The cicadas had changed their song. Their summer chorus no longer danced over the pond but over the streets of the small town, where Gu Ye walked with his backpack slung over one shoulder.
The scent of freshly mown grass mixed with dust, heavy in the afternoon heat, reminded him of something he tried not to think about: a pond, sunlight on water, laughter he had not heard in years.
Middle school was different now. The hallways buzzed with voices, lockers clanging, sneakers squeaking. Gu Ye kept his head low, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed ahead.
He had friends—or at least people who called him a friend—but none of them ever noticed when he smiled faintly, remembered something only he and Luo Bingyuan had shared.
"Hey, Gu Ye!" A voice called from behind him. He turned to see Liu Wei waving, backpack bouncing on one shoulder. "You coming to the rooftop today?"
"I… yeah, maybe later," he said. His voice was polite, calm, almost indifferent. He forced a nod, but inside, a hollow echo pulsed—the sort of echo that had lived in him since the day she disappeared.
The rooftop. He knew it well. Most kids went there to eat lunch, gossip, or hide from teachers. Gu Ye went there sometimes too—but not for them. He went to sit quietly and remember. The memory always came uninvited: the pond, her hair plastered with mud, her laugh so pure it made his chest ache.
He pushed open the metal door to the stairs, the smell of paint and concrete filling his nose. His footsteps echoed as he climbed. When he reached the top, the wind was stronger, brushing over his face like a cool reminder that the world moved on even when he hadn't.
He sat on the ledge, legs dangling over the side, and watched the town spread beneath him.
A paper plane drifted past his head. He reached out instinctively, catching it between his fingers. Inside, someone had scrawled a joke, a doodle. Gu Ye smiled faintly, folding it and dropping it to the ground. Small distractions, meaningless—they couldn't touch what he felt.
He thought about the pond again. About her. About the promise. That tiny, impossible vow he had forced her into without fully understanding it. He clenched his fists in his lap.
She said she'd be with me… and then she vanished. The memory hurt less like a sharp cut now and more like a hollow weight pressing on his chest, reminding him every day that he had waited alone.
Part 2: The Weight of Waiting
The bell rang, a shrill sound that pulled him back.
Other students laughed, crowded around the stairwell, rushing to their next class. Gu Ye stood, slinging his backpack fully over both shoulders, and followed the tide of students—but his eyes drifted toward the sky.
Clouds moved in lazy formations, and somewhere beyond the rooftops, he imagined her face, her shy smile, the promise that had anchored his childhood.
No one noticed. No one ever did. And that, more than anything else, had become his constant companion: the weight of waiting in silence, the ache of a memory that refused to fade.
The bell for lunch had just rung, and the hallways erupted into the usual chaos. Gu Ye moved with the flow of students, backpack snug against his shoulders, hands clenched slightly in the straps. The noise didn't bother him—it never had—but it didn't reach him either. It was like watching a river rush past while standing on dry land, close enough to feel the movement, too distant to touch.
"Gu Ye! Over here!" Liu Wei waved him toward a table near the edge of the cafeteria. Around the table were other classmates—mostly chatter, a few laughs, a slice of carefree adolescence Gu Ye didn't share. He approached, nodded politely, and took the seat offered without speaking much.
"Did you see the basketball match yesterday?" one of the boys asked, tossing a half-eaten sandwich aside.
"I… I didn't," Gu Ye said. His voice was calm, flat, as if the question were background noise rather than conversation.
"You always miss everything," Liu Wei said, grinning. "Don't you want to… you know… join in sometimes?"
Gu Ye tilted his head slightly, considering it, but the truth was already clear to him: none of this could fill the space she had left. "Not really," he said, simple and firm. No elaboration. He wasn't cruel, just precise, boundaries already forming even now.
He watched them laugh, joked, elbowed each other, shared snacks. He joined in only enough to avoid suspicion, a ghost of participation. He could smile, even laugh, but it always felt thin, like a paper mask over the hollow in his chest.
After lunch, he stepped out into the courtyard. The sun was high, warm, glaring down on the rooftops and dusty paths. Students spilled into the open air, shouting, kicking balls, chasing each other.
