Shen Yang · Conversa

September 11, 2026, just a few days into the new school year. Nancheng No. 2 High School. September. Just after the start of school, evening self-study has just ended. Shen Yang handed in his exam five minutes early. The physics teacher glanced at him and said nothing—the grade-level topper handing in early had become a custom; couldn't control him, didn't want to. He grabbed his bag and slipped out the back door, his pace as fast as if he were rushing to grab the last serving of sweet and sour pork in the cafeteria. Actually, he wasn't. He was going to the senior building to pick someone up. Evening self-study at Nancheng No. 2 is split into two shifts. Grade 10 and 11 end at nine, Grade 12 at nine-thirty. Every day, Shen Yang disappears from his classroom early, walks along the corridor, crosses the playground, and appears at the entrance of Grade 12, Class 2 at exactly nine-thirty. Hands in his pockets, backpack slung over one shoulder, his 183cm frame leaning against the doorframe like a newly planted poplar tree. He waited for four minutes. During those four minutes, three senior girls passed by; one of them looked back at him twice. At nine-thirty-four, Shen Jin came out. She was holding a stack of papers, her uniform jacket unzipped, her hair pulled back into a casual low ponytail with a few stray strands hanging by her ears. She was looking down at her phone and didn't notice the person propped against the door—until she was shrouded by his shadow. She looked up. Shen Yang smiled at her. His right canine tooth showed, his peach-blossom eyes curved into two crescents, and the lights in the corridor seemed to brighten by a degree. "Sister—" he called. The trailing syllable was long and soft, like a cat stretching after a nap. Shen Jin frowned. "Why are you here again?" "On the way." "Grade 11 is over there." "I'm taking a walk." Shen Jin took a deep breath, too tired to argue with him, and started walking forward. Shen Yang followed, his steps half a pace faster than hers—just enough to keep her in his shadow without bumping into her shoulder. He had practiced this distance for three years. Outside the school gate, the streetlights were dim. Late September in Nancheng still held the heat of summer; the breeze blowing from the canal was damp, carrying the scent of osmanthus. As she walked, Shen Jin tilted her head to look at him: "Did you finish your homework?" "Finished." "What about the competition problems?" "Finished." "Your physics teacher said you sleep in class." Shen Yang's pace faltered. "He tattled?" "You said it yourself, physics class is too simple." Shen Jin's tone was as flat as reading a textbook, but Shen Yang caught the thin needle of dissatisfaction in her voice. He immediately leaned in half a step, his voice softening: "I won't sleep next time." Shen Jin ignored him. He leaned in another half step, his nose almost touching the tips of her hair: "Sister—don't be mad—" That "don't be" turned on the tip of his tongue with a hint of fawning nasal tone. The 183cm boy leaned over toward her shoulder, like an oversized golden retriever insisting on burrowing into its owner's arms. Shen Jin reached out to press against his forehead and push him away. Her fingertips touched his eyebrows—he blinked, his lashes brushing against her finger pads. She pulled her hand back and stuffed it into her pocket. The itch from that touch still lingered on her skin. "Let's go home," she said. "Mm." Shen Yang straightened up and followed half a step behind her. The streetlights stretched and shortened their shadows, over and over. His shadow covered hers from behind; after a few steps they overlapped, then separated. He counted his steps—she stepped with her left foot, he with his right, staggered by half a pace. Just right. Passing a bubble tea shop, he stopped: "Sister, what do you want to drink?" "Not drinking anything." "Strawberry Bobo?" "I said I'm not drinking anything." He opened his phone to scan the QR code and said to the clerk, "One Strawberry Bobo, less sugar, no ice." Shen Jin looked at him sideways. He was receiving the tea from the clerk; the stray hair on his forehead blocked one of his eyes, and the warm yellow light outlined his profile with a clear line. He handed the tea to her, his fingers long and defined. "For you," he said. "I said I'm not drinking anything." "You said it was good last time." He looked at her, his peach-blossom eyes bright, his dark brown pupils reflecting the streetlight—and her face. "No ice, it's not cold." Shen Jin stared at him for two seconds. Then she reached out, took it, stuck the straw in, and took a sip. Shen Yang smiled. The small kind, where the corners of his mouth barely lifted before he suppressed it, but a shallow curve—if he had dimples, they would show—appeared on his right cheek. He turned and kept walking, his steps a little lighter than before. Shen Jin walked behind him, drinking the tea and watching the back of his head. His hair was a bit long, with a few strands blown by the wind, revealing the clean line of his neck. His uniform collar was slightly crooked. She reached out her hand—then pulled it back. "Shen Yang." He looked back: "Hm?" "Get a haircut." "No." "It's an eyesore." "Sister, you said it was an eyesore last time, but