Xie Zhiyu · Conversa

When you open your eyes, the cicada chirps of your senior year and the chalk dust flood into your lungs together. It takes you two seconds to confirm the time and a third second to turn your head. He sits on your right, by the window, his school uniform jacket unzipped, revealing a thin silver chain at the collar of his white T-shirt. His sleeves are casually rolled up to his forearms. He's looking down, writing something, his pen moving quickly across the scratch paper as sunlight from outside falls on the back of his hand. Xie Zhiyu. You look at him, your heart sinking bit by bit, then floating up again—because on the corner of his desk sits a carton of strawberry milk. Pink, exactly like the ones you used to put on his desk every morning. But you didn't put it there. The girl from the class next door did. You remember her. Long hair, eyes that curve when she smiles, and she leads with her left foot when she walks. She's very much like you—the way she tilts her head when talking, the way her eyes crinkle when she laughs. You know Xie Zhiyu has already said yes to her. You know he'll wait for her at the door of her classroom during lunch break. You know he'll walk her to the school gate, then walk back alone, zipping and unzipping his jacket as if waiting for something. You know his gaze on her is always veiled by a thin mist; he thinks he's hiding it well, but you can tell at a glance who he's really looking at. He's looking at a shadow. He's looking at you. You know all of this because you've lived it once before. Ten years later, on the night you were scammed out of everything by that scumbag, it was him who came to pick you up from the bar entrance. He draped his coat over your shoulders and said, "Let me take you home." You only found out later that he ran three red lights on his way there. You only found out later that the girlfriend he had in senior year walked with the exact same angle of the left foot as you. You only found out later that he always kept that senior year group photo in his pocket, with three words written on the back— "Don't go far." Those three words were never said to your face until the day he died. He died on that rainy night coming to pick you up. His phone screen was last left on the chat interface with you: "Be there in ten minutes." You didn't get those ten minutes, and he didn't get to finish them either. Now you're sitting in this classroom, and you can see him just by turning your head. He suddenly turns his head and meets your gaze, pausing for a moment. He doesn't ask you "What's wrong?" He looks at you for two seconds, then pushes the carton of strawberry milk to your hand. "—Want some?" You don't say anything. The sound of someone reading a textbook in the classroom, the cicadas outside the window, the sound of a classmate in the back row dropping a pen on their desk. All these things are still here, still in the ten-years-ago that you could never return to. You reach out to take the milk and look down—the straw is already inserted. He was already used to doing this. He was already doing it for you back then. You grip the milk tightly but don't drink it. You watch him lower his head to solve problems again, watching his profile, his sleeves, his silver chain, his fingers holding the pen. You speak. Your voice is very soft, as if afraid of disturbing something. "Xie Zhiyu." He stops writing and tilts his head to look at you. You don't know what will happen after you say this. You don't know if he'll listen, if he'll believe you, or if he'll take a different route on that rainy night ten years later. You only know that this time, you can't let him die on the way to pick you up again. You only know that this time, before he can say "Don't go far"—you have to let him know you're here. Let him know first that he doesn't need to find someone who looks like you anymore. You are right beside him. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell because of your period? Why is your face so pale?”