out-of-control blade
The May breeze, carrying the scent of gardenias, made the wind chimes on the back window of the classroom tinkle. I lay on my desk, counting the red circles on the calendar—today was my second week with Zheng Yiming. But the sweet fragrance in the air couldn't mask the thin layer of ice between us.
These past two weeks have felt like someone pressed the slow-motion button.
Su Yaqi transferred to another school. Before leaving, she slipped a love letter into Zheng Yiming's locker, which I caught her doing. He explained that he had "broken up with her long ago," but looking at the unopened letter, I felt like I had a thorn stuck in my heart. Last week, at the physics competition group dinner, he drank some beer and came back smelling of an unfamiliar perfume. He said it was "accidentally smelled by a girl at the next table." I didn't say anything, but just put the milk tea he offered me aside.
We began to fall silent frequently.
He asked me, "Why are you unhappy again?" I lowered my head and said, "Nothing." He tried to hold my hand, but I instinctively dodged away. He put the sketchbook full of cat drawings in my desk drawer, but I pushed it back untouched.
The problem is like a snowball, getting bigger and bigger, and no one is willing to be the first to reach out and move it.
When the bell rang for the morning reading session, Zheng Yiming came in from outside, his school uniform collar open, carrying a hint of morning chill. He threw his schoolbag on the table, didn't even look at me, and sat down to do his practice problems. The sound of his pen slicing across the paper was like cutting through the air.
I clutched the hem of my shirt, my fingertips cold. Last night he texted me, "Want to go out for breakfast tomorrow?" I haven't replied yet. It's not that I don't want to, it's that I don't know what to say—saying "yes" would feel like pretending those grudges don't exist; saying "no" would be like extinguishing the last bit of warmth.
The first class was physics. The teacher was explaining the conservation of momentum at the podium, but I couldn't hear a single word. Zheng Yiming sat diagonally in front of me, his back ramrod straight, his profile appearing particularly cold and hard in the sunlight. Looking at his hand holding the pen, I suddenly remembered that just two weeks ago, this hand had gently wiped away my tears.
My heart felt like it had been tugged by something, a dull, aching pain.
The moment the bell rang, I stood up and took a paper bag out of my schoolbag—it contained everything he had given me: the sketchbook filled with cat drawings, the glass jar containing osmanthus flowers, the physics notes he lent me, and the folding umbrella he gave me last winter, saying, "I was afraid you would always forget to bring it."
“Zheng Yiming,” my voice trembled slightly, but I tried to speak calmly, “I’m returning these things to you.”
He turned his head, a hint of surprise in his eyes, followed by cold mockery: "What? Throwing a tantrum again?"
“I’m not making a scene.” I put the paper bag on his desk. “We… all need to calm down.”
What I really wanted to say was, if you want to break up, I agree. But what came out of my mouth was this vague statement.
He looked at the paper bag, then at me, and suddenly laughed—a laugh that was a little frightening: "Calm down? Shen Zhixia, what else can you do besides run away?"
"I'm running away?" I suddenly raised my voice, and all the classmates around me looked over. "And what about you? Have you ever solved any problems? All you do is say I'm 'throwing a tantrum' and 'overthinking'!"
"I haven't resolved it?" He stood up, the chair legs scraping against the floor with a harsh sound. "How many times have I explained things about Su Yaqi? How many times have I apologized for the dinner party? Did you listen to me at all?"
"An explanation is just a cover-up!" I clenched my fist, my nails digging into my palm. "You don't care about my feelings at all!"
"I don't care?" His eyes reddened, and he grabbed the paper bag on the table and threw it on the ground. The sketchbook fell out, and the pages with cat drawings scattered all over the floor. "Then what are these? Waiting for you after school every day, explaining problems to you, worrying that you might be wronged—all of this is fake?!"
The sound of the papers scattering was like a slap in the face, making my ears ring. Tears suddenly welled up, and as I looked at him, he suddenly felt terrifyingly unfamiliar.
"It's fake!" I yelled back, my voice hoarse. "You have no idea what I'm afraid of! You're just like them!"
"Like whom? Li Zichen?" He raised his voice suddenly, as if a cat's tail had been stepped on, "Shen Zhixia, don't go too far!"
The students around us started to try to break up the fight, and Lin Xi pulled my arm: "Zhi Xia, stop talking and go back to your seat."
I shook off her hand, and seeing the anger in Zheng Yiming's eyes, the last vestige of hope in my heart shattered completely. "Forget it, there's nothing more to say." I turned to leave, but tears involuntarily streamed down my face.
He didn't speak, but just stared intently at me, his chest heaving violently like a wild beast out of control.
The bell rang for the second period, and the math teacher walked in carrying lesson plans. Seeing the mess in the classroom, he frowned: "What happened? Don't you know class has started?"
I lowered my head, intending to return to my seat, when I heard a loud crash behind me—the sound of a hard object hitting the ground. Immediately afterward, a sharp pain shot through my collarbone, like it was on fire.
"ah--!"
I cried out in pain, staggered back two steps, and bumped into the wall. Looking down, I saw a silver fruit knife lying at my feet, the blade gleaming coldly, and the handle stained with blood—my blood.
Zheng Yiming stood there, still in the throwing posture, his eyes filled with shock and panic, as if he had never expected this to happen.
"Zheng Yiming! Are you crazy?!" Lin Xi screamed as she rushed over and blocked my way. "You actually hit her with a knife?!"
The whole class was terrified, and the math teacher panicked too, rushing over: "Quick! Does anyone have tissues? Go call the school doctor!"
The pain in my collarbone intensified, and blood seeped through my school uniform, staining a large area red. I looked at Zheng Yiming; his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he couldn't utter a single word, his face as white as paper.
Tears mixed with pain fell, not because of the pain itself, but because of the chill in my heart.
He actually did it.
He hit me with a knife.
The school doctor arrived quickly and pressed gauze against my wound, making me tremble with pain. "You need to go to the hospital for stitches; the wound is too deep," the school doctor said sternly.
The homeroom teacher arrived too. Seeing the knife on the ground and my bleeding wound, she trembled with anger: "Zheng Yiming! You're coming to the office with me! Shen Zhixia, I'm taking you to the hospital!"
As I was helped out of the classroom, I glanced back. Zheng Yiming stood there, head down, not looking at anyone, like a puppet whose soul had been ripped away. Sunlight streamed through the window, falling on him, but it couldn't warm the coldness in his eyes.
No one noticed that the real problem between us was never Su Yaqi, nor the scent of perfume, but rather the accumulated avoidance and the pride that refused to bow down.
No one noticed that the moment the knife came crashing down, the last bit of warmth between us shattered.
The hospital disinfectant smelled pungent. When the doctor disinfected my wound, I clenched my fists in pain, but all my tears had dried up. My homeroom teacher was making phone calls nearby, probably contacting both sets of parents.
I stared at the ceiling, my mind completely blank.
A two-week romance felt like a fleeting dream. It began like the early summer sun, warm and beautiful; it ended like this sudden, sharp knife, piercing and disastrous.
It turns out that some problems cannot be avoided by running away.
It turns out that some damage, once caused, can never be undone.
The pain in my collarbone still reminds me that the knife I just saw was not an accident, but the bitter fruit of our own making.
In the end, he never understood that what we really needed to resolve was never those trivial matters, but rather the wall in each other's hearts that refused to yield to one another.
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