Chapter 13

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The amazing thing about life after entering university wasn’t the comfort and freedom that came with living independently, but the diversity of values. Perhaps because I had too much rebellious spirit in me, I seemed to enter a paradise after I entered university, a game with various ways to play. Grades were no longer the sole evaluation criteria, and people would no longer say things like “If you have bad grades then you have no future.”

It took about a year for us to slowly build a different college life. Some people were active in various school organizations, such as student councils and youth league committees. Maybe they liked it, maybe they hoped to join the school’s faculty after graduation, or it was simply to put a few pretty strokes on their resume. Some people were passionate about various interest groups, such as charity associations, book clubs, bands, drama groups… Some people were obsessed with computer games or addicted to anime. Some people spent their spare time working part-time or doing internships in order to experience the real world. Dating was still an essential aspect, and even in junior and senior year, some girls in the dorm would already be picked up by luxury cars in front of the school.

I didn’t look down on any of these ways of being. Each of them seemed to have valid aspects, and all of them seemed better than me—confused and lost.

I had nothing but deep envy for the lucky young people who knew what they wanted to do as soon as they were in their freshman or sophomore year.

Regardless, if they could blaze their way through hardships to the end, I would be moved by them and offer my most serious and sincere respect.

Chen Ruobing was such a person. In college, she tirelessly spent all her time in the library and study hall. I once thought that working this hard was a merely a habit for her, but I later learned that she enjoyed it.

She would pass one professional exam after another, put on her spotlessly white work uniform, and become an excellent doctor. Years later, no matter what leisurely, affluent, or empty life her peers led, she would always bury herself in the things she wanted to do.

I wasn’t very devoted to my college life. I would attend the activities in my department and participated in competitions and practices with my classmates. I also joined the long-distance run, basketball, and badminton associations, and my grades were below average. In short, it seemed diverse, but there was nothing that stood out—the lackluster type.

But I was becoming more and more open at the time, had many friends, and got along well with the girls in my dorm. They knew I had a “close friend” at Tsinghua. At first, I would say I was going to see my bestie, but no one believed me when I started going more often. They were sure I was hiding a boyfriend and would always tease me. They only believed me when I found a picture of Chen Ruobing and me in the library. But in the second semester of sophomore year when we were talking at night and the conversation came to me, someone would always say, “You guys are really close. You’ve been seeing each other every week for nearly two years now.” I only chimed in with a “Mhm” or “Yeah.” I knew they had new questions, but no one teased me anymore.

Sophomore year, I began to write the story of me and Chen Ruobing. It was actually just a few scenes, a few conversations I remembered, and my own ramblings as my thoughts wandered. But I was afraid I would forget everything if I didn’t write it down. If one forgot everything, then what was the purpose of living in this world?

When I wrote this story, I completely threw myself into my fantasies. The words we said and the fragments in my mind all wore a halo. Reality was far away from me. I was alone with Chen Ruobing’s shadow, floating in the sea. After waking from this dream, I would read what I wrote but find they were all very real things.

One of the things I still liked to do was tell Chen Ruobing about the stories I’d read, things I imagined, and drafts worked out in my mind. We couldn’t talk in the library, so every time on the way to dinner, I would take her on the bike and tell her stories as I rode. Sometimes she would be sad, or she would be silent for a long time when I spoke very vividly.

I turned my head and shouted, “Are you listening?”

She would irrelevantly answer, “I’m thinking!”

At the time, a certain feeling would emerge within me—that she and I weren’t living in reality but in the stories that I wrote.

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