Zhou Ai stayed in the hospital for three full weeks. On the day he was discharged, his father, Zhou Ruicheng, appeared for the first time.
The accident had happened suddenly that night; Zhou Ai had signed the informed consent form for the surgery himself, and throughout the subsequent treatment, only those two highly professional caregivers and Chen Siliu, who occasionally stopped by to visit, had been by his side.
On the way back, with the driver in the front, Zhou Ai and Zhou Ruicheng sat side-by-side in the back seat. Zhou Ruicheng flipped through the discharge summary, speaking to Zhou Ai intermittently: “The doctor suggests you continue to rest and recover for another month.”
The afternoon weather was beautiful, with sunlight spilling in through the half-open car window. Zhou Ai leaned against the window, letting the breeze blow over him as he heard his father ask from the side: “What are your plans?”
Zhou Ai turned his head to look at Zhou Ruicheng.
Zhou Ruicheng’s initially relaxed expression shifted slightly, displeased by Zhou Ai’s detachment, yet he repeated the question: “I spoke with your attending physician just now. He said to minimize physical activity and that it would be best for you to rest at home for a while. Do you want to return to school, or would you prefer to stay home and rest for a bit?”
Zhou Ruicheng did not know sign language. Zhou Ai picked up the tablet nearby, opened the memo app, and typed out a message, handing it to his father shortly after: It isn’t serious. I would like to return to school as soon as possible.
Zhou Ruicheng nodded while looking at the tablet, then saw Zhou Ai’s next sentence after a blank line: I would like to apply to live in the dormitory.
His brow immediately furrowed: “You want to live in the dormitory? Why? The school is two kilometers from home, and you don’t have night classes. How is living at home inconvenient for you? There is someone to cook and wash your clothes, and teachers come to the house to tutor you. What convenience does a dorm offer? Given your personality, you’ll have an even harder time getting along with roommates.” He delivered a final verdict: “You are not allowed to live in the dorms. Your brother hasn’t been very obedient these past few days; Zhou Ai, try to be a little more sensible.”
Having asked just once, Zhou Ai did not continue to press the matter. He did not feel disappointed, for he had already prepared himself to be rejected by Zhou Ruicheng before even asking. So, he simply turned his head calmly and continued to watch the scenery flying past the window.
The morning Zhou Ai returned to school happened to be the day of the Sixth High’s second monthly exam. Although he was out of the hospital, he was still in the recovery phase and had to wear a back brace, the outline of which was hidden well beneath his slightly loose school uniform.
Because of his injury, his father had arranged for a driver to take him to and from school these past few days—a decision that had, as always, been a notification to Zhou Ai rather than an offer of choice.
The second monthly exam assigned exam rooms and numbers based on the previous month’s results. Zhou Ai was No. 1 in Exam Room 1, and since there were many students from Class 1 in that room, Zhou Ai’s return after half a month once again acted as a “muffler” the moment he stepped into the room.
The seat numbers were arranged in an S-pattern, and Zhou Ai’s No. 1 seat was in the far top-left corner of the classroom. In this position, everyone in the room could only see his back. Zhou Ai was no different than before; quiet, walking at a steady pace, and once seated, he became completely silent.
Yet in the first exam room, Zhou Ai’s presence could not be ignored. He was the top student; his photo had been hanging in the prime spot downstairs for a month, his grades in every subject were memorized by the teachers of every class, and even his neat handwriting was posted on the wall as a model.
Furthermore, he was a mute who could not speak.
Sitting in the front row, Zhou Ai was still influenced by his childhood experiences. Whenever he was on campus or in a classroom, he habitually used indifference to shield himself from external objects. All he could feel was the loose arrangement of the exam room seats and the comfortable breeze blowing in from the window; he liked this spot where he didn’t have to interact with anyone.
Thus, Zhou Ai remained unaware of the curiosity others in the room held toward him. He couldn’t see the people behind him, so he didn’t know they were sneakily taking photos of him, nor did he know they were sending those photos into the grade-wide group chat, chatting actively about him.
Zhou Ai sat in the window seat, his exposed side profile serene, the sunlight casting a gentle glow on him. His eyelashes were slightly lowered, and from beginning to end, he only focused on his own affairs.
After a day of testing, it was already the usual time for afternoon dismissal. Retrieving his phone, Zhou Ai saw a message from the driver: “The street in front of the main gate is congested and I can’t get in. I’ll wait for you at the back gate.”
There was no need to return to the classroom after the exam, so students were free to go home. The campus was filled with a lazy, post-exam relaxation. Zhou Ai, out of place amidst the clamor, circled toward the quiet back gate. On the way, he wanted to go see the cats and dogs, but that wall now not only blocked those small animals but also stood as an obstacle for Zhou Ai.
Zhou Ai was still wearing his medical back brace; he could not exert force on his waist and abdomen, let alone walk too much, let alone climb over a wall. One careless move could result in the danger of a second surgery.
Zhou Ai did not circle around to the back hill, nor did he linger on campus. Leaving the exam area, he walked directly toward the back gate. He had missed too much class, and his father had arranged for Chen Siliu to give him an extra two hours of tutoring that evening. He needed to be back before the designated time.
The front gate of the Sixth High was grand, but the back gate connected to old residential buildings and appeared narrow and worn. As Zhou Ai stepped out of the gate, he saw his family car parked in the open space ahead, but he was caught off guard when he suddenly heard someone call his name from behind.
The voice was cold and familiar, yet carried a rare, urgent impatience. Zhou Ai recognized it as Chen Xunfeng’s voice.
