Much later, when Qi Qi recalled this book-crossing event, a sudden question arose in her mind: During the hectic and stressful days of high school, how could the school be so sure that everyone would actually go looking for books to read?
The moment the question formed, the answer came to her.
They would participate—absolutely they would.
Not to search for books, but to go to great lengths to find out which book that person had contributed, then rush tirelessly through the sea of books to pinpoint it, hoping to use this entry point to understand the thoughts, musings, and passions of the book’s donor. In the end, after much contemplation, they would carefully compose a matching sentence and solemnly inscribe it beneath the previous line of text.
There would always be someone who was a frequent guest in the small inn of youth.
Yet only when the inn had permanently closed its doors in the future would we find the courage to admit this truth.
This line in the book comes from a stranger you don’t know—the closest I’ve ever been to you.
Back then, Qi Qi had discreetly asked Huan'er for information—since they lived in the same dorm and walked to school together in the mornings, her friend would surely know.
The answer came quickly: "Song Cong’s book is The Catcher in the Rye . Next time, just ask him directly. It’s not like he’s a stranger—he’d definitely tell you."
Huan'er assumed Qi Qi was like everyone else, merely fixated on the "top-ranked student"—what study guides he used, what notes he took, what extracurricular books he read. Every move Song Cong made was a model of exemplary student behavior, and her friend was just too shy to admit she also cared about rankings and was eager to catch up with the top achievers.
The periodicals reading room had been temporarily repurposed for the event. On the first day it opened, Qi Qi searched twice but couldn’t find the book. She guessed someone might have beaten her to it and resolved to check again in a few days.
Even on a Friday afternoon with no study sessions, some students dutifully remained in the classroom—like class monitor Liao Xinyan, or the petite girl in the front row who had never fallen out of the top five in class rankings, or the boy seated in front of Huan'er, who belonged to the same mid-tier academic group and had meals delivered to him twice a day. Song Cong and other class representatives had been summoned by Director Fu to assist with a knowledge competition for the sophomore class, while Jing Qichi had finally gotten his wish and spent the entire day on the soccer field—he’d been chosen as team captain and would lead the school team in a provincial high school soccer tournament in two weeks. During an earlier friendly match, Huan'er and Qi Qi had gone to watch. One side consisted of the school team’s starters, the other of substitutes, with three PE teachers joining the weaker side to balance the odds. The game was fiercely contested, with spectators crowding the edges of the field. Wearing the captain’s armband, Jing Qichi shed his usual carefree demeanor—dashing, shouting, raising his hand to call for passes—he was the absolute heart of the game. Watching him sprint across the field, Huan'er suddenly understood one thing: those who hold onto their dreams shine brilliantly.
Qi Qi asked, Don’t you think it’s a shame he ended up at Tianzhong?
While everyone else fought tooth and nail for a single spot, for Jing Qichi, it had been a reluctant compromise.
Like when we were children, eagerly offering our favorite toy to someone we adored, only to receive a cold "thank you"—only later in life would we realize that this polite response was the best they could muster.
Unilaterally imposed kindness might just be a burden.
These were thoughts Huan'er had no intention of sharing with anyone. Dwelling on regrets was a meaningless drain on herself—she only hoped her friends could seize every opportunity before them and charge forward without looking back.
Just like now.
"Goal!" Cheers erupted around them.Jing Qichi broke through the defense and scored the winning goal in the final moments, sealing the victory.
Surrounded by teammates on the field, his head was ruffled by their enthusiastic hands. The boy’s expression twisted slightly, but his smile carried an unexpected hint of shyness.
He’s really made it , Huan’er thought to herself.
As the match ended, she tightened her grip on the sports drink she hadn’t handed out and left the field with Qi Qi—many girls had already gone up to offer water, so one more bottle wouldn’t have made a difference. Still, the laughter behind her made her glance back every few steps. Jing Qichi was lost in the crowd, and she couldn’t see his face clearly.
During the third week of the Cultural Month, Teacher Xu’s daughter returned to their alma mater to give a speech. Class Five was practically empty—everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of this legendary senior who now had an even closer connection to them. The auditorium was packed, and Huan’er and Qi Qi squeezed into the aisle, where high school seniors sat with exercise books in hand, either silently reciting or scribbling furiously. Miss Xu stepped onto the stage to applause, her stride light and confident. Her topic was Soaring Against the Wind .
Perhaps only birds that successfully pass through storm clouds and reach the other side can truly be grateful for the wind and rain along the way. For someone like Chen Huan’er—a fledgling still flapping fragile wings while staring at distant storm clouds—what she really wished for was a cannon to blast those clouds into oblivion. If only the college entrance exam could be canceled.
