Chapter 40
Memories have a scent.
For Lü Xiaoyan, every fragment of memory about Qiu Yayu holds a unique essence, like amber that has frozen time.
The smell of the darkroom
It was the slightly astringent and cold chemical smell of developer and fixer mixed together, which should have been a warning to keep strangers away. But since when, this smell has been mixed with all sorts of unrelated scents she brought with her.
Sometimes it was the overly sweet artificial flavor of the hot milk tea, so she would always stick a pink straw in her mouth, sip it slowly, and when he wasn't looking, she would press the cold cup against the back of his neck and giggle at the way he frowned.
Sometimes it was when she peeled a pomegranate and smelled the fresh, sweet juice bursting out. She would carefully peel the ruby-like seeds and fill a small bowl with them, insisting on sharing half with him. Watching him eat it reluctantly made her feel content.
Sometimes it was the scent of her shampoo, a cheap, refreshing fragrance that mimicked grass and sunshine. When he was focused on developing photos, she would suddenly approach from behind, her hair brushing against his arm, leaving a fleeting tickle.
There was also the faint smell of ink that occasionally lingered on her fingertips from the cafeteria window, or the subtle smell of plastic and ink mixed together as she wrote, left by the ballpoint pen as it passed over the paper.
This chaotic, everyday atmosphere forcefully invaded the space that was originally absolutely rational and orderly, strangely blending with the smell of chemicals to create a secret and warm ambiance unique to the two of them. Later, when Lü Xiaoyan was alone in the darkroom and smelled that pure, cold chemical odor, she would always feel that the place was terrifyingly empty, as if it had lost its most important soul.
【Her "territorial declaration"】
Qiu Yayu has a not-so-secret habit—she likes to leave her "mark" on Lü Xiaoyan's items, as naturally as a small animal marking its territory.
In his photography history textbook, there were crooked underlines drawn by her with a highlighter, and next to them were her own pictographic notes that only she could understand (a question mark next to a camera to indicate "I don't understand this part").
On his black, single-function thermos, she stuck a grinning yellow sun sticker on it. It left adhesive residue when he peeled it off, so he gave up after trying it once and had no choice but to accept this decoration that was completely out of place with his personality.
In the corner of his darkroom workbench against the wall, there had appeared a small, round cactus potted plant. She said it could protect against radiation (although he explained that the darkroom equipment didn't emit much radiation). She would remember to water it every now and then, muttering, "Little strong one, grow well."
The worst part was that she had carefully and securely tied a small knot with the letters "L&Q" onto the black strap of his professional camera with dark blue braided rope. He protested, saying it affected his professional image, but she retorted, "This way, people will know I'm taken! Besides, I braided it myself; it has magic and will help you take the best photos!"
He always appeared helpless, even somewhat disgusted, but he never actually removed anything. The sticky notes remained tucked in the book, the little sun stickers accompanied the cup through several winters, the cactus stubbornly survived when he occasionally remembered to water it, and the knot in the rope, worn down by his arduous journeys and faded in color, remained tied in its original place.
These insignificant little things, like her silent declaration, gradually seeped into his orderly, somewhat cold world, making it chaotic, yet also... warm. After she left, these "territorial markings" became the gentlest yet cruelest instruments of torture, constantly reminding him how his life had been so concretely and subtly, so undeniably, occupied by someone.
[The Unspoken "Us"]
They rarely used the word "we" between them. At least, Lü Xiaoyan rarely brought it up herself.
But he will use his actions to outline the contours of "us".
He would naturally buy two breakfasts, knowing that she liked the red bean buns from the west window of the cafeteria, but didn't like them too sweet and wanted some of the filling scraped off.
When they go to the library, he will reserve two adjacent seats in advance: one by the window with sunlight (which she likes), and the other against the wall for quiet (which he needs).
When he sees information about an interesting photography exhibition, he subconsciously saves it, only to belatedly realize that he could ask her if she wanted to go together.
