On Friday afternoon, a crowd gathered in front of Class 3’s back blackboard.
With only a week left until the Campus Culture Festival, Xu Zhi posted the final layout design right next to the board, chalk in hand as she divvied up tasks.
“I’ll do the main title; leave the text sections to the Chinese class rep. Cheng Ye is on line art for the old school building, and Shen Zhiyao will print out the selected photos. Everyone else cut paper cardstock and glue down the borders don’t change your minds at the last minute.”
Lin Po raised a hand.
“What am I in charge of?”
Xu Zhi glanced at the roster.
“In charge of not breaking or touching anything.”
“That counts as a task?”
“For you, it’s crucial.”
A burst of laughter rippled through the surrounding group.
Refusing to accept this, Lin Po looked toward Cheng Ye.
“Aren’t you gonna stick up for me?”
Cheng Ye stood before the back blackboard measuring the layout width with a ruler, not even bothering to turn around.
“She makes a good point.”
“You guys are targeting me now.”
“It’s not targeting,” Xu Zhi said calmly. “It’s making reasonable arrangements based on past experience.”
Lin Po opened his mouth to argue further, but someone shoved a pair of scissors and a stack of light-blue cardstock into his hands, forcing him to accept his fate and slump into the back row.
Shen Zhiyao pulled a brown kraft paper envelope out from his camera bag.
Six photos in total.
Tree shadows swaying in the wind by the track field, sunlight creeping across the library’s outer wall, the old school building reflected in a rain puddle, and three different angles of the old classroom block.
In the very center was a photo of Cheng Ye’s side profile as he stood by the window.
The photo had undergone light adjustments; printed out, the blue-gray antique window, faded curtains, and the soft light falling onto the boy’s shoulders appeared sharper than in the test draft.
Xu Zhi picked it up, inspecting it for a moment.
“Much better than the print shop’s sample draft.”
“Mhm.”
“You adjusted the colors yourself?”
“Just tweaked the brightness and contrast.”
“Didn’t edit the person either?”
“No.”
Xu Zhi looked closely at Cheng Ye in the photo.
“Guess he actually looks halfway decent occasionally.”
Overhearing her from a few steps away, Cheng Ye spun around instantly.
“What do you mean ‘occasionally halfway decent’?”
“Literally that.”
He set his ruler down, strolled over, and plucked the photo right out of Xu Zhi’s hands.
“Let me see.”
Shen Zhiyao instinctively reached out, but checked himself halfway.
Cheng Ye gripped the photo, staring down at it for a long while.
“It feels a bit different than on a phone screen.”
“Paper affects color rendition,” Shen Zhiyao noted.
“It’s not the color.”
“Then what is it?”
Cheng Ye pondered for a moment.
“Once it’s printed on paper, it feels like it really turned into something that actually happened.”
Xu Zhi cast a glance at him.
“A photo is something that already happened.”
“You can view it on a phone too, but it feels different.”
Cheng Ye pinched the photo’s edge lightly with his fingers, his movements delicate, as if afraid to leave a crease.
“Holding it in your hands makes you feel like that day is very close by.”
Shen Zhiyao’s eyes landed on the photo.
He used to think photos only served to remind people of an unchangeable past.
Yet as Cheng Ye spoke, his expression showed neither nostalgia nor sorrow.
It looked more like a quiet confirmation that a specific stretch of time had truly existed.
And that it was worthy of being kept.
“Can we stick it up now?” Xu Zhi asked.
Cheng Ye handed the photo over to Shen Zhiyao.
“You decide.”
“They’re already picked out.”
“Yeah, but you took it.”
“The blackboard design isn’t mine alone.”
“Still gotta ask you.”
Shen Zhiyao took the photograph.
Before releasing his grip, Cheng Ye’s fingertips brushed ever so lightly against the back of Shen Zhiyao’s hand.
“Go ahead and stick it up,” he said.
Xu Zhi fetched removable adhesive and arranged the photos one by one according to the layout blueprint.
The center space was reserved for the line drawing of the old school block, flanked by photos and text columns. The building Cheng Ye drew was not yet colored; he had only traced the outline using a black fineliner, leaving faint pencil marks along the paper edges.
Shen Zhiyao stood behind, observing quietly for a bit.
“The second floor is missing a window.”
Cheng Ye was trimming paper with a utility knife; hearing this, he raised his head.
“Where?”
Shen Zhiyao pointed to the right side of the drawing.
“The far edge.”
Cheng Ye stepped over and counted them again.
“It was blocked by trees in the photo.”
“Strictly speaking, there are five.”
“You remember that?”
“Mhm.”
