Light in the crack
Zheng Yiming stood at the door, his notebooks stacked neatly in his hands, with a report card on top. His hair was natural black, with wisps of hair framing his face that didn't obscure his eyes. He had long eyelashes, and a shallow dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth when he smiled.
"Your homeroom teacher said you weren't feeling well and asked me to bring these things over." He handed me the notebook, his gaze lingering on my face for a moment before he didn't ask any further questions. "These are the answers to the winter break homework, along with the key points highlighted by the teachers for each subject. Take a look and see if they're helpful."
I took the notebook from him, my fingertips accidentally touching his. It felt like I'd been burned, and I quickly pulled my hand back. "Thank you," I said, my voice barely audible.
"You're welcome." He stood in the doorway, his gaze passing over me and landing in the direction of the living room—the glass Dad had smashed last night was still there, shards scattered on the floor like remnants of stars. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, then quickly relaxed. "Are you... alright?"
This question was like a needle, gently piercing my taut nerves. I looked down at the toe of my shoe, where there was an indelible ink stain—the result of Li Zichen accidentally spilling ink last year.
"It's fine." I lied, my voice trembling.
He didn't call me out on it, but just took out an apple from his backpack, its color a bright red: "My mom asked me to bring this, saying it's good to eat more fruit." He put the apple in my hand, the warmth of his palm seeping through the peel, so warm it made me want to cry.
"Thank you," I said again, this time with a slight sob in my voice.
“I’ll be going now,” he said, taking two steps back. “You can call me if you need anything. My homeroom teacher copied my number down for you; it’s on the back of your report card.” He paused, then added, “Don’t think too much about it. Get some rest.”
I watched his retreating figure as he turned and walked away, the hem of his school uniform jacket swaying gently in the wind. When he reached the alley entrance, he turned back, waved at me, and the sunlight shone on his face, making him look like a painting.
The moment the door closed, I leaned against it, and tears finally streamed down my face. The apple in my hand felt heavy, like holding a tiny piece of sunshine.
That afternoon, I didn't touch the utility knife again.
I sat at my desk and opened the notebook Zheng Yiming had brought. His handwriting was neat, with important parts highlighted in red, and little smiley faces drawn next to them, along with the words "This question isn't hard, keep it up." On the report card, my name was in the lower middle, while Zheng Yiming's name was at the very top, glaringly red.
It turns out he was first in his grade.
My heart started hurting again that night, so much so that I curled up in bed, my pajamas soaked with cold sweat. I took out my phone, flipped to the number on the back of my report card, and hesitated for a long time, my finger hovering over the dial button.
In the end, I didn't call. Why should I bother him? We're just strangers.
When the pain reached its peak, I remembered Zheng Yiming's smiling face, the apple he gave me, and his words, "Don't think too much." The pain seemed to lessen, as if an invisible hand had gently supported me as I fell.
The next day, I tried drawing back the curtains. Sunlight streamed in, falling on the scars on my wrists; it was a little hot, but not blinding. I found some hidden paint and painted a patch of blue on the drawing paper—the color of Zheng Yiming's school uniform.
For the next few days, I looked at the notes Zheng Yiming sent me every day. His physics notes were exceptionally well done; he had drawn complex formulas as comics, and next to the force analysis diagrams was a little figure holding a barbell, with the words "Keep it up, you can do it" written next to it.
I started eating on time, even though I still had no appetite; I started going out of my room during the day, even though I just sat in the corner of the living room; when my heart ached, I started clutching the apple I hadn't eaten and imagining the sunlight at the alley entrance.
On the Lantern Festival, my mother, unusually, didn't scold me and even cooked a bowl of glutinous rice balls. I ate two; they were sickeningly sweet, but I still swallowed them. That evening, I received a message from Zheng Yiming with only one photo: their class's Lantern Festival class meeting, the blackboard had the words "reunion" written on it, and he was standing in the crowd, smiling happily.
I stared at the photo for a long time before replying, "Happy Lantern Festival."
He quickly replied, "You too. Have you eaten properly?"
Looking at those words, I suddenly smiled, but tears also fell down my face.
The day before school started, I finally mustered up the courage to send him a message: "Your physics notes are very easy to understand, thank you."
He replied with a smiley face: "Good that it's useful. See you when school starts."
The sun was shining brightly on the first day of school.
I put on my clean school uniform, combed my hair neatly, and covered the scars on my wrists with my long sleeves. As I walked into the teaching building, I bumped into Li Zichen and Su Xiaoxiao.
Li Zichen's gaze fell on me, a flicker of surprise crossing his eyes before returning to its usual indifference. Su Xiaoxiao, linking her arm with his, gave me a defiant look.
I ignored them and walked straight ahead.
As I passed by the entrance of Class 3, Grade 11, Zheng Yiming happened to come out. When he saw me, his eyes lit up, and he greeted me with a smile: "Chen Zhixia, you're here."
"Mmm." I nodded, my heart beating a little fast.
Are you feeling better?
"Much better, thank you."
He stepped aside to let me pass, his gaze falling on the physics notebook in my hand—his notes, which I had copied. "You can ask me if you don't understand anything."
"good."
As I entered the classroom, I glanced back. Zheng Yiming was still standing at the door, waving at me. Sunlight fell on him, casting a long shadow, like a gentle barrier.
I know those dark days aren't completely over, the heartache will return, and the arguments at home won't stop. But something seems different.
Like light shining through a crack, though faint, it's enough to make you feel that maybe... you can hold on a little longer.
Towards the end of my first year of high school, I stood in the corridor, watching Zheng Yiming's back as he played basketball on the playground. He ran very fast, and his profile as he shot the ball was clearly visible in the sunlight, like a boy from a manga.
The frozen lake in my heart seems to be slowly melting.
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