portrait
As autumn deepens, the ginkgo leaves are completely dyed into a brilliant golden color, just like the unconcealed thoughts of a young man.
My relationship with Zhou Yu steadily warmed up as the sweet-scented osmanthus fragrance gradually faded, becoming more intimate and natural.
There seemed to be a tacit understanding between us that did not require words. We could understand each other's thoughts with just a glance. Smiling at each other in the corridor, taking seats in the cafeteria tacitly, and going home together after school on Fridays without fail became the embellishment of our daily life.
However, with the approach of the midterm exam and the initial understanding of the intention of choosing between arts and science, the outline of reality is gradually becoming clear.
One Friday afternoon, we went home together as usual. The setting sun stretched our shadows very long, intertwining them.
I carried the slightly heavy sketchpad on my back—aside from my regular textbooks, this was my weekly essential. The edges of the sketchpad were a little worn, stained with various colors of paint, revealing the identity of its owner.
"The application form for subject selection must be submitted next Monday," Zhou Yu said, kicking a small stone at his feet, a hint of subtle regret in his tone, "Have you made up your mind?"
I was silent for a moment, my fingers unconsciously stroking the strap of the drawing board.
I already had the answer to this question, but I also had a premonition that it would be like a shallow ravine, lying between us.
"Yes," I nodded, my voice firm, "I choose art."
This is beyond doubt.
From the first time I picked up a paintbrush, from the time I was able to capture light and shadow with a pencil, from the time I secretly observed everyone around me in order to draw more vivid expressions, this path seemed to be destined.
My academic performance is actually not bad, and I am even quite good at physics and mathematics. However, only in the studio, facing the easel and palette, can I feel the excitement and tranquility of being completely focused and undistracted.
My dream is the Central Academy of Fine Arts, which should be the holy temple in the minds of all art students.
Zhou Yu paused, sighed quietly, and turned to look at me. His eyes showed understanding, mixed with a hint of complex emotion. "I knew it. When you paint, your whole being glows." His tone was filled with genuine admiration, his eyes sparkling with something hidden in them. "It's great that you have such a clear direction that you enjoy."
"What about you?" I asked, but I knew the answer in my heart.
Zhou Yu's performance in liberal arts is extremely good, especially in history and Chinese. His compositions are often read aloud by teachers as model essays. He has a natural sensitivity and love for words.
"I will probably choose liberal arts." Zhou Yu smiled, with a hint of helplessness in his smile, "Actually... there is no other choice. For me, getting into university and finding a stable job are the most important things." His tone was calm, but it revealed a sobriety and indifference that was inconsistent with his age.
I still keenly caught the subtle heaviness in his words.
I remembered how Zhou Yu had always lightly avoided the topic when we'd occasionally discussed family. Something in my heart stirred, a vague suspicion forming in my mind. I didn't dare ask further, yet I couldn't help but feel distressed.
"Liberal arts is great," I suppressed my doubts and spoke more gently. "Your writing is so impressive. Maybe you can become a great writer, or become a journalist or editor. All of these are perfect for you."
"It's not that easy." Zhou Yu seemed to be brought back to his senses by my words and smiled, but the smile did not fully reach his eyes. "However, if we choose different subjects, we will not be in the same teaching building in the future."
This is the core of the problem. The teaching buildings for science (including art classes) and liberal arts classes are separated by a small playground and face each other from a distance.
Ten minutes between classes is barely enough to run from one building to another, which means that the convenience we have now of being able to see each other anytime will no longer exist.
"It's okay," I stopped and turned to look at him seriously. The setting sun gilded his outline. "It's not far. I can run over to find you during breaks. We can have lunch together and walk together after school. And..." He paused, his eyes gentle but firm. "I can draw a portrait of you. Draw lots of you. That way, even if we're not in class together, I can still see you every day."
He seemed amused by my childish yet sincere words, but his eyes felt slightly warm. He lowered his head and whispered, "Who asked you to draw so many..."
"I want to paint." I said in an unquestionable tone, "Zhou Yu, whether we're in the same building or not, it won't change."
My words seemed like a reassurance, temporarily dispelling the uneasiness in Zhou Yu's heart caused by the division of subjects and the deeper sense of being a drifter stemming from his own life.
He raised his head, smiled again, and nodded vigorously: "Yeah!"
The division into arts and sciences finally came.
I entered the art class without any suspense, and devoted my main energy to professional training, while focusing more on liberal arts in cultural courses.
Zhou Yu entered the key liberal arts class and began his days studying history, politics, and geography.