“You only snapped it once and remembered so clearly?”
“I’ve looked at it from many angles.”
Cheng Ye produced a pencil and sketched a window frame into the blank space.
“Like this?”
“Move the position slightly left.”
“Here?”
“Mhm.”
Cheng Ye bowed his head to adjust the lines.
Shen Zhiyao stood beside him, watching the pencil piece together the outline of the window step by step.
“Anything else?” Cheng Ye asked.
“You can remove the cracks on the wall.”
“Why?”
“Too heavy.”
“The old building naturally has them.”
“The theme of the blackboard isn’t a ruin.”
Cheng Ye let out a quiet chuckle.
“Xu Zhi was right—you two have exceptionally strict aesthetics.”
“She also said your drawing was too pristine.”
“That’s why I kept the cracks.”
“Keeping a tiny bit is enough.”
“Which bit?”
Shen Zhiyao took the pencil directly from his hand.
Caught off guard, Cheng Ye’s fingers remained rested on the barrel. Both of their hands paused together for a brief instant.
Shen Zhiyao quickly let go.
“You draw it.”
“Weren’t you going to demonstrate?”
“I’ll explain verbally.”
Cheng Ye looked at him, then glanced down at the pencil.
“Scared of ruining my drawing?”
“No.”
“Then why not draw it?”
“This is your work.”
Cheng Ye’s movements paused slightly.
The classroom was noisy.
The sound of scissors shearing through paper, sticky tape being unspooled, and Lin Po constantly asking if he was cutting straight enough all blurred together.
Yet Cheng Ye stared at Shen Zhiyao, as though the only thing he had heard was that single sentence.
“You think of this as a work of art?” he asked.
“Is it not?”
“I just drew it based on your photo.”
“It’s still drawn by you.”
“Can’t compare to the photo you shot.”
Shen Zhiyao knit his brows.
“Why compare?”
Cheng Ye froze.
“I was just casually saying”
“A drawing and a photo aren’t the same thing.”
Shen Zhiyao looked at that piece of line art.
“The photo holds many old traces, but after you drew it, the building looks like it will continue to stay right there.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s very good.”
Shen Zhiyao paused a second, adding: “So don’t just let anyone change it arbitrarily.”
Cheng Ye went quiet for a few seconds.
Afterward, he held out the pencil.
“You’re not ‘anyone’.”
Shen Zhiyao didn’t take it.
Cheng Ye’s hand remained suspended between them.
“You took the photo, and you saw the building first. You helping me adjust it isn’t ruinous.”
“I don’t know how to draw.”
“Just draw a single crack.”
“What if I mess it up?”
“Then we draw it again.”
“It took you two nights.”
“I remember how to draw it.”
Cheng Ye smiled gently.
“Besides, you won’t mess it up.”
This unfounded layer of trust rendered Shen Zhiyao momentarily at a loss for words.
In the end, he took the pencil and drew a very faint stroke on the lower-right wall of the old building.
The line wasn’t fully connected, resembling a subtle trace left on the wall by time.
Once finished, he promptly returned the pencil to Cheng Ye.
“That’s it.”
Cheng Ye looked down at it.
“Pretty good.”
“It’s just a line.”
“Yeah, but you drew it.”
“It carries no special meaning.”
“Now it does,” Cheng Ye said softly.
Shen Zhiyao looked toward him.
“What meaning?”
“This drawing isn’t just drawn by me alone anymore.”
He picked up an eraser, gradually rubbing out those initial heavy cracks until only the single stroke drawn by Shen Zhiyao remained.
“Now it counts as a joint work.”
Shen Zhiyao’s fingertips curled slightly.
Xu Zhi happened to pass by, catching that last line.
“What joint work are you guys making?”
Cheng Ye held up the line art draft.
“Shen Zhiyao helped me modify a stroke.”
Xu Zhi leaned in, peering intently for a long moment.
“Which stroke?”
“This one.”
Cheng Ye pointed it out to her.
Xu Zhi fell silent for two seconds.
“A single crack?”
“Mhm.”
“That warrants a special mention?”
“Of course.”
Xu Zhi looked at Cheng Ye, then looked at Shen Zhiyao.
“Fine. Joint work, store it carefully.”
With that, she turned and left carrying the title draft.
Her tone sounded perfectly calm, but the corners of her lips carried a barely noticeable hint of amusement.
Shen Zhiyao lowered his head to organize the photos.
“What is she smiling about?”
Cheng Ye glanced at Xu Zhi’s retreating back.
“No idea.”
“You know.”
“I genuinely don’t know.”
“Whenever you say ‘genuinely’, it’s rarely believable.”
