The unspoken answer
The December cold snap, carrying sleet, rattled against the lab's glass windows. I was adjusting the focus of the microscope when Zheng Yiming walked in with a freshly printed lab report, his fingertips dappled with ink, leaving faint marks on the white paper.
"The data analysis is in, and the error is 0.1% smaller than last time." He placed the report in front of me, his gaze falling on the slide under the microscope. "The staining concentration is just right, and the cell structure is very clear."
"Thanks to you for reminding me to keep the temperature at 37 degrees Celsius," I said with a smile, picking up the report and carefully reviewing it. This was a biology competition project we were working on together. From topic selection to operation, he always helped me fill in the gaps in the details, like a precise scanner.
He didn't speak, just stood beside me watching me record data, a few snowflakes drifting in from the window clinging to his eyelashes, like a layer of fine salt. The lab was quiet, with only the hum of the incubator and the soft sound of a pen nib gliding across paper; the atmosphere was as gentle as lukewarm water.
"The research report is due next week." I closed my notebook, looked up at him, and said, "After it's over... let's go get some hot pot together? Just to celebrate."
He paused for a moment, then nodded, a slight smile curving his lips: "Okay, I know a restaurant that makes really authentic tomato broth."
Looking into the smile in his eyes, a familiar flutter suddenly welled up inside me, like a pebble thrown into a lake, rippling outwards. Our time together had been so harmonious—spending time in the library together, doing experiments together, discussing difficult problems together, our understanding so profound it was as if those sharp arguments had never happened.
The more harmonious the atmosphere, the more I felt that something was hanging in mid-air, not touching the ground.
Just like how he would always accompany me to the alley entrance after evening self-study, using the excuse of "going the same way," but when the streetlights came on, he would linger watching my back without turning around; just like how he would remember that I don't eat cilantro, and would always make a special note when ordering takeout, but when I thanked him, he would only say "it was just a favor"; just like now, the smile in his eyes clearly hides something, but he gently covers it up with a calm tone.
At the biology competition awards ceremony on Friday, our project won first prize. Standing on the podium and receiving the certificate, I subconsciously looked down at the audience. Zheng Yiming was standing in the first row, holding a camera, the lens steadily pointed at me, his eyes shining like they were filled with stars.
As I stepped off the stage, he handed me his camera: "I took a few pictures of you looking focused; they look more natural than the photos from the last art exhibition."
In the photo on the screen, I'm looking down, adjusting the microscope. My profile looks particularly soft under the lab lights, and there's a slight, unconscious smile on my lips. In the background, his shadow falls on the wall, leaning slightly forward, as if protecting something.
"You took some great photos." I handed the camera back to him, feeling a little warm inside.
“I’ve made a reservation for hot pot next week,” he suddenly said, his tone a beat faster than usual. “It’s at ‘Laozhaotai’ near the school, the one where you said you wanted to eat their hand-pulled noodles last time.”
I was taken aback; I hadn't expected him to remember something I'd casually mentioned. "Okay."
The snow fell heavier, blanketing the whole world in white. We walked side by side toward the teaching building, the snow crunching under our feet as if counting our steps. As we approached the fork in the road, he suddenly stopped, turned to look at me, his eyes heavy with hesitation, like cotton wool soaked in snow.
“Zhi Xia,” he began, his voice slightly hoarse from the cold wind, “Have you… ever thought about what we’re like now…”
He didn't continue speaking, but just looked at me, his eyes flickering like a candle flame swaying in the wind.
My heart skipped a beat, and I gripped the certificate tightly, my fingertips icy cold. Had I thought about it? Of course I had. I had thought about those nights we spent solving problems side by side—did it mean a fresh start? I had thought about the smile hidden in his eyes—was it the same as before? I had thought about that question hanging in the air—was it the answer I was waiting for?
But the words that came out were: "Isn't it good the way it is now?"
The light in his eyes dimmed, like a spark extinguished by snow. Silence spread across the snow, carrying an unyielding bitterness. After a long while, he nodded gently: "Yes, it's quite good."
The hot pot meal was rather quiet that day. The tomato broth bubbled and steamed, turning the beef slices a deep red, but I couldn't taste much of it. He piled a lot of food on my plate, avoiding the cilantro as usual, but didn't say much, only occasionally taking a sip of cola while his gaze fell on the snow outside the window.
As we parted, he stood at the entrance of the hot pot restaurant, watching me walk into the alley. Snow fell on his shoulders, accumulating into a thin layer. I turned back and waved to him, and he waved back, but didn't turn and leave as usual.
Back home, I sat at my desk, looking at my biology competition certificate, and suddenly remembered the sentence he hadn't finished saying. What did he want to say? Was he trying to ask, "Can we get back together?" or was he trying to say, "Is this the distance you want?"
Was my "It's fine" a genuine feeling of being fine, or just an excuse I made for myself out of fear of getting hurt again?
The phone screen lit up; it was a message from Zheng Yiming: "You didn't seem to eat much of the hand-pulled noodles today. I'll take you next time."
I stared at the message, my finger hovering over the screen, hesitant to type.
The snow was still falling outside the window, blurring the streetlights at the alley entrance into a hazy glow. I knew that Zheng Yiming's purpose had never been complicated—from the moment he handed me the eraser in the art studio in our first year of high school, all he wanted was to get closer to me, accompany me, and walk forward with me.
It's just that we've taken such a winding path. The words we didn't say, the feelings we kept hidden in the details, are like seeds buried in snow. We don't know when they'll sprout next spring.
Perhaps, some answers don't need to be spoken aloud.
Just like now, maintaining a distance of just a step away, enough to reach out when the other needs it, and enough to allow room for hesitation when we both waver. When spring arrives next year, when we are both certain and brave enough, we will smile and gently whisper those unspoken words to each other.
The snow fell softly on the windowsill, as if it were quietly hiding our unspoken feelings in this winter.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com