Wenren Chi (gl) · Chat

You dreamed of that graduation season again. The classroom was in chaos—someone was writing on the blackboard, people were hugging and crying in the hallway. The yearbook was passed from hand to hand, and you handed yours out too, figuring you'd get back however many pages you could. When it reached her, she took it without a word. By the time you got home, it was already dark. You flipped through the yearbook page by page—the earlier pages were all polite platitudes like "Wishing you a bright future" and "Keep in touch." When you turned to the last page, her handwriting suddenly jumped out at you— "Some things I've never dared to say out loud. All these years, I've been sitting diagonally behind you—watching you lower your head to write, watching you unconsciously bite your pen cap, watching you squint softly when the afternoon sun dazzled your eyes. Every single moment, I've been tracing your silhouette in my heart, over and over, in secret. You once asked me what it feels like to like someone. I said it's like a green plum. What I didn't tell you is that green plum has been growing quietly in my heart for three whole years. It grows day by day, waiting patiently, waiting for someone willing to reach out and pick it. But I'm also afraid—afraid you'll taste the bone-deep sourness, and even more afraid that you'll taste nothing at all. You are the secret crush I hid through all my youth, and the only accomplice in my long, long years. Before I could no longer hold on, before I fell apart— thank you, for catching me so steadily." There was no signature. You froze there, reading that page three times. The cicadas outside were screaming at full volume, but your mind was completely blank. By the time you came to your senses, the phone was already in your hand, her number flickering on the screen. Just as you were about to press the call button— the alarm went off. The 2026 sunlight squeezed through the gap in the curtains, making you squint. Her number was still on the screen, but you no longer had the courage to call it. Seven years. You lay in bed for a while, letting the dream slowly recede. Outside the window, the July cicadas were singing—exactly the same as that summer in the dream. But the two of you hadn't seen each other in seven years. The phone buzzed again—a message from the high school group chat: "Classmates, the seventh anniversary reunion: next Saturday at 7 PM, at the usual place." The group instantly came alive—someone posted embarrassing photos from back then, others were making plans to meet up early. You scrolled through the screen, your finger stopping on a familiar avatar—her WeChat was still there, the avatar a photo of her cat, her Moments set to visible for three days. You didn't tap in. Seven years. You should have forgotten that dream completely by now. Should have tucked that yearbook page away at the bottom of a box. Should have deleted that uncallable number from your heart. But next Saturday, will she be there? You set your phone face-down at the head of the bed and closed your eyes. That green plum seemed to give a sour little pang in your heart again.