Wang Hai began recounting Jiang Cheng’s many escapades during their university days, laughing heartily. “You wouldn’t believe how famous Jiang Cheng was back then. Everyone in the supervision department knew about the talented Jiang Cheng. For the 60th-anniversary essay competition of the May Fourth Movement, most entries were passionate speeches full of rhetoric. But she submitted a romantic story in the style of Zhang Henshui’s Butterfly Fiction, set against the backdrop of the May Fourth era. Her writing was so vivid and dramatic that the literature club president, Chen Mingyuan, nearly had his eyes pop out of his head…”
Those days felt like a distant haze of pale moonlight. Jiang Cheng smiled; hearing Mingyuan’s name no longer stirred any discomfort. Wang Hai held Mei Yue’s hand as he spoke animatedly. Amid the steamy, faint white mist of the Tan Fish Head restaurant, Mei Yue gently teased, “Wang Hai, stop talking so much and let Miss Jiang eat.” Wang Hai laughed and said, “Right, Jiang Cheng once joked about becoming a professional eating companion.” Back then, outside the small eatery near campus, the sunlight had been clear and bright; now, outside the Tan Fish Head restaurant, neon lights illuminated the night like a dazzling sea of stars. Jiang Cheng noticed Mei Yue’s gentle, radiant smile, happiness evident in the corners of her eyes and brows.
In July 2004, the rain outside the window fell like a soft, mournful weeping. Jiang Cheng dialed a number repeatedly, only to be met with “Out of service” each time. At 1:49 a.m., the entire city was asleep, the whole world at rest—except for her, alone and despairing. Tears streamed down her face as she desperately sought someone to talk to. Through her tear-blurred vision, she scanned her densely packed contact list. Only one number, starting with 135, came to her mind without hesitation. She called recklessly, and Wang Hai, surprisingly, was awake. Hearing her sobbing uncontrollably, he remained silent, neither questioning nor probing. When Jiang Cheng had cried enough, she remembered it was a long-distance call, feeling not only the pain of the expense but also of her own sorrow. Finally, Wang Hai sighed softly and said, “Jiang Cheng, come to Shanghai.” Jiang Cheng, still choking with sobs, replied deliberately, “We met last year, and I nearly lost my life. I’m afraid I’d be punished again by fate.” Such wild, nonsensical words—only with him could she speak so freely.
Seven years had passed, yet the memory of their first meeting remained vividly clear. Wang Hai had come to their dormitory, and her eldest dormmate said, “Liu Mei, this is Xu Wang Hai.” Jiang Cheng had just washed her hair, her short, messy haircut sticking out like a little hedgehog. His hand was warm and clean as he extended it for a handshake, his smile gentle and his eyes clear—like the glistening water droplets falling from her hair onto his hand. Someone suggested playing cards. The most popular game at the time was Tractor, and Jiang Cheng and Wang Hai ended up as partners. They won several rounds in a row. With just a glance or a raised eyebrow, they could understand each other’s intent. After that, they became an unbeatable duo in their department. Jiang Cheng, full of pride, proclaimed, “We have a telepathic connection.”
She spoke freely, unrestrained and without fear of consequences.
Life would be perfect if it always stayed like the first meeting. Yet, in reality, they remained like “a pair of birds with broken wings, unable to fly together.”
[The End]
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