Cheng Ye broke into a laugh.
“You’re understanding me better and better now.”
“I am not.”
“And your denials are getting faster, too.”
Shen Zhiyao stopped bothering with him.
Work on the blackboard display continued throughout the entire afternoon.
By the time the final class ended, the main title was finished, and the line art was pinned dead center, leaving only the photos requiring a final layout reshuffle.
Xu Zhi stood behind them, observing for a long time.
“This playground photo is too bright; putting it on the left will overpower the main heading.”
Cheng Ye suggested: “Then put it on the right.”
“The right side has text columns.”
“Swap the text location?”
“It’ll mess up the layout.”
Lin Po stood nearby holding double-sided tape.
“How about we just leave this one out?”
All three turned to look at him simultaneously.
Lin Po instantly threw his hands up.
“Just a suggestion!”
Xu Zhi hesitated a moment, turning to ask Shen Zhiyao: “What do you think?”
Shen Zhiyao rearranged the photos once more.
“Place the playground at the very bottom, the old building profile at the top left, and the library on the right.”
“That leaves a gap in the middle.”
“We can put a short quote there.”
“Write what?”
Shen Zhiyao didn’t answer right away.
Cheng Ye stood beside him, gazing at that reserved blank spot.
“How about writing ‘Before the Rain Stops’?”
Shen Zhiyao lifted his eyes.
Xu Zhi also turned to look at him.
“Why that title?”
Cheng Ye gestured toward the photographs.
“These few shots have post-rain puddles, an overcast old building, and the athletic field just as sunlight breaks through. It looks like a progression from rainfall to clearing up.”
“But the culture festival theme is ‘Spring Campus’.”
“It rains in spring anyway,” Cheng Ye said. “And what’s truly beautiful isn’t strictly limited to clear skies. Before the rain stops, light is slowly breaking through, too.”
A brief quiet descended upon the classroom.
Shen Zhiyao stared at that central photo of the old classroom block.
The wall cracks were faint, yet the light pouring past the window edge was brilliant.
“That works,” he said.
Xu Zhi nodded.
“We’ll use that phrase then.”
She wrote down four words on draft paper: Before the rain stops.
“And pair it with a short prose section,” Xu Zhi added. “Doesn’t need to be long, three or four lines is fine. Who’s writing it?”
Cheng Ye immediately turned to Shen Zhiyao.
“You write it.”
Shen Zhiyao asked: “Why me?”
“You took the photos.”
“You came up with the title.”
“Then we do it together.”
“I don’t know how to write prose.”
“Aren’t you great at Chinese class?”
“Good grades don’t mean I know how to write this sort of thing.”
Cheng Ye slid the draft paper in front of him.
“Write one line first.”
Shen Zhiyao didn’t move.
Xu Zhi checked the time.
“Take your time thinking it through. I’ll go find Teacher Zhou to confirm the paint colors first; just give it to me by tomorrow morning.”
Lin Po chimed in right away: “I’ll go with you!”
“You just want to dodge cleaning duty, don’t you?”
“It’s not our duty day today!”
“Then go clean up the remaining paper cardstock.”
Xu Zhi pressed him back into his chair before stepping out of the classroom.
The other helping classmates also departed one after another.
After tidying up the paper, Lin Po saw the basketball team waving from the door and promptly dashed off clutching a basketball.
Only Shen Zhiyao and Cheng Ye remained in front of the back blackboard.
The sunset beamed in through the window.
The desks and chairs cast long, stretched shadows, while chalk dust floated lazily in the light beams. The unfinished blackboard took up the back wall, layerings of pale blue, dusty gray, and muted gold overlapping smoothly.
Cheng Ye dragged a chair over and sat on it backward, leaning against the backrest.
“Thought of anything?”
Shen Zhiyao stood before the board.
“No.”
“Then I’ll go first.”
“Mhm.”
Cheng Ye stared at the photos for a moment.
“Spring always brings rain.”
“Too ordinary.”
“After rain stops, the sun comes out.”
“Even more ordinary.”
“Your turn then.”
Shen Zhiyao said nothing.
Cheng Ye rested his chin on the chair back.
“Designing a blackboard isn’t an exam, every single line doesn’t need to be extraordinary.”
“It shouldn’t be meaningless either.”
“What counts as meaningful to you?”
Shen Zhiyao stared at the reflection of the building in the rain puddle.
That shot was taken right at noon, just after the rain paused.
The water had not yet receded, nor had the sky truly brightened. The building was mirrored in the water’s surface, its outline gently swaying as gusts blew past.
“Some people think that only after the rain stops does it count as good weather,” he said.