“Zhou Ai!”
Zhou Ai’s footsteps faltered. He couldn’t carry heavy objects, so he was holding his backpack in one hand. He tightened his grip on the bag strap, hearing the footsteps behind him growing closer, each one echoing against his eardrums.
Finally, the footsteps stopped. Chen Xunfeng halted very close behind him; Zhou Ai could even feel the brief gust of wind created by Chen Xunfeng’s sudden stop.
“Zhou Ai.” Chen Xunfeng lowered his voice and called his name again from behind him.
Zhou Ai breathed a soft sigh, turning around calmly. Once he had pivoted, his back was to a wall, and Chen Xunfeng stood before him. The first thing he noticed upon raising his eyes was Chen Xunfeng’s black hair tousled by the wind; the second was the intense, substantive gaze Chen Xunfeng had fixed upon him.
He was shorter than Chen Xunfeng, but the boy in front of him bent slightly at the waist. The distance between them became very close, their gazes locking directly with no way to avoid it. Chen Xunfeng looked at him, his lips moving slightly. Zhou Ai waited for what he was about to say.
But suddenly, the sound of boys gasping for breath came from behind, breaking the quiet of this corner unexpectedly: “Damn! You walked so fast, are you seriously coming over here to block him?”
That shout brought Zhou Ai back to his senses. He realized he had been holding his breath; it seemed he had been nervous—a strange and distant emotion for him. Zhou Ai slowly relaxed his breathing and his clenched fingers. In his peripheral vision, he saw a group of boys dressed in various trendy clothes. Their shouts, mixed with messy footsteps, completely disrupted the atmosphere.
Zhou Ai heard Jiang Chuan’s boisterous voice in the crowd: “Damn it! Brother, why do you want to block him? This isn’t someone you should be blocking!”
Others chimed in: “It’s not like we haven’t beaten up people from Class 1 before, there’s no one we can’t block!”
“Brother, the director is already watching you closely. If you can’t stand him, I’ll do it, I can help you beat him!”
The back gate was usually quiet, but Chen Xunfeng had brought along a rowdy, noisy group a stark contrast to the deathly silence that usually surrounded Zhou Ai. Zhou Ai frowned slightly. Observing his expression, Chen Xunfeng reached out subconsciously, bracing his arm against the wall behind Zhou Ai, blocking his exit.
Chen Xunfeng’s voice was low as he looked at Zhou Ai, speaking quickly: “Don’t go yet.”
Then he turned his head and roared coldly at the group of people approaching from the side: “Shut up, don’t come over!”
Zhou Ai’s gaze was calm as he watched Chen Xunfeng’s side profile up close. There was a faint scar there—it was already very indistinct, but as Chen Xunfeng turned his head, his neck muscles tightened, revealing that patch of skin lighter than the surrounding area. Zhou Ai’s gaze rested there.
Zhou Ai was a mute now; he had been a “little mute” as a child. He couldn’t cry, and he couldn’t speak. Too many children around him were curious; their likes and dislikes were too direct. While Chen Xunfeng was briefly away, they would crowd in front of Zhou Ai, pinching his neck to “teach” him to talk, or throwing stones at him to make him cry. Zhou Ai was like a strange species on display, surrounded by a pile of kids, yet he remained wooden, offering no response.
Finally, one boy stole a paper cutter from the office. They all felt that Zhou Ai didn’t fear pain, so he wanted to test if Zhou Ai wouldn’t bleed either. But the knife ended up slicing the neck of Chen Xunfeng, who had charged into the crowd.
Chen Xunfeng used brute force to knock down every child around him and snatched the knife away. His neck was slashed in the scuffle, but he still stood firmly in front of Zhou Ai. The still-young Chen Xunfeng wiped the blood flowing down his neck with his sleeve and, with red eyes, said to that group of children: “If you bully him again, I’ll kill you.”
“Zhou Ai.” The cold, deep male voice brought Zhou Ai back to his thoughts. Zhou Ai slowly raised his eyes to look at this face, at once strange and familiar. Chen Xunfeng had turned back around and was now gazing intently at Zhou Ai.
The two looked directly at each other. Zhou Ai’s breathing slowed once more. As the sunset appeared on the horizon, shining obliquely upon them, he looked into Chen Xunfeng’s dark, deep eyes—like a whirlpool, drawing him in. He waited quietly in place until he finally heard Chen Xunfeng ask: “I’ve been waiting for over half a year, hanging around in front of you every single day. Is it… is it true that you really don’t remember me?”
When Chen Xunfeng finished, Zhou Ai needed a moment to process the meaning of his words. Only then did his empty heart slowly, heavily land back in its place. He examined Chen Xunfeng’s face, attempting to find the features of the child from his youth.
Back then, the boy had wiped away his tears and said he would be back tomorrow. The “little mute” Zhou Ai had been stubborn, waiting silently in place for a whole year until he was forced to transfer schools, never catching a glimpse of Chen Xunfeng again. And now, the first thing Chen Xunfeng said after six years of lateness was to ask if he had forgotten him.
This was Chen Xunfeng’s conjecture and his testing. The first time Chen Xunfeng saw him at the Sixth High two months ago, he had believed he was waiting. He brought breakfast, he appeared frequently, he stalked him, he had been “hanging around” in front of Zhou Ai just as he had claimed. But he had never once walked up to Zhou Ai. And now, having finally approached him, the first thing he asked was whether Zhou Ai still remembered him.
Zhou Ai suddenly felt a surge of long-unfelt anger, an anger that felt completely foreign.