Evanescent Dreams

8. Like herself, unlike herself

Monday morning, the rain was drizzling outside and a thick fog blocked the sunlight like an ugly rag. Lin Xingren was leaning gloomily over her desk, scribbling in her notebook. She consciously created a soundproof shield that separated her from the noise in the classroom.

After the futile hustle of going to Xuan Miaomiao's home the day before yesterday, Lin Xingren had rotted around in her home, feeling beaten. 

Where did Xuan Miaomiao's phone even go?

All that time and effort, completely wasted. I knew something like this would happen. 

Lin Xingren breathed out a sigh.

She flipped to the next page on her notebook and found the "nuts family" she drew last week. 

It was such a crude and childish doodle. Last week she only joked to herself about giving the drawing to him. 

Lin Xingren teared the page off her notebook and crumbled it into her hands. She rose for the rubbish bin.

Ye Zhen had not arrived yet. His desk stood right next to the bin, at the corner next to the back door of the classroom.

Lin Xingren halted next to his desk. She looked around. Everyone else were concentrated on their own chitter chatter or homework.

It was this uncontrollable impulse again. The impulse that had driven her to strange directions, wrong directions, throughout her whole childhood.

Maintaining a straight face, she soundlessly slid the crumbled paper into the drawer of Ye Zhen's desk.

This is stupid.

She returned to her own seat, restraining her anticipation for Ye Zhen to come into the classroom and his reaction when seeing her drawing.

However, even after repeated glances towards the classroom back door, Lin Xingren did not see Ye Zhen come into the classroom.

Then, ten minutes into class, the trudging of slow-moving, unsteady footsteps echoed from the hallways.

Lin Xingren lifted her head from her desk. Ye Zhen stepped in, breathing heavily through his dark mask.

"Sorry, I overslept," he mumbled to the teacher feebly before he slumped into his seat.

Supporting his shoulders on the table, he pushed away his bangs and held his forehead with both of his ice red, bony hands.

Even though he covered his face, even though he was sitting at the seat farthest away from Lin Xingren, she did not fail to notice the suffering that resonated from every part of him this time. He was sick, very sick.

That weary look, that pale complexion, that cough, was all not new to her. 

He was sick on Saturday.

On Saturday, he was pulled away from the rest he needed. In a place far away from his home, he ran around with her for hours and stood in the blowing wind for one hour. Meanwhile, Lin Xingren was busy finding Xuan Miaomiao's home, busy waiting for an opportunity to ask for Xuan Miaomiao's phone, busy in her futile plan, in her futile trip. She did not for once realize or care about Ye Zhen's condition.

"Hey bro, you ok there?" Zhao Zihai leaned back from his chair and tapped on Ye Zhen's desk.

"Yeah, you should definitely go to the nurse," Liu Gujing simultaneously turned around, looking worried, "did something happen?"

Listening to Liu Gujing say these words, a sudden realization dawned on Lin Xingren. On that Saturday, Lin Xingren acted unlike herself. 

No. On Saturday, I was too like myself