Cheng Ye raised his head.
“You don’t think so?”
“Even when the rain hasn’t stopped, light is still there.”
“Where?”
“Behind cloud layers, inside windows, in water puddles.”
Shen Zhiyao paused briefly.
“Sometimes people just fail to see it.”
Cheng Ye looked at him.
The sunset hit the side of Shen Zhiyao’s face, casting the shadow of his eyelashes under his eyes.
He spoke these words with utter composure.
Yet it reminded Cheng Ye of that drop of water Shen Zhiyao waited for outside the old block, reminded him of the practice workbook fluttering in the wind on the rooftop, and reminded him of Shen Zhiyao saying that remembering certain things too clearly wasn’t necessarily good.
“Then let’s write that,” Cheng Ye said.
Shen Zhiyao turned his head back.
“Too long.”
“We can trim it.”
Cheng Ye picked up a pen and wrote on the draft paper:
Before the rain stops, light has been there all along.
Finishing the stroke, he handed the paper over.
Shen Zhiyao looked at it for a moment.
“Too direct.”
“How would you change it?”
Taking the pen, he wrote a new line underneath:
Before the rain has stopped, light has already fallen.
Cheng Ye read it softly aloud.
“This one’s good.”
“Needs a few more lines.”
“What else to write?”
Shen Zhiyao kept his gaze on the old building in the center.
“Write about spring.”
Cheng Ye thought for a moment, appending below:
It passes through damp walls, pierces old windows, and shines upon everyone waiting for the sky to clear.
Shen Zhiyao stared at those final few words.
“‘Everyone waiting for the sky to clear’ feels too deliberate.”
“Then change it to ‘people walking forward’?”
“Has nothing to do with the photo.”
“The person standing by the window?”
“Sounds like it’s specifically singling you out.”
Cheng Ye laughed.
“Well, it is me in the photo.”
“The board design can’t just be about you.”
“Then ‘us’.”
He retrieved the draft paper, crossing out the latter half and editing it to:
It passes through damp walls, pierces old windows, and falls gently upon our shoulders.
Shen Zhiyao read it over and didn’t offer any more edits.
“What about the last sentence?” Cheng Ye asked.
“You think of one.”
“I already wrote one earlier.”
“I wrote one too.”
“Then we think of the final line together.”
The two stood before the back blackboard, quiet for a long time.
The light outside the window shifted downward inch by inch.
The campus broadcast had ended, leaving only a handful of students rehearsing inside the building. Intermittent instrument notes drifted in from afar, carried softly by the breeze.
Cheng Ye suddenly asked: “Before the rain stops, what do you think is the hardest part?”
Shen Zhiyao hadn’t anticipated such a question.
“Why ask that?”
“For the last sentence.”
“Waiting.”
“Waiting for the rain to stop?”
“Mhm.”
“But you just said there’s light even when it hasn’t stopped.”
“Knowing it is one thing; seeing it with your own eyes is another.”
Cheng Ye fell quiet for a brief moment.
“What if someone can never see it?”
Shen Zhiyao’s gaze drifted toward the window.
“Then just keep walking forward.”
“Walk while getting soaked in the rain?”
“You’ll eventually reach a place with eaves.”
“What if there aren’t any?”
“Then keep going.”
Cheng Ye looked at him.
“Have you always been like this before?”
Shen Zhiyao’s hand gripping the pen froze.
This question had surpassed the boundaries of the blackboard design.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Cheng Ye didn’t press either, simply sitting on the chair, waiting.
After a while, Shen Zhiyao said: “More or less.”
“By yourself?”
“Mhm.”
“Doesn’t it get tiring?”
“I’m used to it.”
“Being used to it doesn’t mean it isn’t exhausting.”
The statement was spoken very gently.
Yet it reminded Shen Zhiyao of Xu Zhi once saying that being accustomed to rejecting people was pretty exhausting too.
They both seemed able to see things he was unwilling to admit.
Shen Zhiyao looked down at the draft paper.
“What about you?”
Cheng Ye blinked, taken aback.
“What?”
“You’re always helping others—isn’t that tiring?”
The smile on Cheng Ye’s face paused for a split second.
“It’s alright.”
Shen Zhiyao raised his eyes to meet his.
“When you say ‘it’s alright’, it usually means not that great.”
Cheng Ye was stunned for a few seconds before breaking into a grin.
“You’ve even learned to use my own phrases back on me.”
“Answer me.”
Cheng Ye leaned back against the chair.
Only a sliver of sunset remained, reflecting faintly in his eyes.
“Sometimes it is,” he said.
Shen Zhiyao stayed quiet.