“Let me start with my own experience,” Miss Xu began after her introduction. “I barely made it into Tianzhong on the public-funded cutoff line, ranking around 400th at enrollment. By the end of my first year, I was 320th. After the second-year class divisions, I stabilized in the top ten, and in my final year, I rarely fell out of the top five. As Director Fu mentioned earlier, I’m now studying journalism at Tsinghua. I share this to tell you all—I spent every step of the way chasing, pushing forward. It was exhausting, incredibly exhausting, but… worth it.”
She then moved on to study methods, covering both systematic approaches and subject-specific techniques, while the audience scribbled down notes.
Huan’er didn’t retain much of that part, but one line in the middle sent a surge of emotion through her—Miss Xu said, Never look down on yourself, no matter what others say or do. Never.
During a bathroom break, Huan’er ran into Teacher Xu in the lobby outside the auditorium. She greeted him and asked, “Why aren’t you inside?”
Lao Xu clasped his hands behind his back. “Haven’t I seen enough of her already? I can hear just fine out here.”
As Huan’er turned to leave, he stopped her. Seeming eager for conversation after being alone, he asked how much she’d listened to and whether she’d gained anything. Huan’er answered honestly, “I’m planning to choose the sciences, but the senior mostly shared humanities-focused advice.”
She already leaned toward the sciences, and Tianzhong’s tradition favored STEM over liberal arts—by senior year, there’d only be five or six humanities classes. The choice didn’t require much deliberation.
“Experience always belongs to others,” Lao Xu said, looking at her. “Take what’s useful, but the path still has to be walked step by step.”
Huan’er gestured inside. “Did you tutor your daughter at home?”
“Rarely.” He lifted his chin slightly. “Back then, she was equally strong in both streams. We wanted her to take the sciences, but she insisted otherwise. Later… well, she was stubborn. Even when she struggled, she rarely talked to us about it. The year she took the college entrance exam, I was teaching a graduating class myself—barely had time for my own students.”
“No wonder,” Huan’er nodded.
“Hm?”
She smiled. “Your daughter said to never look down on yourself. That line really moved me.”
“Ha,” Lao Xu chuckled self-deprecatingly. “The person who looked down on her the most was her own father.”
“Huh?”"That girl came back just to lecture me." Lao Xu didn't elaborate further, patting Huan'er's shoulder. "The chemistry teacher has praised you several times. Keep working hard. Once you set your goal, give it your all—no regrets."
A prolonged round of applause erupted from the auditorium, signaling that the sharing session had likely concluded.
Beyond envy, Chen Huan'er now felt a surge of admiration for the confident young woman inside. How lonely her flight must have been—through that stormy journey, with no one believing she could make it.
This month had been fulfilling for Chen Huan'er. Aside from finishing several books from the book exchange, she and Qi Qi had also used Song Cong's connections to observe two rounds of the sophomore knowledge Competition. While other class representatives only helped during the preliminaries, Song Cong was exploited by Director Fu to oversee the entire event—serving as an impartial scorekeeper with no special skills, assigned to ensure fairness by bringing in students from other grades. He claimed he owed Director Fu a favor from when he first enrolled, but no matter how much Huan'er and Qi Qi pressed him, the boy remained tight-lipped, as if facing execution rather than revealing a single detail. The Competition questions ranged wildly—why babies "cry without tears," whether figs actually bloom, the origin of Google Chrome's name—thankfully most were multiple-choice, or the general knowledge contest would have devolved into an awkward mess.
During the semifinals, one question stood out: Is the cerebellum located in the front, middle, or back of the brain? From the audience, Chen Huan'er blurted out, "The back," just as a bespectacled, refined-looking boy on stage buzzed in with the same correct answer. Qi Qi jabbed her hard in the back of the head. "Look at you, knowing this stuff."
"Endless is the sea of learning," Huan'er quipped, clicking her tongue. She was merely parroting what she'd just learned—a tidbit from that Neuropsychology book she'd been carrying around, still fresh in her mind.
The bespectacled boy was steady and precise, single-handedly carrying his class to the finals. Qi Qi pointed at the girl standing beside him on stage and gossiped, "Rumor has it they're a couple."
"How do you even know that?"
"Hot Couples Ranking on the school forum—they've got photos and everything." Qi Qi raised an eyebrow. "Jealous? Getting to date on the school's dime."
"But... don't the teachers care?"
"Who knows? Maybe as long as their grades are good, they turn a blind eye."
Grades were such a strange thing. For a time, they were all-powerful, then suddenly meaningless. They had eternal life—aloof, fair, occasionally playing unfunny jokes. They were worshipped like deities by certain crowds, yet unfazed when devotees walked away, utterly certain new followers would always kneel at their feet.
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