious urgency for family reunion. For him, this atmosphere is an invisible pressure.
He finally packed his bags and embarked on his journey home. The train was filled with people eager to return home, their faces beaming with the joy of their impending arrival. Only he, watching the scenery rushing past the window, felt a desolate emptiness in his heart.
Back home, his parents were indeed unusually cautious with him, refusing to mention anything related to "Qiu Yayu," "love," or "the future." The meal was lavish, filled with all his favorite dishes. The warmth of home was real and tangible, yet it couldn't truly reach his frozen heart.
On New Year's Eve, fireworks burst brilliantly in the night sky. He stood on the balcony, watching the fleeting beauty, and remembered the starry skies they had watched together. The stars are eternal, fireworks fade quickly. And her life was even shorter than a firework.
As the New Year's bells rang, he received many New Year's greetings. He mechanically replied with "Happy New Year," but felt no joy in his heart.
The new year has arrived.
But his time seemed to stubbornly remain frozen in the year he lost her.
February - The Disappearance of Traces
Winter break is over, and back on campus, Lü Xiaoyan discovers that some traces of Qiu Yayu are inevitably fading away.
The bubble tea shop she used to frequent has changed its sign.
A new announcer arrived at the radio station, with a voice style completely different from hers.
Even the claypot rice restaurant they frequented seemed to have changed owners, and the taste had subtly changed.
What terrified him most was that Shen Yuqi told him that the dormitory might be rearranged, and they could no longer keep that bed and desk for Qiu Yayu.
"The school said... it's not good to leave it empty all the time..." Shen Yuqi's voice was low on the phone.
Lü Xiaoyan understands; this is reality. Those who are alive must continue living, and the world won't stop turning just because one person has passed away. But understanding doesn't mean not feeling pain.
He realized that as time passed, the physical traces of her existence in this world would be gradually erased. New students would move into her dormitory, new stories would cover the paths they had walked, and new voices would replace the lingering echoes she left at the radio station.
This trend of being "forgotten" terrified him more than death itself.
He threw himself into the "collection" even more frantically. Not just photos, but everything he could think of related to her. He feared that one day, when all external traces disappeared, he wouldn't even be able to piece together a complete picture of her from his memory.
March: A Classroom of Life and Death
There's an elective course in the new semester called "Life Education and the Philosophy of Death." For some inexplicable reason, Lü Xiaoyan chose this course.
In class, the teacher spoke of the impermanence of life, the inevitability of death, and how to cope with loss. Those rational analyses and philosophical reflections, however, were like looking through frosted glass, unable to truly touch his raw, bleeding wounds.
But when the teacher talked about the "stages of grief"—denial, anger, bargaining, frustration, and acceptance—Lü Xiaoyan silently compared herself to the situation.
He denied it, and countless times felt it was a nightmare.
He was angry, he hated the driver, he hated the injustice of fate, and even... he hated her for being so careless as to get into that car.
He bargained and prayed in his heart that he would give anything to get her back.
He is currently in a long, seemingly endless period of depression.
Accept? He couldn't imagine that he would ever accept it.
The course didn't provide him with answers; instead, it illuminated his desperate predicament even more clearly.
April - Uncontrolled Creation
For her midterm assignment, Lü Xiaoyan submitted a series of photographs titled "Emptiness".
All empty shots. Empty classrooms, deserted playgrounds, desks without books, coffee cups that have lost their warmth, and... in the darkroom, that perpetually empty bar stool.
The photos are excellent, with impeccable composition and lighting, but the immense emptiness and sense of loss that permeates every frame is almost suffocating to the viewer.
The teacher spoke to him with concern: "Xiaoyan, your technique is very mature, but the emotions in this series of works are too heavy. You need to... try to get out of this."
Come out?
Where to go?
His world collapsed completely after he lost her. The source of all his creations, and his perspective on the world, have been utterly altered.
This series, "Emptiness," is a true reflection of his inner self. He cannot fake sunshine, nor can he capture the hope that does not exist within him.
May - Illusion
As the weather gradually warms up, the campus begins to fill with the rich fragrance of gardenias again. That's Qiu Yayu's favorite scent.
Perhaps due to excessive longing, or perhaps due to her spirit finally breaking down, Lü Xiaoyan began to experience vivid hallucinations.
It wasn't a blurry shadow in a darkroom, but a real, tangible "seeing" of her.
In the library, he saw her sitting in her usual spot, head down, writing something, sunlight dancing on her hair.
In the cafeteria, he saw her carrying a tray, smiling and talking to her roommate, her eyes and brows lively.
Even downstairs in the dormitory, he saw her running towards him, her skirt fluttering, her face bearing that familiar, slightly smug smile.
Each time, he almost rushed forward, and each time, at the last moment, the illusion, like a bubble in the sunlight, shattered and disappeared with a "poof," leaving him with an even more desolate reality.
These illusions were no longer a comfort, but a torment. They gave him hope time and time again, only to push him back into the abyss in the cruelest way.
He saw the school psychologist, but with little effect. Some wounds cannot be healed by words or medication.
June - The anniversary is approaching
As the semester draws to a close and June arrives, an invisible, suffocating low pressure seems to permeate the air.
The dark day of August 31st is drawing ever closer.
Lü Xiaoyan became unusually anxious and irritable. He was unable to concentrate on anything, and his sleep deteriorated, often suffering from insomnia all night.
He started having the same recurring dream. In the dream, she was walking in front of him, and he was desperately calling out to her, chasing after her, but he could never catch up. Just as she was about to board the bus, he shouted at the top of his lungs, "Don't get on! Ya-yu! Don't get on!"
Then, he would wake up in a cold sweat, overwhelmed by immense fear and helplessness.
The anniversary loomed over him like a huge shadow. He knew that on that day, he would have to face the fact that she was gone forever, once again, and even more clearly.
That year, he barely survived by relying on inertia, searching for traces, silent conversations, and occasional uncontrollable hallucinations.
But the first anniversary was like a hurdle, standing in his way. He didn't know if he could overcome it, nor what would happen after he did.
The first year of missing you felt like an eternity, every day was incredibly long.
For the rest of his life, countless more such "first years" await him.
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