Frozen border
The snow that fell on the day of Lichun (the beginning of spring) came unexpectedly, covering the newly sprouted willow branches in pure white once more. As I carried a stack of art supplies out of the art classroom, I bumped into Zheng Yiming and Zhou Manqi at the corner of the corridor.
Zhou Manyi was standing on tiptoe to hand Zheng Yiming a thermos, her fingertips brushing against his wrist, her eyes crinkling with a smile: "My mom made ginger tea. Your stomach isn't good, have some to warm you up."
Zheng Yiming took the cup and said "thank you," but his gaze went past her shoulder and landed on me, before he quickly looked away as if he'd been burned. There were brown stains on the cuffs of his school uniform, marks from spilled ginger tea, conveying a deliberate attempt at intimacy.
I walked over expressionlessly, the art supply bucket dragging on the ground with a screeching sound, as if drawing an invisible boundary.
"Zhi Xia!" Zheng Yiming suddenly spoke, his voice carrying a barely perceptible urgency.
I didn't turn around. My footsteps pounded on the terrazzo floor, as firm as a hammer striking ice.
Since that confrontation during the class meeting, we have become complete strangers.
He changed seats, moving to the last row of the classroom, right next to Zhou Manqi; he no longer went to the window seats in the library, but instead went to the corner of the study room; he even avoided the shortcut to the cafeteria, preferring to walk an extra ten minutes past the edge of the playground—as if as long as he couldn't see me, those exposed pretenses wouldn't exist.
Zhou Manqi, however, seemed to have received some kind of permission and intensified her efforts to make her presence known to me.
She would wave Zheng Yiming's physics notes in front of me, saying, "Yiming's handwriting is so beautiful, much clearer than yours." During free time in PE class, she would deliberately link arms with Zheng Yiming as they walked across the track, her laughter sickeningly sweet. She even went to the art club and asked insincerely, "Zhixia, do you think it's too late for me to learn to draw? Yiming said my fingers are long, which is perfect for holding a paintbrush."
Lin Xi always wanted to rush up and confront her, but I held her back. "There's no need." I dipped my brush in paint to mix colors, my voice as calm as if I were talking about the weather. "She's just a clown; it's a waste of time to even glance at her."
Even so, my heart still tightens at certain moments. For example, when I see Zheng Yiming explaining Zhou Manqi's wrong answers, the focus on his profile is exactly the same as when he taught me; or when I hear him whispering to Zhou Manqi, "Don't touch hot water, your burn from last time hasn't healed yet," the concern in his tone is exactly the same as when he told me, "Don't always stay up late."
It turns out that the gentleness I thought was unique was just a handout he could casually give to others.
When the list of participants for the physics competition training camp was released, Zheng Yiming and I were both on it. On the first day of class, the instructors arranged the seating according to our scores, and we were assigned to adjacent tables.
As he pulled out the chair, the legs scraped against the floor with a long, grating sound. I opened my notebook, deliberately shifting it closer to myself, my elbows braced against the edge of the table, as if building an invisible wall.
For three whole hours, we didn't say a word.
His pen flew across the scratch paper, calculating rapidly, while I stared at my own collection of wrong answers, barely breathing. Only when the teacher asked a question did our voices occasionally collide in the air, then quickly bounce back, like two repelling magnets.
During halftime, Zhou Manyi came in carrying two bottles of cola. She went straight to Zheng Yiming and placed one of the bottles on his desk, the bottle still warm from her hand: "Yiming, I heard from the teacher that you got into the training camp. That's amazing!"
Zheng Yiming hummed in response, without looking up, but his fingers tapped lightly on the Coke bottle—a little gesture he used to make when I handed him water.
My pen suddenly stopped, and the ink splattered on the paper, forming a small black blot, like an indelible scar.
“Shen Zhixia is here too,” Zhou Manqi finally noticed me, smiling insincerely. “Aren’t you good at physics? Why didn’t you raise your hand when the teacher asked you questions?”
"What's it to you?" I closed the book, got up, and left.
"Zhi Xia!" Zheng Yiming called me from behind again, his voice tinged with annoyance. "Can't you be a little more mature?"
“Mature?” I turned around, looked at him, and suddenly laughed. “In your eyes, maturity is watching you and the person who betrayed me being all lovey-dovey, and still smiling and saying ‘I wish you happiness’? Zheng Yiming, your standard of maturity is far too cheap.”
