Foreword:
We each have our own stories, some filled with tumultuous storms, some with passionate fervor, and others with quiet ordinariness. These stories weave together the passage of time, stitching together reality and emotion, painting the dreams that have unfolded. Occasionally, in quiet moments, we reminisce, laughing at our past folly, wondering if we've ever regretted it. Memory is a flavorful thing, like coffee—bitter yet rich. From ignorance to maturity, from simplicity to abundance, we experience gain and loss, learning reason and reality. Our steps never cease, only shifting between running and strolling. Picking up a blank sheet of paper, it suddenly seems as if it's filled with countless memories of our youthful days, time as our pen, dipped in love.
Today is November 3rd, not a particularly special day, just another day in the 365 days of waking up and eating. Perhaps all I can say is that this day is a little closer to November 11th. I just didn't want to write anything on that day, so I wrote this earlier.
Perhaps that day was meaningless for some, heartbreaking for singles, a wedding day for happy couples, and a day of remembrance for those in love.
That year, I was in high school. The willow branches sprouted tender buds, their youth radiant under the sunlight. That year, I, a minor, walked awkwardly in the sunlight, surrounded by the scent of first love.
She, though her grades weren't good, worked hard and was a model student in the teachers' eyes. I, though my grades were good, was playful, often sleeping in class, and a problem student in the teachers' eyes. She was popular and mischievous. I was a newcomer, quiet.
The story began one day before summer vacation. She, being mischievous, was often bullied by other boys. I, too, had just joined the class and didn't have many friends. I remember one break that day, a boy grabbed her hands. The twisting pain made her squat down, begging him to let go. I sat quietly in my chair, watching the commotion. At the time, I just found it funny, but then I thought about how much pain she must be in, and I felt a pang of pity. So I went over and chatted with the boy, smiling, and took his hand. He didn't say anything, just continued talking to me. She rubbed her hand, quietly watching me.
The bell rang for class, and the teacher lectured animatedly at the podium, while I listened quietly below. Then a note came to me. I opened it; it was from her.
"Hello, thank you for today. Let's be friends." The handwriting was neat and simple, with a cute smiley face drawn on it. I turned around, and she smiled. She was beautiful.
After lunch, I was alone in the corridor, looking out the window. Someone tapped my shoulder unexpectedly. I turned around; it was her. Black-rimmed glasses, long eyelashes, a delicate smile, and she playfully stuck out her tongue.
We talked a lot, about many happy things. We laughed from time to time. Although I can't remember what we were talking about, I remember that the sky was blue, the flowers smelled sweet, and time felt sweet.
That's how we met.
From that day on, every day was filled with joy. We often chatted together, encouraging each other in our studies. Her grades weren't good, and I liked to help her, but she was always a bit slow, always smiling helplessly, unable to understand the laws of physics and the problems in math.
Gradually, her grades improved significantly, while mine dropped because I didn't pay attention in class and slept a lot. Not long after, she made great progress in an exam, impressing everyone and slowly taking my place.
Soon after, summer vacation arrived. She left school and returned to the countryside. I saw her off on the bus, watching her receding figure, feeling a pang of reluctance.
And so, we only chatted through text messages and phone calls each day, watching the calendar pages thin out, waiting to see each other again when school started.
A few days before school was about to start, she came back early and found me. We walked together in the North Mountain. The weather was already autumnal, cool and refreshing. That day, we happily played hide-and-seek in the red maple forest and watched the sunset in the pavilion. That day, she told me that she had a crush on another boy in her class, someone called "him." Because I was her best friend, she told me.
Although I felt a little uncomfortable, I still hoped she could find her true love and be happy. I only remember that the sunset that day was very red, and a little melancholic.
School started, and she wrote a very long love letter to the boy, which I encouraged her to secretly give to him. Unfortunately, the boy neither accepted nor rejected her, but gradually distanced himself from her. She was heartbroken and cried constantly, her eyes blurry, her face streaked with tears, and the words on the love letter faded. I didn't say anything, just stood silently beside her.
Days passed, time flowed by, and soon, the college entrance exam arrived. Sometimes I feel that life is quite helpless; the first stepping stone to the future is merely a few pieces of paper with scores. It scattered brothers and friends to different places.
On the day the results were released, she came to my house and found me. She wanted me to take her to an internet cafe to check her scores. That day, I felt a little lost and reluctant, but I quietly took her hand, hugged her, and said the love that had been buried deep in my heart.
She didn't avoid me, she didn't refuse. Her face, red from crying, buried itself in my chest, patting my shoulder with her small hands, scolding me for not telling her sooner.
That day, I registered two QQ accounts, one for her and one for myself. Her QQ password was her name. Her username was: Quietly Waiting for Me. Mine was: Silently Protecting You.
She got into a university in the south, while I stayed in the northeast. The night before she left, we walked together, we were silent together. She was in tears, kissing me. The sunset disappeared, and the night shrouded our emotions in a thick layer of sorrow.
The train whistle told every passenger that time was running out. She didn't say anything. I held her shoulders, gazing deeply at her, remembering this mischievous, tearful little girl. She hugged me, gently resting her head on my shoulder, and said,
"I love you, wait for me."
University life wasn't as arduous and busy as high school. Every day was a repetition of games and boredom. We looked at each other on screen and chatted every day. It was just a pity that it wasn't the same laughter and joy as before, but more memories and sadness.
She never opened a QQ space, even though I taught her many times, because I wanted to keep some photos of her from her university days to ease the pain of missing her. She always said she couldn't bear to open it, so it remained empty.
Then, during the summer vacation, for some reason, I suddenly lost contact with her. Her QQ account never lit up again, lying gray in my contacts. I asked many classmates; some said she had a new boyfriend, some said she dropped out of school—many different versions, but none could directly confirm what had happened to her.
Two years passed like this. I didn't date during university, and I tried countless times to find her, but all attempts failed, and I gradually gave up. Then,
as I was about to graduate, one day my QQ rang. I looked, and my excitement was overwhelming. It was her! Was she graduating and coming to find me? I opened the chat window and asked, "Where are you? Where have you been? Why haven't you contacted me? I've been waiting so long!" But she only replied with two sentences.
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