This was the first time Cheng Ye had admitted it.
Without hiding behind jokes, without claiming he could handle it all.
“Then why not reject them?” Shen Zhiyao asked.
“Because when people come looking for me, they feel like I can actually help.”
“So?”
“Feeling needed feels pretty nice.”
“What if it’s only to feel useful?”
Cheng Ye tapped his fingers lightly on the chair back.
“Even then, there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“What happens when you aren’t useful anymore?”
Cheng Ye went silent.
The classroom grew exceptionally quiet.
The photos on the back board lost much of their color in the fading light, leaving only that side profile by the window retaining a tiny patch of brightness.
After a long time, Cheng Ye finally spoke: “I don’t know.”
Shen Zhiyao looked at him.
“So it’s not that you don’t know how to say no.”
“Then what is it?”
“You’re afraid that if you refuse, people won’t need you anymore.”
Cheng Ye’s tapping fingers stilled.
The moment he said it, Shen Zhiyao felt a pang of regret.
The sentence was far too direct.
Like pushing open a door someone had kept firmly shut without permission.
“Sorry,” he said.
Cheng Ye didn’t get angry, though.
He kept his head lowered, eyes resting on the draft paper.
“You might actually be right.”
Shen Zhiyao started slightly.
Cheng Ye let out a soft laugh, though he didn’t look up.
“My family was always busy growing up. When I helped mind the store, my parents praised me for being sensible. When things happened in class, teachers always looked for me. When classmates felt I was reliable, they came to ask me for things.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s pretty good.”
“Then why aren’t you happy?”
“I am happy.”
“You were zoning out in the empty classroom.”
Cheng Ye raised his head.
“You still remember that?”
“Mhm.”
“That day I was just a little tired.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“Saying it wouldn’t mean doing one less task.”
“It could.”
“What?”
“Letting someone else help you.”
Cheng Ye looked at him.
Shen Zhiyao pushed the draft paper into the space between them.
“Take this blackboard project, for instance—you aren’t doing it alone.”
Cheng Ye looked down at those lines written together.
He had come up with the title.
Shen Zhiyao wrote the first line, and he supplemented the second.
Then there was the line art of the old block altered by both of them, alongside the photo snapped by Shen Zhiyao.
Indeed, no single part belonged solely to one person.
“Then we can write this for the last line,” Cheng Ye said.
“What?”
Picking up the pen, he wrote slowly at the very bottom of the draft paper:
And this time, there’s no need to wait for clear skies alone.
Shen Zhiyao stared at the line.
“Doesn’t sound like copy for a blackboard display.”
“What does it sound like then?”
“Words meant to comfort someone.”
“Can’t it offer comfort?”
“It’s too personal.”
Cheng Ye held the pen, making no move to cross it out.
“A bit personal doesn’t hurt.”
“A lot of people will see it.”
“They can interpret it in their own way.”
Cheng Ye looked at him.
“Didn’t you say it yourself? Once photos are shown to others, they don’t all need to share the exact same explanation.”
“You were the one who said that.”
“You remembered.”
“Things you’ve said, I’ve always”
Shen Zhiyao stopped himself mid-sentence.
Cheng Ye had caught it anyway.
“Always what?”
“Nothing.”
“Always remembered?”
Shen Zhiyao averted his eyes.
The smile on Cheng Ye’s face slowly broadened.
“Were you about to say you remember everything I’ve said?”
“Only the important stuff.”
“Which ones count as important?”
“Things related to the blackboard.”
“What about homework, bus schedules, your temperature when you had a fever, not being allowed to eat two tubs of ice cream?”
“Those are things you failed to remember yourself.”
“So you remember them for me?”
Shen Zhiyao didn’t answer.
Cheng Ye didn’t push either, simply drawing a small circle beneath the final line.
“I think it’s great.”
Shen Zhiyao stared at the circle.
“Xu Zhi might not agree.”
“We’ll ask her tomorrow.”
“If she disagrees, we change it.”
“Deal.”
Cheng Ye folded the draft paper neatly and tucked it inside his sketchbook.
Shen Zhiyao’s gaze rested on the sketchbook’s cover.
Dark gray, the edges slightly worn.
“Is that your sketchbook?”
Cheng Ye’s hands paused.
“Mhm.”
“Last time you said ‘depends on the situation’.”
“What?”
“Whether I could look.”
Cheng Ye recalled their conversation outside the stationery shop.
He placed his hand over the cover.
“You really want to see?”
“Just asking casually.”
“‘Just asking casually’ usually means you really want to see.”
“Where do you keep drawing these conclusions from?”
“Since meeting you.”