He even prepared cold medicine and throat lozenges in advance before she even realized she had any cold symptoms, and handed them to her expressionlessly when she appeared sneezing one day.
Qiu Yayu, on the other hand, is quite the opposite; she loves to constantly use the word "we".
Let's go see a movie this weekend!
"How about we get a cat someday? An orange one, a chubby one!"
"When we get old, we'll plant osmanthus trees all over the yard..."
In her vision of the future, every detail is filled with "us".
Lü Xiaoyan usually just listened, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, or responding with a brief "hmm." But she could catch that silent confirmation in his subtle actions—such as quietly moving her favorite dishes in front of her, instinctively shielding her behind him when crossing the street, or the very faint smile on his lips while he was reading a book and talking to her.
Once, they had dinner with members of the photography club, and everyone teased them, asking them to recount how they fell in love. Qiu Yayu blushed, her eyes sparkling as she looked at him. Lu Xiaoyan gently squeezed her hand under the table, then looked up at everyone and, in his usual calm and collected tone, clearly said:
"I was the one who pursued her."
These one sentence left Qiu Yayu stunned, her face turning bright red, though the corners of her mouth involuntarily turned up, her eyes sparkling as if filled with stars. She knew that this was probably the closest he could ever come to a public confession of love.
That night, she secretly wrote in her diary: "Today, my senior said that he was the one who pursued me! Although it seems a bit different from the truth (I was the one who made the first move!), but... I'm so happy! It's practically like he publicly said he loves me! (≧≦)"
Unbeknownst to her, Lü Xiaoyan later found this diary while sorting through her belongings. Upon seeing this page, he sat alone in the room for a long time, until the moonlight streamed through the windowsill. He stretched out his finger and gently traced the joyful handwriting, as if he could still feel her burning joy and shyness at that moment.
Those unspoken "we," those deep feelings hidden in actions, ultimately became a bittersweet torture for him, one that he could savor and that pierced his heart.
A Morning in a Parallel Universe
After countless sleepless nights and suffocating days, a parallel universe would uncontrollably form in Lü Xiaoyan's mind.
In that time and space, there was no car accident.
They graduate smoothly and perhaps run a small studio together; he takes photos, and she handles the planning and writing.
They lived in the house with the yard that she had mentioned before, and they probably really did have a fat orange cat.
On an ordinary morning, sunlight streamed in through the gaps in the curtains.
He woke up earlier than her and saw her nestled in his arms, her cheeks flushed from sleep, her long hair scattered on the pillow like a defenseless little animal. He couldn't help but lower his head and gently kiss the top of her head.
He woke her up, and she groggily opened her eyes. Seeing it was him, she instinctively snuggled into his arms, making a soft, kitten-like whimper, and mumbled sleepily, "Senior... what time is it..."
"It's still early, I'll sleep a little longer," he said softly, tightening his grip on his arm.
She gave a muffled reply and quickly drifted back to sleep, her breathing becoming even and deep.
He gazed at her peaceful sleeping face, feeling the warmth and weight in his arms, and felt his heart filled with a simple yet immense happiness. Outside the window, the occasional chirping of birds drifted in, and in the distance, the hazy hustle and bustle of the city began to awaken.
This is just one of countless ordinary mornings that they should have had.
There are no earth-shattering events, only the gentle warmth of a flowing stream and a future within reach.
This imagined scene was so real, so vivid, that it often left Lü Xiaoyan in a daze for a moment. It was as if she could reach out and touch that warm body, and hear her soft, sleepy voice.
Then, reality will pull him back with even greater force.
Her arms were empty.
There was only deathly silence in my ears.
Outside the window was another real and cold world without her.
Those moments sealed in amber, the warmer and sweeter they were, the more cruel they seemed against the backdrop of reality. They were the only undying sparks he held in his heart as he traversed boundless darkness, and also the eternal flames that burned his soul.
