Thorns in honey
Li Zichen's "sensible" behavior didn't last a week.
During Wednesday afternoon's self-study period, I was engrossed in doing practice problems when the student in front of me suddenly turned around, nudged my elbow, and gestured towards the window with his lip. I looked up—Li Zichen was leaning against the railing, facing away from the classroom, and the girl standing opposite him wasn't Lin Wei, but Su Xiaoxiao, the art and literature representative from the next class.
Su Xiaoxiao was tilting her head back, laughing as she spoke, twirling a pen in her hand. Sunlight fell on her hair, so bright it was almost blinding. Li Zichen leaned forward slightly to listen, a smile playing on his lips—a smile I knew all too well—he used to look like this when I told him stories about my drawing.
The pen tip left a deep mark on the draft paper, the ink spreading into a small black stain. The student in front of me clicked his tongue twice and turned back, leaving me staring blankly at the ink stain.
When school let out, Li Zichen was waiting downstairs as usual, carrying a bag of my favorite candied strawberries. "They're super sweet today, I just bought them," he said, handing them over like a treasure, his eyes shining so brightly it was almost painful.
I didn't answer, my voice a little tense: "Who was talking to you just now?"
He paused for a moment, then laughed: "Su Xiaoxiao, she asked me about the tune for the arts festival choir, saying her class wants to practice with us. What's up?"
"It's nothing." I turned my face away. "You can have the candied hawthorn yourself. I don't like sour things."
He probably didn't catch the coldness in my words, and kept rambling on, "It's not sour, I tasted it, it's very sweet. By the way, are you going to see the art exhibition this weekend? The one you said you wanted to see last time..."
“I’m not going,” I interrupted him. “I need to study this weekend.”
After saying that, he turned and left without looking back. The footsteps behind him paused, but didn't follow.
He eventually hung that bag of candied hawthorns on the doorknob of my apartment building. When I went upstairs, I saw it swaying back and forth, red like a heart, yet with a pungent sweetness.
During Friday's PE class, Su Xiaoxiao indeed brought several girls from her class over during free time, saying they wanted to "ask for advice on choral singing techniques." Li Zichen stood at the front of the line, explaining the sheet music, occasionally glancing up at Su Xiaoxiao, the interaction in their eyes impossible to hide.
I sat on the bleachers with my knees drawn up to my chest. My deskmate nudged me and said, "Your Li Zichen is something else, attracting so many suitors."
"Who said it's mine?" I retorted verbally, but inside I felt like I was being scratched by a cat's claws.
Just as I was getting annoyed, my phone vibrated. It was a message from Li Zichen: "Don't be angry, okay? There's really nothing between us, we were just discussing important matters. I'll treat you to hot pot tonight to make it up to you."
I stared at the message for a long time, tapping away at the screen, and finally just replied with an "Oh".
Sure enough, he waited for me at the hot pot restaurant that evening, ordering a table full of dishes, all of which were my favorites. "Look at you, you've gotten so thin from anger," he said, placing a slice of fatty beef into my bowl. "Eat some meat to nourish yourself."
“Li Zichen,” I put down my chopsticks and looked at him seriously, “could you keep some distance from other girls?”
He stopped what he was doing, and the smile on his face faded: "I thought you understood me. I'm just an ordinary classmate with them."
“But you’re so nice to everyone,” I said, my voice trembling slightly, “you make me feel… your kindness is cheap.”
He frowned, as if he thought I was being unreasonable: "Shen Zhixia, can you not be so sensitive? What's wrong with classmates helping each other out? You weren't like this before."
"I was foolish before." I stood up. "I can't eat this meal."
He didn't stop me. As I walked out of the hot pot restaurant, a cold wind blew into my collar, and I realized my eyes were wet. Actually, I wasn't angry that he helped others; I was angry that he knew I would be upset, yet he couldn't bear to hold back even a little—just like how he knew I was afraid of the dark, yet he always let me go home alone after evening self-study, saying, "You have to learn to be independent."
The next morning, I found a note in the side pocket of my backpack. It was in Li Zichen's handwriting: "I'm sorry, I didn't know my limits. But my feelings for you are real. Please don't be angry anymore, okay?"
The handwriting was flamboyant and elegant, with a crooked smiley face drawn at the end.
I crumpled the note into a ball and threw it in the trash can. But during math class that day, I couldn't help but glance back at him—he was sleeping on his desk, sunlight falling on his face, his eyelashes were very long.
The thorn in my heart aches terribly, yet I can't bear to pull it out. Perhaps that's his skill—he can always make me remember his good qualities when I'm on the verge of despair.
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