Cheng Ye flipped through a few pages, then closed it up.
“Not right now.”
“Why?”
“Too messy.”
“I won’t judge.”
“Not afraid of you judging.”
“Then why?”
Cheng Ye hesitated a moment.
“Some of the sketches were drawn a long time ago.”
“So?”
“Different from how I am now.”
Shen Zhiyao looked at him.
The phrase mirrored what he himself had once said—photos don’t change, but people do.
“Then that’s all the more reason to keep them,” he said.
Cheng Ye was slightly taken aback.
“You didn’t use to think that way.”
“I haven’t completely changed my mind either.”
“Then why say that?”
Shen Zhiyao looked toward the back blackboard.
“Because you said people aren’t meant to have only one single side.”
The quiet Cheng Ye in the old classroom, the bright Cheng Ye on the basketball court, the vulnerable Cheng Ye when sick, and the Cheng Ye zoning out alone in an empty room.
None of them were fake.
Some people saw them, while others didn’t.
Cheng Ye looked down, stroking the cover of his sketchbook.
“I’ll let you see it next time.”
“We’ll see?”
“This time isn’t an uncertainty,” Cheng Ye said with a smile. “It’s a promise.”
He traced a circle on the sketchbook cover with his finger.
Shen Zhiyao saw it.
“Childish.”
“Every time you say that, you end up agreeing in the end.”
“I don’t.”
“What about hook-fingers on the roof?”
“That was because you wouldn’t get out of the way.”
“Did you take the log notebook?”
“You already paid for it.”
“Were those throat lozenges bought specifically for me?”
Shen Zhiyao went completely quiet.
Cheng Ye’s smile grew even more pronounced.
The sky had fully darkened.
The two flipped on the back row lights to re-inspect the blackboard.
The photos weren’t fixed down yet, and the line art was only pinned at the four corners. Tomorrow, when the other classmates arrived, there was still trimming, text filling, and coloring to be done.
“That’s it for today,” Cheng Ye said.
“The photos should be packed away.”
“Aren’t we sticking them up tomorrow anyway?”
“It might get humid tonight.”
Shen Zhiyao carefully removed the photos one by one, slipping them back into the kraft envelope.
When it came to the side profile shot by the window, Cheng Ye suddenly reached out to press down on a corner.
“Can I have this one after the display is done?”
“The board display stays up for a week.”
“After it ends.”
“The photo will have tape marks.”
“Then print another copy.”
“You already have the digital version.”
“I want a physical one.”
Shen Zhiyao looked at him.
“Why?”
Cheng Ye thought it over.
“Because holding it in my hand makes me feel like that day is very close.”
The exact same answer as this afternoon.
Shen Zhiyao didn’t ask further.
“Okay.”
“You agree?”
“Mhm.”
“How many circles?”
“One photo, one circle.”
Cheng Ye laughed out loud.
“You accept this system now?”
“Strictly limited to this one time.”
“Then I’ve noted it down.”
Shen Zhiyao packed up the photos.
The two switched off the lights and left the classroom.
The hallway was mostly deserted, their footsteps falling clear and hollow against the floor.
Passing the staircase leading up to the rooftop, Cheng Ye paused.
“Heading up?”
“Right now?”
“The wind shouldn’t be too bad.”
“The classroom building is locking up soon.”
“Stay for five minutes.”
Shen Zhiyao checked the time.
“Five minutes max.”
The two headed up along the stairs.
Pushing open the heavy iron door, evening breeze rushed in.
It hadn’t rained today, yet the air retained a cool, damp touch. Thick clouds layered the sky, city lights reflecting off the low canopy, leaving the horizon a dull, dark bluish-gray.
Cheng Ye walked over to the railing.
“Will it rain tomorrow?”
“Weather forecast says light rain.”
“Day after tomorrow?”
“Might clear up.”
“What page are you on in your log notebook?”
Shen Zhiyao looked toward him.
“You promised not to ask.”
“I asked for the page count, not the content.”
“That still counts as asking.”
Cheng Ye chuckled softly.
“Fine, I’ll switch. How do you feel about the weather lately?”
“Lots of rain.”
“What else?”
“Big temperature swings.”
“What else?”
Shen Zhiyao had no idea what he was driving at.
“What are you trying to say?”
Cheng Ye leaned against the railing, gazing down.
The streetlights across campus had turned on; viewed from above, the paths looked like faint ribbons drawn by light.
“I think the weather’s been pretty nice lately.”
“It’s rained for days straight.”
“But the rain always stops.”
“It’ll rain again tomorrow.”
“Then it’ll stop again.”
Cheng Ye turned his face sideways.
