“Gu Fan, what is it that you really want? I hope you can think carefully about this question before taking any action.”
I still remember the voice and the face, but I forgot the name of the middle school teacher who said this to me.
Unfortunately, when he kindly gave me this advice, a rebellious troublemaker had already been born.
I can’t recall exactly when I entered that rebellious phase—maybe it’s the best way to describe it, though I can’t think of a more precise word.
After starting seventh grade, stepping into an unfamiliar classroom filled with strangers, I suddenly realized I wasn’t as socially skilled as others said I was.
I might even be quite disliked.
It was also then I discovered my own timid nature—I didn’t dare to step outside my comfort zone and just wanted to guard my little patch of safety.
Could this be nostalgia for my elementary school environment, friends, and classmates?
Sometimes, when I think back to the weathered walls of the school building, the small but fully equipped lab building, and the playground, I get the urge to visit my alma mater.
Of course… the images that most often appear in my dreams are carefree days playing with classmates, especially with Zhi Nian.
“We who are growing up can never return to the past.”
That respected middle school teacher often took me to his office for ideological talks.
Although they rarely helped, I could clearly feel his goodwill.
The last time I went to his office was after the end-of-year exams in seventh grade.
He pulled me in because of my plummeting grades, and then said this very sentence.
When I advanced to eighth grade, the school moved to a different building, and after that, I never saw that teacher again.
* * * * *
The blazing summer sun hung high, mercilessly scattering its light across the world.
Everything in sight was bathed in a bright filter, and when a breeze swept by, it felt as if my heart slowly melted away, drifting softly with the wind.
The basketball court was filled with many sounds — footsteps, the scrape of rubber on the floor, shouting, the thud of basketballs, the rattling of the hoop…
But the strongest impression was the pungent smell coming from the newly built running track beside the court.
On the court, running back and forth, weaving between teammates and opponents, a boy wandered about with no rhythm — neither deliberately cooperating with teammates nor actively blocking opponents.
A weirdo lost in his own world.
That was how a middle school classmate who knew me described me.
He often invited me to play basketball and was fascinated by my strange style.
After all, I did score when I had the ball.
Although he advised me many times, I just let his words go in one ear and out the other, letting my body move freely whenever I played.
I wasn’t interested in mastering professional skills; the initial reason I joined the basketball club was simply to kill the endless hours of free time.
Sitting in the bleachers, watching my past memories, many details had long since blurred with time.
Only the boy wandering aimlessly among the crowd on the court stood out vividly.
I rarely had dreams like this — only a handful of times, or perhaps I simply forgot them upon waking.
This kind of dream is very special — it doesn’t show images stitched together by random thoughts, but purely flips through my memories.
It seems to have started appearing only after the cat at my old home passed away; I’m not sure why.
Anyway, whenever I have this kind of dream, I calm down and organize my memories so I can record them in my diary after waking up.
Sometimes, when I encounter particularly rich dreams, I unconsciously immerse myself in them and relive the experience.
But most of the time, I’m silently evaluating my past self.
* * * * *
Change happens imperceptibly.
I don’t remember when I started letting myself go, hanging out with a messy crowd, neglecting my studies, and even casually agreeing to a girl’s confession.
We never even held hands — just greeted each other when we met every day.
My memory of her is so shallow I almost forgot what she looked like.
In short, it was only after entering ninth grade and becoming more indifferent that I slowly realized what had happened.
After adding the rough outline and feelings of the dream to the end of yesterday’s diary entry, I skimmed through the entire text.
Yesterday was probably the first time I visited Zhi Nian’s home?
I should mark that.
Using a red pen to underline, I suddenly felt a bit amazed that I’m often invited to friends’ homes to hang out, yet I’ve forgotten their names and faces by now.
And it’s only been a few years, sometimes even just one or two.
Completely forgotten.
Am I really someone without a past?
Is every social interaction just a performance?
Forgotten as soon as it’s over?
Pondering this question, I let out a bitter smile and shook my head.
I never take the initiative to maintain past social relationships.
I don’t give out my contact info unless absolutely necessary, nor do I ask for others’ numbers.
Everyone I meet is like a passerby on a journey — helping each other, sharing stories… then parting ways.
But now, I still have Zhi Nian.
She’s still holding my hand, walking beside me, even though I’m not sure yet if I want to be with her or what exactly our relationship is.
* * * * *
“Gu Fan! Breakfast is ready!”
It’s a Saturday morning.
Mom woke up late and didn’t have much time to prepare a fancy breakfast.
My guess?
Probably sandwiches and milk.
I closed my diary, put it in the drawer, and went to the dining room.
Sure enough.
After breakfast, Mom grabbed her bag and rushed out the door, muttering, “I’m going to be late, I’m going to be late.”
Mom really… needs a dozen alarms just to wake her up from her heavy sleep.
I quietly sipped my milk, seeing Dad sitting on the sofa holding the newspaper, smiling and saying if she really can’t make it on time, she should just ask for leave and rest at home.
Ah… such clueless parents.
I quickly finished my breakfast, slipped on my sneakers, and headed for the door.
I told Dad I was going out for a bit, and he just raised an eyebrow and nodded—didn’t say a word.
It’s not that Dad doesn’t care about me; that’s just how he is.
The only person I know who’d take a day off on a sunny weekday just to sit by a little river and fish leisurely is him.
In a way, I guess my current laid-back attitude is inherited from Dad.
* * * * *
Walking among the crisscrossing streets, shops of all kinds lined the roads.
I didn’t go inside any of them—just paused here and there to watch for a while.
Wandering around like this feels kind of novel.
It’s been a while since I went out alone just for a walk.
Saying it was on a whim feels a bit far-fetched.
I reached out and plucked a morning glory from the roadside, twirling it between my fingers.
That dream, plus the conversation with Zhi Nian’s mother, left me with a faint but growing sense of unease.
What am I really afraid of?
Is it something physical or mental?
Am I just scaring myself, or is there really something to be cautious about?
I don’t have answers to these questions for now.
So I decided to step out of my comfort zone in a way that’s not too risky—not because of a friend’s invitation, nor a family request—but by wandering outdoors alone.
That seemed like the best choice.
Lost in thought as I walked, I happened to pass by my old middle school.
Maybe because the senior students were attending classes, the gates were open.
But the security guard was someone I didn’t recognize—a stranger, a middle-aged man.
I stood at the gate for a moment before continuing down the street.
Ahead was a small food street.
The school cafeteria was pretty bad, so most students came here to grab a bite.
But I didn’t feel like eating.
While walking, someone suddenly called out to me.
Turning around, I saw a young guy running a hand-pancake stall—probably a student doing a part-time job.
“Gu Fan! Long time no see, how have you been lately?”