Gu Ye wandered past them, slow, deliberate. He didn't run, didn't compete, didn't even glance at the pond on the edge of town—though he thought of it anyway.
Sometimes, when he was alone like this, he imagined her waiting at the water's edge, hair messy, eyes sparkling, hands smeared with mud. That image, alive in his mind, kept him tethered to a childhood promise no one else remembered, no one else could understand.
By mid-afternoon, the heat became oppressive. Gu Ye found an empty classroom with the windows open, curtains fluttering in the breeze.
He sat by the windowsill, knees drawn up, hands resting lightly on his thighs. Outside, the trees swayed lazily, birds calling intermittently.
He pulled out a small notebook, one he had kept hidden in his bag for years. The pages were filled with sketches, notes, and little reminders—memories of her, of the pond, of the day she promised him something that had changed everything.
The shadows stretched longer across the room. Sunlight streaked through the glass, dust motes floating lazily, catching the light. Gu Ye closed the notebook gently, resting his forehead against his knees.
The noise of the world outside continued without pause, oblivious to the boy who carried a hollow weight, a memory that refused to fade.
Even as his classmates called out to each other, laughed, ran, and lived without concern, Gu Ye stayed quiet. He didn't hate them, didn't resent them. He simply… waited. For her. For the impossible. For a promise made in water, mud, and sunlight, that he intended to hold onto, no matter what the years brought.
And in that waiting, he began to understand something: life would move on around him, friends would come and go, laughter would fill empty spaces—but he would never be the same boy he was before the pond, before the promise.
He would grow. He would endure. But he would never forget.
Part 3: The Years Between
The years passed like water flowing over stones—smooth, relentless, impossible to stop.
Middle school brought routine, lessons, and the steady accumulation of small victories. Gu Ye excelled quietly: his grades were near the top of every class, his athletic ability modest but consistent, and he gained a reputation among teachers as disciplined, reliable, and unshakably composed.
He had friends—not many, but enough to share lunch with, discuss homework, and sometimes play casual basketball after class. Yet the laughter of these days always felt a step removed, a surface he could touch but never immerse himself in.
High school stretched the same pattern over longer corridors, heavier textbooks, and more complicated social circles. Gu Ye continued to excel academically, winning several science competitions and a regional mathematics award that made his parents beam with pride.
He maintained a few close friends—Liu Wei among them—but never allowed anyone in close enough to bridge the hollow that had existed since the pond.
Romance never tempted him. Occasionally, classmates—mostly girls from his grade—flirted, asked him out, or teased him with obvious interest. He was polite, sometimes teasing back, but never engaged in anything meaningful.
His heart, locked in a past he could neither release nor rewrite, reserved itself for someone who had long vanished.
By the time graduation rolled around, Gu Ye had established himself as one of the top students in his school. Awards and certificates filled his walls, but none of it carried the weight he felt the day Luo Bingyuan disappeared.
Achievements were trophies he couldn't share with the person he had waited for. Even his closest friends—those he had laughed and argued with, those who had once played basketball on the same court—could never replace her.
And so he arrived at college carrying all of it: knowledge, accolades, friendships, but also a hollow certainty that his heart would remain empty until that promise was answered.
First Day at University
The campus sprawled before him like a miniature city, brick buildings rising against the crisp morning sky. Students hustled along the paths, talking in bursts, carrying backpacks and coffee cups.
Gu Ye walked calmly, shoulders squared, backpack snug on both shoulders. He had memorized the map the night before, traced the paths, noted the lecture halls and dormitories.
Everything precise, everything under control—except for the flicker of anticipation in his chest.
He paused briefly near a construction site. A new building was going up, scaffolding stretching skyward, steel beams stacked and ready. Workers shouted instructions, and the smell of fresh concrete mingled with machine oil and dust.
Gu Ye stepped carefully around the piles of materials, unaware that the day was about to end him in an instant.
As he reached the edge of the path, a miscalculated swing of a steel rebar, heavy and unyielding, came loose. For the briefest fraction of a second, Gu Ye saw the beam falling directly toward him, time slowing as his mind processed the absurdity of it.
The world erupted in chaos—shouts, screeching metal, dust in his eyes—but Gu Ye barely had time to blink.
Then, darkness.