“At least I’m not waiting alone.”
Shen Zhiyao’s breath caught slightly.
He knew Cheng Ye was referring to that final line on the blackboard.
Or perhaps not just the blackboard.
“You might not always be there,” Shen Zhiyao said.
The smile on Cheng Ye’s face faded slightly.
“Why bring that up all of a sudden?”
“It’s a fact.”
“When I’m not around, you can reach out to others.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Here you go again.”
“What?”
“You always phrase ‘afraid to need’ as ‘don’t need’.”
Shen Zhiyao knit his brow.
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then why do you always assume others will leave?”
The wind abruptly picked up.
The wires along the railing swayed gently, emitting a faint hum.
Shen Zhiyao didn’t answer.
Realizing he might have asked too directly, Cheng Ye quieted down for a moment.
“You don’t have to answer.”
“Mhm.”
“But that line wasn’t something I wrote lightheartedly.”
“Which line?”
“No need to wait for clear skies alone.”
Cheng Ye looked at him.
“At least right now, I’m here.”
Shen Zhiyao’s fingers rested against the cold railing.
He wanted desperately to say that “right now” was meaningless.
People loved leveraging present sincerity to guarantee an uncertain future. But the present would pass, clear skies would end, and even the light in photographs only stayed captured in the instant the shutter clicked.
Yet Cheng Ye hadn’t said forever.
He only said right now.
That made it impossible for Shen Zhiyao to refute.
“You too,” Cheng Ye said.
“What?”
“Right now, you’re here too.”
Shen Zhiyao looked at him.
The night wind tussled Cheng Ye’s hair. He wasn’t smiling like he usually did, just standing there with total earnestness.
“So it’s completely fair,” he said.
Neither of them promised a future.
Nor did they demand that the other stay forever.
Just for this night, before the rain fell once more, they stood on the rooftop together.
Shen Zhiyao murmured softly: “Mhm.”
Cheng Ye’s face regained its smile.
“Does that count as an agreement?”
“Just responding.”
“A response works too.”
From downstairs came the sound of the security guard locking up.
Both looked toward the entrance simultaneously.
“Past five minutes,” Shen Zhiyao said.
Cheng Ye pulled out his phone.
“Only six minutes.”
“Let’s go.”
They hurried downstairs.
Reaching the first floor, the guard was preparing to lock the side door. Spotting the two coming down the stairs, he frowned and urged them to hurry up.
Stepping outside, the wind felt even cooler.
Cheng Ye pushed his bicycle along, walking beside Shen Zhiyao toward the bus stop.
Halfway there, a drop of rain fell.
Very light, landing right on the back of Shen Zhiyao’s hand.
He looked up.
In rapid succession, a second and third drop fell.
“Didn’t the forecast say rain tomorrow?” Cheng Ye asked.
“Arrived early.”
“Did you bring an umbrella?”
Shen Zhiyao stopped in his tracks.
The weather had been decent this morning, so he had left his umbrella at home.
Reading his expression, Cheng Ye understood immediately.
“You didn’t bring one?”
“Mhm.”
Cheng Ye bent down to unlock his bike, rummaging around the bottom of his front basket to produce a dark-blue folding umbrella.
Shen Zhiyao was surprised.
“You brought one?”
“In case someone forgot.”
Identical to what he had said last time.
Cheng Ye popped open the umbrella, stepping closer to his side.
“Let’s go.”
“You ride your bike.”
“Road’s slippery in the rain, better to push it.”
“Bus stop is still a distance away.”
“Just right.”
“What’s just right?”
Cheng Ye shifted the umbrella slightly toward the middle.
“Before the rain stops, you still have someone walking with you.”
Shen Zhiyao cast a glance at him.
“You really like repeating blackboard copy today.”
“Because we wrote it together.”
“You wrote the last line.”
“You agreed to it.”
“Xu Zhi hasn’t agreed yet.”
“She will.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it’s written well.”
“You’re very confident.”
“Mainly because the first two lines are great,” Cheng Ye said with a laugh, “so the last line gets to bask in the glory.”
The rain gradually thickened.
A fine, continuous pitter-patter sounded against the umbrella canopy.
The two strolled along the street outside the school gates, bicycle wheels rolling across the damp pavement, leaving faint wet tracks behind.
Passing a photo studio that hadn’t closed yet, Shen Zhiyao suddenly paused.
A few landscape photos hung in the display window.
One of them captured a city after rain; the cloud deck hadn’t fully dispersed, yet a pale golden light had already emerged in the distance.
Cheng Ye followed his gaze.
“Pretty?”
“It’s alright.”