As expected, our time together was drastically reduced, and the ten minutes between classes became incredibly precious.
Often, as soon as the bell rang, I would grab the snacks I had prepared long ago or a hastily drawn sketch, run from the art building across the playground, and rush to the bottom of the liberal arts building.
Sometimes Zhou Yu was already waiting there, and sometimes he needed to ask his classmates to go up and call him.
In just a few minutes, not much can be said. We often just exchange things and check to see if the other person is okay. Before we can even catch our breath, the bell for class preparation rings again like a life-threatening alarm.
But this short-term "meeting in person" is even more precious because it is not easy.
Every brief meeting was like a recharge, enough to sustain us through the next few classes.
I began to paint Zhou Yu's portrait more frequently.
Sometimes it was a sketch during class breaks, capturing the smile on his lips as he lowered his head to look at a note; sometimes it was a sketch of his focused silhouette as he read quietly in the library on weekends; more often, it was based on memory and imagination.
My sketchbook is filled with Zhou Yu page after page.
Smiling, frowning, dazed, angry... I captured every subtle expression of his. My brushstrokes became more and more skillful, and my emotions were more and more deeply integrated into the lines and light and dark.
Zhou Yuze became the first audience and most important critic of all my paintings.
He always accurately points out the subtle charm of the painting, sometimes even I have not noticed it myself.
"In this one, my eyes seem a little melancholy?" or "You draw me better than I really am." He carefully collected each painting and put them in a thick, inconspicuous, locked diary.
That was his most precious treasure.
One winter night, I stayed up late in the studio to finish a still life watercolor assignment.
I was the only one left in the studio, the lights dim and the night outside was pitch black. I felt tired and lonely, so I took out my phone and subconsciously dialed Zhou Yu's number.
The phone was quickly picked up, and his gentle voice came from the other end: "Hello? Zhang Chenzhi? Are you still in the studio?"
"Yeah," I felt relieved when I heard his voice, "I just finished painting and I'm a little tired. Did you sleep?"
"Not yet. I'm still memorizing ancient Chinese texts." Zhou Yu's voice was tinged with laughter. "The Preface to the Pavilion of Prince Teng. It's so long."
"'The setting sun and the lone wild goose fly together, the autumn water and the sky become one color,'" I recited two lines casually. "Is this the one?"
"Wow, you knew that?" He seemed a little surprised.
"I've heard you mention it, so I remember it." I whispered, my fingers unconsciously tracing the traces of dried paint on the palette. I closed my eyes and smiled, "Xiao Yu, I miss you a little."
There was silence on the other end of the phone for a few seconds, and then his softer, lighter voice came: "I miss you, too."
A great sense of satisfaction and sour happiness seized me.
We held the phone, neither of us willing to hang up, and we didn't say anything more. We just listened to each other's gentle breathing and background sounds - the sound of a paintbrush being put into a bucket on my end, and the sound of pages turning on his end.
It seems that through radio waves, you can accompany each other and dispel the loneliness in the middle of the night.
This kind of quiet companionship lasted for more than ten minutes, until Zhou Yu said softly, "It's late, you should go back and rest quickly. Be careful on the road."
"Okay. You too, don't recite it too late."
"Yeah. See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
After hanging up the phone, I looked at the endless night outside the window, but my heart was warm.
I packed my things and walked out of the teaching building, carrying my sketchpad. The cool night wind blew past, but I didn't feel cold, because my heart was filled with someone, and with that gentle "I miss you, too."
However, life is not always sweet.
As exams approached, the pressure mounted. Art students had to juggle both professional exams and academic review, and I became incredibly busy, often staying in the studio late into the night, my eyes darkening.
Zhou Yu's study tasks in the liberal arts class were even heavier, and the large amount of memorization and comprehension made him feel breathless.
Meeting time is further squeezed.
The brief encounters we'd occasionally have between classes were often replaced by exhaustion and haste. Sometimes I'd rush over only to find him surrounded by several classmates discussing a topic. I'd quietly place the small portrait I'd brought on his windowsill and leave.
Sometimes Zhou Yu would wait for him, but when the bell rang, he would see me running from the playground, sweating profusely, with paint on my body, saying apologetically, "The teacher is keeping the class too late."
One afternoon, I was severely criticized by my professional teacher because I couldn't capture the expression of a person in a sketch. I was in an extremely low mood.
I was hoping to see Zhou Yu and long to get some comfort from him.
As usual, I rushed to the liberal arts building, but saw Zhou Yuzheng standing in the corridor talking to a girl.