He warmed himself by these sparks, and also bore the burning pain of these flames, step by step, toward the long rest of his life where she would never be again.
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The temperature on a rainy night
After that rainy night that caused Lü Xiaoyan to lose control, Qiu Yayu had a low-grade fever for three days.
He would appear at her dormitory building on time every day, bringing white porridge and side dishes cooked by the cafeteria. On the third day, she was finally able to get out of bed and saw him standing in the fine drizzle, his umbrella slightly tilted towards her dormitory building, his shoulder already soaked.
"Senior, what are you doing..." Before she could finish speaking, he pulled her under the umbrella, his warm breath, carrying the scent of medicine, brushing against his neck.
Later, she always said it was the best plain porridge she had ever eaten. Actually, it was just ordinary porridge, but when he fed her, he would carefully blow on it to cool it down and wipe away any traces of porridge from the corners of her mouth with his fingertips. The chemicals from the darkroom left faint yellow stains on the edges of his fingernails; those marks later became the tenderest imprint in her heart.
A clumsy promise about the future
During her senior year, Qiu Yayu suffered some mistreatment at her internship and called him late at night. Hearing her voice, which was trying to sound calm but was trembling with tears, he held the phone in silence for a long time before finally saying, "Wait for me."
Forty minutes later, he appeared downstairs at her rented apartment building, his hair disheveled and his camera bag slung across his shoulder—clearly he had dropped everything and come straight there.
That night they sat by the window of a 24-hour convenience store. She held the hot cocoa he had bought and watched him stick the little paper umbrella that the clerk had given her into the rim of her cup.
"From now on," he suddenly said, looking out the window at the street at three in the morning, "my studio will have underfloor heating."
She was stunned.
"Your hands and feet are always so cold." He turned his gaze back to her hands holding the cup. "That way, your hands won't get cold when you paint in the winter."
That one sentence made her bury her face in her scarf and cry for a long time. Later, she wrote the date on that little paper umbrella and treasured it at the bottom of the tin box where she kept her Polaroid camera.
[The last group photo]
On graduation day, they were encouraged to take a group photo. He had never liked the camera, but that day he took the initiative to put his arm around her shoulder.
The photo was taken by a passerby with their phone. In the viewfinder, she's wearing an academic gown, her eyes crinkling with laughter, while he stands half a step behind her, a faint smile playing on his lips. Sunlight filters through the sycamore leaves, casting shimmering dappled patterns on them.
That was their only official group photo.
Later, Lü Xiaoyan developed a copy of the photo and hid it deep inside the pocket of his wallet. The worn edges bear witness to the countless times he rubbed them—in the dead of night in a foreign land, at an empty celebration banquet after winning an award, and in every autumn when he felt lost and adrift.
On the back of the photo are words she secretly wrote that day, in tiny handwriting that can only be seen with a magnifying glass:
"Let's stay together forever and watch the sycamore trees in autumn!"
How far is forever?
It turns out it's just the distance from midsummer to early autumn.
What she didn't know
Qiu Yayu had no idea that Lü Xiaoyan had an encrypted folder.
It contained all her photos from her social media platforms, even just blurry glimpses of her back. There were recordings of her radio shows, which he would play on repeat at low volume when he had insomnia. There was also a video of her participating in a recitation competition during her freshman year of college; the picture was so blurry that he couldn't see her face, but he could accurately identify which cough came from her.
She didn't know that he had stood in front of the jewelry store counter for a long time before finally ordering a very delicate ring shaped like a sycamore leaf. The date on the delivery slip was August 30th.
What she didn't know was that when he went to claim her belongings after the car accident, he found the latest photo in her phone's album—a street scene rushing past the car window, with a caption still in the editing box, not yet sent:
"I'll see you soon! The moonlight tonight..."
It will forever remain at the ellipsis.
These things she would never know became Lü Xiaoyan's personal museum. Each exhibit was labeled with the same note: "If you see."
If only you could see this.
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