“Which means it’s very pretty.”
Shen Zhiyao didn’t deny it.
Cheng Ye asked: “Will we get light like that tomorrow too?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Day after tomorrow?”
“Don’t know.”
“Then when can we see it?”
Shen Zhiyao looked at the photo reflected in the glass.
“Wait for the rain to stop.”
Cheng Ye shook his head.
“Didn’t you say there’s light even before the rain stops?”
Shen Zhiyao turned his head to look at him.
Under the umbrella, the light was dim, but streetlamp glow reflected in Cheng Ye’s eyes, mapping out a small, distinct patch of brightness.
“There is,” Shen Zhiyao said.
“Where?”
“Right now.”
Cheng Ye froze.
Shen Zhiyao had already shifted his eyes away, walking forward.
“Bus is coming.”
“What did you just say?”
“Nothing.”
“I heard you.”
“Why ask if you heard?”
Cheng Ye caught up, a smile gradually brimming in his eyes.
“You said there’s light right now.”
“The streetlamps.”
“You were clearly looking at me just now.”
“You were blocking the streetlamp.”
“Doesn’t that mean the light fell on me?”
Shen Zhiyao refrained from answering.
The bus pulled up right from the corner.
Shaking off water droplets from the umbrella edge, he prepared to board.
Cheng Ye offered the umbrella handle to his palm.
“Take it.”
“What about you?”
“I have a raincoat.”
“Same excuse as last time.”
“I actually remembered this time.”
Cheng Ye retrieved a transparent raincoat from his bike basket.
“Bring it to school tomorrow to return it.”
Shen Zhiyao accepted the umbrella.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll forget?”
“You won’t.”
“Why?”
Cheng Ye held his bicycle, standing in the rain.
“Because it’s mine.”
The bus doors opened.
Boarding the bus, Shen Zhiyao walked over to a window seat.
Cheng Ye had already put on his raincoat, the clear brim fluttering gently in the wind. Standing by the bus stop sign, he raised a hand toward the bus window.
The bus slowly pulled away.
Shen Zhiyao looked down at the dark-blue umbrella in his hand.
A tiny tag was stuck on the handle.
Written in black waterproof pen was a single character: Ye.
The handwriting was slightly smudged by rain, yet remained clearly legible.
Upon reaching home, Shen Zhiyao leaned the umbrella in the entryway.
His mother hadn’t returned yet.
The living room lights weren’t on; outside, rain tapped continuously against the glass, much gentler than previous times.
After finishing his homework, Shen Zhiyao opened his blue log notebook.
Date, weather, temperature.
Having noted those down, he recorded below:
Started working on the class blackboard display today.
Cheng Ye drew the old school building, and I added a crack to the wall.
Writing up to here, he paused a moment, then appended:
He said it counts as a joint work.
Outside the window, the rain still hadn’t stopped.
Shen Zhiyao recalled that short prose piece they had written together at dusk.
He transcribed the draft contents into his notebook:
Before the rain has stopped, light has already fallen.
It passes through damp walls, pierces old windows, and falls gently upon our shoulders.
Reaching the final line, he paused for a long time.
What Cheng Ye wrote was:
And this time, there’s no need to wait for clear skies alone.
Holding the pen, Shen Zhiyao’s eyes lingered on the word “our”.
After a moment, he ultimately wrote down the final sentence in full.
The phone vibrated beside the desk.
A message arrived from Cheng Ye.
Reach home yet?
Reached.][Didn’t lose the umbrella, right?
No.
Do you think Xu Zhi will use that prose for the board?
Don’t know.
Do you like it?
Shen Zhiyao looked at the log notebook.
Those lines rested quietly on the paper.
He replied:
It’s alright.
Cheng Ye messaged back instantly:
That means you like it.
Shen Zhiyao didn’t deny it.
A few seconds later, Cheng Ye sent over a photo.
It was taken on his way home.
The transparent raincoat brim occupied the lower portion of the frame, while distant streetlamps blurred into golden spheres in the rain. The photo edges were slightly unfocused, but a puddle on the ground happened to reflect a small, bright piece of sky.
Any improvement this time?
Shen Zhiyao zoomed in on the photo, examining it briefly.
Composition is messy.
What else?
Out of focus.
What else?
Lighting is nice.
Cheng Ye sent a sticker of a smiling face.
I only saw that one point.
What?
The light before the rain stops.
Shen Zhiyao stared at those words, offering no reply for a long time.
He set his phone down, picking up his pen once more.
On the final line of his log notebook, he wrote:
It rained again tonight.
Pausing briefly, he added:
But it doesn’t seem to last as long as before.