you also said it looked good." He smiled, his canine tooth as white as a little moon under the streetlights. Shen Jin squeezed the tea cup a little tighter. Of course she had said that. That day, he had just finished showering, his hair damp and hanging over his forehead, and she had casually said "that looks good" as she passed the bathroom door. He remembered. He'd remembered for three months. She stopped talking. She looked down and drank her tea, biting the straw until it deformed. Shen Yang walked in front, his steps steady, shoulders relaxed, the streetlights stretching his shadow long. She walked, stepping on his shadow—one step, two steps, three steps— He suddenly stopped. She almost bumped into his back. "Shen Jin." He called her full name, his voice half a tone lower than before, clear and cold, as if soaked in the night wind. "You're in your senior year." No kidding. She didn't say anything. "Where... do you want to go to university?" Shen Jin looked up. His back was to her; she couldn't see his expression. She only saw his shoulders tense and his fingers tucked in his pockets, the visible knuckles turning white. "Fudan, maybe," she said. After a pause, she added, "Or Peking University." He was silent for two seconds. Then he nodded, very lightly, as if to himself. "Got it." He continued walking. Shen Jin stood there, stunned for a beat, before following. She suddenly remembered—back when she was a freshman, she asked him where he wanted to go, and he said, "Wherever you go, I go." She had told him he lacked ambition then. He had asked again now. She took a sip of the tea, strawberry flavored, sweet, no ice. The temperature was perfect. He remembered the thing from three months ago, he remembered she said it was "good," he remembered everything she said casually—including that line, "Wherever you go, I go." Would he really follow her? Fudan? Peking University? No matter where she went? Shen Jin looked down at the tea cup in her hand. A thin layer of condensation had formed on the cup, cool against her palm. She suddenly felt those two names—"Fudan," "Peking University"—had become a door. Behind that door was where she was going. And Shen Yang was standing outside the door, waiting for her to say, "Come in." But had she said it? She hadn't. She just kept walking, staying half a step behind him. The streetlights stretched their shadows long, his shadow covering hers from behind. She stepped on his shadow—one step, two steps, three steps— "Shen Yang." He looked back. She looked at him. The boy under the streetlight, 183cm, peach-blossom eyes, canine tooth, stray hair, uniform collar crooked. His eyes shone like two warm stars in the night, looking at her, waiting for her to speak. She opened her mouth. "...Your shoelace is untied." She looked down. His shoelace was indeed untied, dragging like two black lines on the ground. Shen Yang looked down and smiled: "Then you tie it for me." "Don't you have hands?" "I'm holding the tea." "Then put it on the ground." "New shoes, you bought them for me," he said righteously, his peach-blossom eyes curving, his canine tooth blindingly white. "If they get dirty, you'll feel bad." Shen Jin glared at him. For three seconds. Then she switched the tea to her left hand and crouched down. She didn't see Shen Yang's expression when she crouched. If she had looked up—she would have found he had tucked away all his smiles. His peach-blossom eyes lowered to look at the crown of her head, his lashes pressed low, his mouth set in a straight line. That expression wasn't a brother looking at a sister. It was a man looking at a woman. Her hand reached his shoelace and tied a bow. Perfectly neat, just like she had taught him when they were little. She stood up, brushing the dust off her hands. "Let's go." "Mm." She took the first step. Shen Yang stayed in place for two extra seconds, looking down at his shoelace—it was tied perfectly. Then he looked up at Shen Jin's back. Her shadow moved on the ground, long and thin, without his covering it. He caught up, placing himself back in that half-step distance behind her. Nancheng's night wind blew from the canal, carrying the sweetness of osmanthus and the dampness of water. Shen Yang followed her, watching the shadow she cast, lengthened by the streetlights, and thought—Fudan. Peking University. No matter where she went. He would follow. He had never said "I love you." But he said it every single day. With every cup of tea she mentioned she liked, every shoelace he crouched down to tie, every nine-thirty he spent waiting at her classroom door after handing in his own exam early, every line on the back of his certificates that he wrote, crossed out, and wrote again— I want to go to the same university as Shen Jin. He hadn't told her yet. But one day he would. When he was a little older, when she finished the college entrance exam, when he saved up all those "sisters" into something else entirely. What he didn't know was. Shen Jin, walking in front, wasn't listening to anything in her headphones. She was just looking down at the shadows of the two of them on the ground, overlapping then separating. The tea cup in her hand had been squeezed slightly out of shape. "So annoying," she said softly. And then, without even realizing it, she smiled.