In the second year of junior high school, Bian Feifei learned to do one thing – to make herself invisible to others.
This was a skill she gradually developed through practice.
During class, she sat upright, her eyes fixed on the blackboard, not raising her hand or speaking.
When the teacher asked a question to her, she would stand up, her voice low, and answer quickly before sitting down.
During breaks, when others were making noise, she would flip through her books; when others were running to the canteen, she would lean against the desk, pretending to hold a pencil.
Her grades were neither excellent nor poor.
She always ranked in the middle of the class, like being firmly fixed in the middle range.
The middle range was the safest position.
Teachers wouldn’t remember you, and classmates wouldn’t target you.
You wouldn’t receive praise, nor would you be criticized.
She was like a drop of water, falling into a pond, without even making a sound.
Sometimes at night, when she couldn’t sleep, she would think, if she suddenly disappeared from this class, would anyone notice?
After thinking for a long time, she couldn’t think of anyone who would look for her.
This thought came, and she quickly stopped thinking further.
She wasn’t afraid that no one would look for her; what she was afraid of was that she truly believed this sentence.
Her appearance also helped her.
She wasn’t ugly, nor was she particularly beautiful.
Her skin was yellow, her hair was dry, and she wore only two sets of clothes that she wore over and over again.
The collars of the clothes were thin from being washed.
When walking in a crowd, you couldn’t see her at all; even if you scanned again, you still couldn’t find her. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
There were fifty students in the class, and there was a “Student Talent” wall, featuring the photos of students with good grades, those who could sing, and those with well-proportioned figures.
Bian Feifei had never been on that wall.
Occasionally, she would stand in front of the wall and look at others’ faces, then look at her own shadow in the glass, and then walk away, not feeling sad.
She had become accustomed to this.
Once, she stood in front of the wall for a long time.
A boy passed by, glanced at her, then looked at the wall, smiled, and left without saying a word.
That smile wasn’t heavy, but she still understood the meaning beneath it – you’re looking at something, but there’s no you on the top.
She wasn’t annoyed; instead, she pulled her hand out of her sleeve and turned back to the classroom.
The only thing she refused to let go was writing.
She had a notebook – not the old composition notebook that was moved from the clay brick behind her, which she didn’t want to use because it was too old.
This was what she bought from the grocery store at the junior high school entrance, five cents each, with a red letter “Composition Notebook” printed on the cover, shining brightly.
She hid it under her pillow, beneath the old quilt.
Every night after the lights were turned off, when the dormitory was filled with snores, she would use the little light leaking through the corridor to lie on the bed and write.
She wrote slowly, stroke by stroke, afraid of making any noise.
She wrote about her day’s grievances, about her father’s leg, about her mother’s shoe cushion, and also about some things she didn’t want others to hear –
“Today, I saw a map in the textbook.
That blue area is the sea.
How big is the sea?
Can I see the sea in my lifetime?”
“I want to be a teacher.
It’s like a dream.
A teacher knows so many characters and speaks to people who can hear.
”
“I don’t want to stay in Bianjiawa all my life.
I want to go out from here.
Wherever I go is where I’m supposed to be.
I can’t stop here.”
After finishing, she put the notebook back under her pillow, just like putting things behind the clay brick.
It was in the right place.
No one in the class knew she had this notebook.
Nor did anyone know that the quiet, invisible Bian Feifei had a sea hidden in her heart, a thought that no one could imagine.
She was like a transparent person.
But only she herself knew that the innermost layer wasn’t empty.
Sometimes while writing, she would pause, put the pen on the edge of the pillow, and listen to the snores in the room.
The girls who were sleeping soundly had their own families and parents.
She didn’t blame them, nor did she envy them.
She just felt that the place in her heart was different from theirs; it was a place they had never seen, a blue place.
That winter, a new student transferred to the class.
The day that person entered the room, Bian Feifei was sitting at the table, writing.
She looked up for a moment, then lowered her gaze again – she had no idea that this person, in the following three years, would make her “transparent face” unable to remain hidden any longer.