The girl was a top student in the senior science class. Her name was Chen Hui. She was pretty and had excellent grades, and was the subject of discussion among many classmates.
At this moment, she was holding a thick exercise book and seemed to be explaining something to Zhou Yu. The two of them were leaning close to each other. Zhou Yu listened very attentively and nodded from time to time.
An inexplicable feeling of sourness and grievance instantly overwhelmed my sanity.
The fatigue, stress, frustration of being criticized over the past few days, and the glare of seeing this scene made me lose my usual gentleness.
When Zhou Yu saw me, his eyes lit up and he was about to come over, but I turned my head away unreasonably, without saying a word, and walked away, my back stiff and resolute.
"Zhang Chenzhi!" Zhou Yu called me from behind, his voice filled with surprise.
But I didn't look back. Instead, I quickened my pace and almost ran back to the art building.
I locked myself in the studio and sulked at the ruined sketch. My heart was in a mess. I was angry and felt ridiculous, but I couldn't bring myself to go back.
After school, Zhou Yu didn't wait for me for the first time.
I waited at the school gate for a long time, until it got dark, but I didn't see him.
I returned home dejected, my phone silent, not a single message. This cold silence made me panic, regret entwined itself around me like a vine.
I couldn't help it and sent a text message: "I'm sorry about today." It was a long time later, so long that I thought I wouldn't receive a reply, before my phone lit up.
"It's okay." Just three cold words.
My heart sank to the bottom.
I seemed to know that Zhou Yu was really angry. I held the phone, fidgeting uncomfortably, until I finally mustered up the courage to call him directly.
The phone rang for a long time before being picked up. There was no sound on the other end. "Xiao Yu..." I said in a dry voice. "I'm sorry, I'm... I'm in a bad mood today. My teacher scolded me for my painting, and seeing you so close to someone else, I..."
I explained incoherently, trying to expose all my anxiety and vulnerability in front of him, "I didn't mean it, please don't be angry, okay?"
A very light sigh came from the other end of the phone.
"Zhang Chenzhi," Zhou Yu's voice sounded very tired, with a barely perceptible sob, "I'm tired today too. The monthly exam results are out, and I failed math. Her name is Chen Hui, a childhood friend of mine who's closer than a sister. She was just helping me analyze the questions I got wrong. I wanted to wait for you to come and talk to you..."
My heart clenched, and guilt washed over me. "I'm sorry, I really... I didn't know. I'm such a jerk."
"I know you're under a lot of pressure," his voice softened, "but I'm under a lot of pressure too. Zhang Chenzhi, can we...can we not do this? If you have anything to say, can you just say it directly? Don't lose your temper for no reason, and don't go into a cold war. I...I'm really afraid of this. I'm afraid that you'll leave me like mom and dad did..."
The latter part was so quiet that it was inaudible.
There was a deep vulnerability in his voice that I had never heard before.
I suddenly remembered that vague suspicion about his background, and my heart felt like it was being pricked by a needle. Perhaps what an orphan fears most is this sudden indifference and uncertainty.
"No! Never again!" I hastily promised, my tone urgent and sincere. "Xiao Yu, I won't hold anything back in the future. I will definitely tell you. You have to tell me too, okay? Tell me whether you are happy or not."
There was silence on the other end of the phone for a moment, and then a word came softly: "Okay."
After that little incident passed, we had a long heart-to-heart talk.
That weekend, we went to the park we'd been to before and sat on the same bench. The leaves had fallen, and the branches stretched toward the sky, creating a unique, clean beauty.
I didn't ask about his family any further, but I held his hand tightly and said, "Xiaoyu, from now on, wherever you are with me and your sister Chen Hui, that will be your home."
Zhou Yu's eyes were red. He didn't say anything in detail. He just leaned his head gently on my shoulder and whispered, "Zhang Chenzhi, meeting you probably used up all my luck in this life."
At that moment, the distance between subjects and the pressure of academic work no longer seemed to be a problem.
We shared each other's vulnerabilities and pressures, yet also offered each other the steadfastest support and comfort. I told him interesting stories from the studio, trying to dispel the boredom of his studies; he helped me sort out my liberal arts knowledge points and checked my Chinese and English homework.
We are no longer just two cats stealing fish, but have become companions who support and rely on each other on the difficult academic road.
The sentimental romance of art and the rational depth of words seem to be two different trajectories, but through the sincere and clumsy efforts of the young people, they are interwoven into the most moving music.
I know his sensitivity and strength, and he understands my persistence and fragility.
In that cold season, we had already built a warm fortress for each other to protect against the cold.
This is "home"
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