Chapter 1: Another Layer of Flesh on My Stomach
I stood at the exit of the subway station, the wind howling, causing me to squint my eyes. I thought, tonight, I’m destined to be utterly vulgar. Which direction would the wind from the subway blow into the world? The familiar scent was no longer on me. While buying cake at the stairway, I heard the sound of a guitar accompanied by a song from the tunnel, a light and lazy voice that suddenly made me feel comforted. “Miss, would you like some hot milk tea?” asked the lady from the convenience store with a sweet, tired smile at midnight. “Yes, two bottles, please,” I said, holding up two fingers. She paused for a moment, then said, “Hehe, sure.” I didn’t know what she was thinking. One for drinking, one for waiting? Waiting for my hot milk tea, waiting for the person who was waiting for me. I walked into the subway exit tunnel, searching for the source of the sound. A slender boy, holding a deep red wooden guitar, sat on the ground, singing with sorrow. Was everyone in the world crying? I approached and said, “Thirsty? Here, have some hot milk tea.” I forced a smile. He looked at me, but his gaze didn’t focus on me. His bangs covered his eyes, yet I could feel his expression. A slender, clean boy with a faint trace of sadness on his face, his long, bony fingers strumming the guitar. A simple white shirt with a black geometric pattern, faded blue jeans. A simple person. I stood across from him, sipping almond-flavored hot milk tea. Tears fell. Because of the warmth of the tea. I finally cried. The pain spread like ripples in my chest. I held the tea and cried. He hummed a melody I had never heard before in a mournful tone. I cried until I squatted on the ground, my snot dripping onto the lace of my white shirt. Had heaven taken away an angel from me, could it grant me another?
Chapter 2: Another Layer of Flesh on My Stomach 1
Someone once said, UNIVERSITY, which sounds like “you play for four years.” It truly hits the nail on the head, revealing the essence of university life. Standing at the gates of Renfu University, I was even more convinced of this thought. This school, with an aristocratic air, had cafes, shopping malls, boutiques, large supermarkets… even ancient pavilions, terraces, and towers said to have been used by scholars preparing for their imperial examinations centuries ago. I dragged my large suitcase alone down the long, wide, and impressive school path. Forgive my vulgar language, but amidst the scent of LV bags and CHANEL perfumes, this was the best description I could muster. On the first day of freshman registration, parents of all sorts brought their precious daughters and sons to report. Various luxury cars lined up in front of the grand teaching buildings. Passing by a majestic building supposedly designed by some notable figure who studied abroad, you might suddenly hear, “Isn’t that Chairman Chen? Your daughter studies here too?” “You flatter me, Mr. Zhang, my clumsy son is studying design here. How can it compare to your daughter’s major?” “Not at all, design has such a bright future!” … … Listening to this, I couldn’t help but laugh as I walked. However, two hours later, I wasn’t laughing anymore. Amidst the bustling crowd, I couldn’t find the freshman reception anywhere. I asked a senior with a purple silk armband, who pointed east; at the east side, a handsome senior with a blue headscarf gestured south; at the south, an old man earnestly said, “The freshman reception is right at the main entrance.” It was hot in September, and I felt like I saw countless stars swirling above my head. I found a spot under a French sycamore, sat on my huge coffee-colored suitcase, and wiped the sweat from my forehead. It wasn’t intentional exaggeration, but I felt a bit dizzy. Oh heavens, was I going to fall sick on such a nice day? This French sycamore, praised so much in literature, why grow so tall and offer no shade? No, no, my head felt heavy, my feet lifted, my vision darkened, and I fell backward. Did I fall onto the soft grass? Whew, at least it wasn’t like last time when I collapsed on the hard asphalt while crossing the road. This strange illness of mine, one day it will be the death of me. Before I opened my eyes, I had a vivid dream. In the dream, I was running with all my might, and words like “full of vigor,” “agile,” “striking a dashing figure” floated like duckweed in my dark mind. It wasn’t the year of the dragon or tiger, so why the term “full of vigor”? I opened my eyes in a daze and saw a pair of curious eyes through the haze. “Haha, she’s awake!” the voice shouted, fully waking me up. Actually, I wouldn’t have minded lying in this soft bed for a couple more hours. Strange, I was lying in a soft bed, covered with a blanket. Then I saw another pair of eyes, cold and slightly annoyed. “Who are you?” I asked, startled by my own hoarse, weak voice. Had I become seriously ill? “Haha, you don’t even know who we are? You must be a freshman then.” The curious eyes asked in a lively tone. “Look at that big suitcase, definitely a freshman,” a faint voice came from beside my ear. “Zhou Yu, you’re Zhou Yu?”
Thank you for sharing this passage.
Thank goodness I didn’t get a nosebleed; otherwise, it would have been really embarrassing. I got up, picked up my books, and since I had already bumped into it, I decided to take a look at the displayed works. It was a long aluminum bulletin board showcasing numerous sketches, oil paintings, design drafts, and computer graphics from the Fine Arts and Design Departments. I slowly browsed through them, my gaze stopping on a sketch titled “ANGLELICAL” — a sketch with a very melodious title. The pencil strokes were heavy, full of emotion from the artist. In the sketch, four big boys and a long-haired girl were sitting on a wide, sturdy couch. The girl sat quietly in the middle, while the others either sat beside her with their arms bent, leaned against the armrests, sat casually on the floor in front of the couch, or stood with arms crossed behind it. Strangely, none of them had facial features, just outlines of faces. Yet, through those faceless features, you could clearly feel that they were smiling. Despite lacking facial features, distinguished only by their body shapes and hair lengths, you could sense their youthful, slightly shy or bold smiles. It was serene, just like the summer of my seventeenth year. I was captivated by this strange painting; I thought the artist must have a lot to say, but because there was so much to express, they ended up saying nothing at all. Thus, they used the technique of portraying hollow people to tell the story of these four boys and the girl. It must be a very touching story, just like the title suggests, ANGELICAL, like angels. I subconsciously glanced at the artist’s name — Wen Lingxin, a 2000 class student from the Fine Arts Department. It was A-Xin.
