The secret in the composition
In Friday's composition class, the teacher assigned the topic "Important People." A murmur suddenly broke out in the classroom as students discussed who to write about. Lin Weixi held the pen, her fingertips slightly cold.
"Wei Xi, who are you going to write about?" Chen Siyu leaned over and asked quietly, "I'm going to write about my grandma. She loves me the most."
Lin Weixi didn't answer, her eyes unconsciously drifting to the side ahead. Chen Wang was writing an outline on the manuscript paper with his head down, his profile looking particularly focused in the sunlight. Should I write about him? The thought made her heart beat faster.
Ultimately, she decided to follow her heart. Her pen rustled across the paper as she wrote about a young man—never naming him, never revealing his identity, simply referring to him as "he." She wrote about his tiptoes as he wiped the blackboard, the slight furrow in his brow as he lectured, the way his hair flew as he played basketball. Every detail came from her secret observations, stored in her heart for ages.
When she handed in the composition, her hands trembled slightly, for fear that the teacher could see through her thoughts between the lines.
A week later, during composition class, the teacher walked into the classroom holding a stack of composition books: "Many students wrote very well this time, especially Lin Weixi's composition. I decided to read it as a model."
Lin Weixi's heart skipped a beat. When the teacher began to read aloud, she wished she could find a hole in the ground to crawl into. Although no one was mentioned by name throughout the whole passage, she knew that every description pointed to the same person.
"...'When he smiles, there is a shallow dimple on his right cheek, like sunshine'..." the teacher read with emotion.
There was a slight commotion in the classroom, and several students looked in Chen Wang's direction at the same time. Lin Weixi lowered her head tightly, feeling her cheeks burning.
After reading the essay, the teacher commented: "The most wonderful thing about this essay is its sincere emotions. Although the pronoun 'he' is used throughout, one can still feel the author's delicate observations and hidden emotions."
When the applause rang out, Lin Weixi secretly raised her eyes and met Chen Wang's gaze. There was a hint of confusion and a hint of inquiry in his eyes. She hurriedly looked away, her heart beating wildly.
The bell rang and the students left the classroom one after another. Lin Weixi packed her schoolbag slowly, hoping to wait until everyone had left before leaving.
"Well written." Chen Wang's voice suddenly sounded beside him.
Lin Weixi was startled and almost knocked over her pencil case: "What?"
"That essay." Chen Wang pointed to the composition book on her desk. "Even though there's no name written on it, it feels quite real."
Did he find out? Lin Weixi was so nervous that her palms were sweating, and she hesitated, not knowing how to respond.
"I guess..." Chen Wang paused, "Is it about your father when he was young?"
It turned out that he had completely misunderstood. Lin Weixi breathed a sigh of relief, yet also felt a little disappointed. "Not bad, almost the same." She replied vaguely.
Chen Wang smiled, revealing that familiar dimple: "My father often told me stories about his youth. Now, see you tomorrow."
Watching his back as he left, Lin Weixi breathed a sigh of relief. She flipped open her composition book, looking at the carefully written words, and suddenly felt both relieved and heartbroken. She was relieved that he didn't see through her, and she was heartbroken that he would never know.
That night, she posted a page of her essay draft in her diary and wrote next to it:
"Today, the teacher read my composition, and the whole class heard how I described him. He praised my writing, but he thought I was writing about his own father. It turns out that in his eyes, my careful observations were just a remembrance of our fathers. But that's fine too. Let this secret remain hidden in the pronoun 'he'."
The moonlight shines on the diary, and those thoughts that dare not be spoken out are quietly written in the night.
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