His face flushed instantly, and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the pen: "She and I are just..."
"Just what?" I interrupted him, my gaze sweeping over the bottle of Coke on the table. "Just that she was so attentive to you, just that you were so caring towards her, just that you two were putting on a show of 'pure friendship' in front of me?"
Zhou Manyi tugged at Zheng Yiming's arm, her eyes red-rimmed, looking wronged: "Yiming, it's alright, it's my fault, I shouldn't have bothered you..."
“You did nothing wrong.” Zheng Yiming brushed her hand away and looked at me with eyes as cold as ice. “Chen Zhixia, haven’t you made enough of a scene? Are you only satisfied when everyone is unhappy?”
"I'm the only unhappy one." I picked up my schoolbag, turned around and walked out of the classroom. "Don't worry, I'll stay far away from you guys from now on, so you won't get in my way."
The wind in the corridor carried the chill of snow, making my fingertips tingle. I stood at the top of the stairs, watching the snowflakes fall outside the window, and suddenly felt ridiculous—it turned out that the person I had tried so hard to avoid was never Zhou Manqi, but Zheng Yiming, who had clearly hurt me but still hoped that I would be "mature and magnanimous".
After that day, I withdrew from the physics competition training camp.
My physics teacher talked to me, sighing with regret: "It's just one last step away, it would be such a pity to give up."
"It's no pity," I said with a smile. "I'd rather make myself feel comfortable than win an award."
I devoted more of my time to drawing and regular studies. Every morning I would go to the classroom at 6:30 to memorize my lessons, and in the evenings I would spend time in the study room with Linxi and Mengmeng. On weekends I would spend the whole day in the art studio. My days were like a clockwork toy, so full that I had no time to think about anything else.
Occasionally, I would run into Zheng Yiming on campus; he was always accompanied by Zhou Manqi. When our eyes met in mid-air, the emotions in his eyes grew increasingly complex—guilt, irritability, and a hint of inexplicable loss.
I simply looked away calmly, as if I were looking at an ordinary passerby.
When the mock exam results came out in March, I was still first in the whole school, with perfect scores in all subjects. Zheng Yiming's name was ranked fifth. He still got a perfect score in physics, but his math and English scores dropped significantly. The comments said, "His performance was unstable and he needs to focus."
Holding the report card, Lin Xi beamed with delight: "See? You'll only get stronger without certain people!"
Meng Meng leaned over and pointed to Zheng Yiming's name: "He seems to have lost a lot of weight. I saw him in the cafeteria last time, and he couldn't even finish a bowl of rice."
I flipped through my report card and continued doing practice problems, my pen tip tracing the formula for "uniform linear motion," my mind completely at peace.
Whether he's doing well or not, whether he's eaten or not, whether he's lost weight or not, it's none of my business anymore.
Like a frozen river, even when spring comes, the waters beneath the ice may not meet again. Some boundaries, once drawn, should be maintained, both to protect oneself and to accommodate the other party's choices.
On Qingming Festival, I went to sweep my grandfather's grave and met Zheng Yiming.
He held a bouquet of white chrysanthemums and stood in front of a tombstone not far away, his back as thin as a reed bent by the wind. That was his grandmother's grave. He had mentioned it when he was in the first year of high school, saying that his grandmother loved him the most and would always secretly slip him candy.
We stood a dozen meters apart, neither of us speaking. The wind swirled the ashes of the paper money between us, as if performing a silent memorial for this relationship that had ended without a trace.
As I left, I paused for a moment as I passed by him.
"Please accept my condolences," I said softly.
He looked up, his eyes bloodshot, as if he hadn't slept well in a long time. "Thank you." He paused, his voice hoarse, "Your painting... I saw it, the one in the school magazine called 'Breaking the Cocoon,' it's very well done."
"Thanks."
I turned and headed down the mountain. The moss on the stone steps was slippery from the rain. His voice came from behind me, very soft, as if afraid of disturbing something: "Zhi Xia, I'm sorry."
I didn't turn around.
Some apologies, coming too late, lose their meaning. Some damage, once caused, can never be undone.
The rapeseed flowers at the foot of the mountain were in full bloom, a golden expanse like a carpet of sunshine. I took a deep breath; the air was filled with the scent of earth and flowers, so refreshing it made me want to smile.
It turns out that spring can be just as bright and beautiful without him.
Beyond the frozen borders, there was a wider world waiting for me to walk through, to forge my own free and unrestrained life.
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