condensed air
The hospital sheets gleamed coldly. The wound on her collarbone was tightly wrapped in gauze, and every movement caused a sharp pain. Her mother sat by the bed, her eyes red and swollen. The thermos in her hand was on the bedside table, unopened. She just kept rubbing the rim of the thermos, as if suppressing something.
“His parents have come three times.” She finally spoke, her voice hoarse like sandpaper rubbing against wood. “That boy, Zheng Yiming, just stood in the corridor, his head bowed low, unable to utter a single word.”
I didn't speak, staring at the sycamore leaves outside the window. The new leaves had just sprouted, so tender they looked like they could be squeezed for water, but in my eyes, they were all covered with a layer of gray.
“Your dad was so angry he wanted to confront him, but I stopped him.” Mom sighed. “The matter has escalated to the school, and now we’re losing face on both sides. The homeroom teacher said that Zheng Yiming has been suspended from school and is awaiting disciplinary action from the education bureau.”
Disciplinary action? Suspension from classes?
These words were like pebbles falling on ice, not even causing a ripple. I only remember the deathly silence that filled the air when the knife came crashing down, and the fleeting, unconscious rage in his eyes.
That wasn't an accident; it was the release of pent-up emotions that found the cruelest outlet.
The day we were discharged from the hospital, the sun was blazing, making our eyes water. Zheng Yiming's mother stood at the hospital entrance, carrying a fruit basket. Seeing us, she immediately approached, her eyes red-rimmed: "Zhixia, Auntie apologizes to you on Yiming's behalf… He really knows he was wrong; he was just confused that day…"
"No need." I walked past her, my voice as calm as still water. "Auntie, please don't let him contact me again."
She stood there, stunned. The fruit basket slipped from her hands, and the apples rolled all over the ground, like shattered hearts.
When I got home, I locked myself in my room. The osmanthus jar he'd given me was still on my desk, a thin layer of dust covering the glass, the osmanthus blossoms long since lost their fragrance. I picked up the jar, walked to the window, and threw it out with all my might.
With a loud crash, the glass shattered on the floor, just like the farce between us that ended inconclusively.
When I went back to school, it was a week later.
The moment I stepped into the classroom, all sound ceased. Dozens of eyes fell upon me, filled with inquiry, sympathy, and a hint of inexplicable schadenfreude. I lowered my head and walked to my seat. The gauze on my collarbone was still there, covered by my school uniform, yet it looked like a conspicuous brand.
Zheng Yiming's seat was empty.
The homeroom teacher said that he applied for a leave of absence.
Lin Xi and Meng Meng gathered around and asked cautiously, "Are you alright?"
"It's nothing." I smiled, unzipped my backpack, and took out my textbooks. But the trembling of my fingertips betrayed my panic.
Life has become like a glass of plain water—bland, yet something we have no choice but to drink.
In physics class, when the teacher asked a question, he would habitually look at Zheng Yiming's seat, and then, as if realizing something, awkwardly look away; during art club activities, Meng Meng would deliberately avoid mentioning anything about him, and would only pull me to draw the most vibrant sunflower; on the way home from school, Lin Xi would always accompany me to the alley entrance, watching me go in before leaving.
They were all protecting me with utmost care, like protecting a fragile piece of porcelain.
But I know that some things, once broken, are broken forever. Like trust, like a heart fluttering, like that time we once thought we'd be together forever.
I attended the physics competition awards ceremony in June. Standing on the podium, as I received the second-prize certificate, I subconsciously looked down at the audience—Zheng Yiming used to sit in the first row, his eyes sparkling as he looked at me.
The people sitting there now are unfamiliar classmates.
As I was leaving the stage, Zhou Hang stopped me, holding a notebook in his hand: "Zheng Yiming asked me to give this to you."
It was his competition notebook, with a note tucked into the last page. The handwriting was so messy it looked like it was trembling: "I'm sorry. I know it's no use saying anything, but I still want to tell you that I didn't mean to hurt you that day. I was just... so afraid you would leave."
Are you so afraid I'll leave?
So you're using a knife to keep me here?
I returned the notebook to Zhou Hang: "Please return it to him. Tell him there's no need to apologize, we're even."
Zhou Hang looked at me, hesitated, then finally took the notebook, turned around, and left.
Summer came quickly, the cicadas chirped incessantly, and the sun scorched the playground. I would occasionally see Zheng Yiming in the corridor; he had lost a lot of weight, his hair was cut very short, and he always kept his head down, as if he were hiding from something. We never spoke to each other, and we didn't even make eye contact again.
The scent of gardenias in the air grew stronger, cloyingly sweet, just like the smell when we first got together. But smelling it again only left me with a chill in my heart.
One night, I had a dream. I dreamt I went back to that rainy art studio, and he was standing at the door with an umbrella, smiling and saying, "I've been waiting for you for a long time." I ran over, trying to grab his hand, but only grasped a cold knife.
When I woke up, the wound on my collarbone was still throbbing, as if reminding me that the dream was never a dream.
On the day the final exams of the second semester of my junior year ended, I was packing my schoolbag when I found a small blue star in my desk drawer—the one he had given me. It had probably fallen out during our last argument; I had stepped on it, and it was covered in dust.
I picked up the star, walked to the window, and threw it out with all my might.
It traced an arc and landed in the grass below, like a star that had finally gone out.
Perhaps we were never meant to be together.
He didn't understand my fear, and I didn't understand his anxiety. We pushed each other further and further apart in the most hurtful way, until we could no longer see each other.
The wind in the corridor carried the heat of summer, making it a bit stuffy. I walked out of the teaching building with my backpack on, and the sunlight fell on me, warming me and making me sleepy.
The students in front of me were chatting and laughing, discussing where they would go for summer vacation. Watching their backs as they walked away, I suddenly realized that no one is indispensable to anyone else.
Just like now, life goes on even without Zheng Yiming.
Occasionally, my collarbone aches slightly, as if reminding me that there was once someone who, with the most passionate love and the sharpest hurt, etched a scar on my heart that will never disappear.
And that scar will accompany me into a future without him.
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