Just a Secret Love

"Duan Qingwen!" Sorry, is it Duan Wenqing? "That's not right, Duan Qingwen is on this list." The student in charge of registration frowned and made a tiny sound with his fingertips on the paper. At the other end of the corridor, Duan Qingwen came over with a glass of water in his hands, his steps steady and indifferent, with a rhythm of his own. The sunlight from the window slanted in, bouncing on the tips of his hair, and also fell on his iconic parallelogram eyes - the shape of the eyes was as sharp as something out of a cartoon, with straight ends but gentle arcs hidden at the end. "Classmate, please register." When his hand stretched out, I suddenly froze - the dark brown bracelet on my left wrist was sold to a boy wearing a mask when I was setting up a jewelry stall at the night market last week. At that time, he only had these eyes exposed, and the ends of them were slightly curved, as if he had a careless smile. I stared at those wrists, and my heartbeat suddenly went out of order: it turned out that the person who squatted in front of the stall for a long time and asked me "Will the bracelets fade?" Was my classmate. "Duan Wenqing?" His voice brought me back to reality, "Classmate?" I nodded hurriedly and handed over the pen. His hands were very thin, with clear joints. His fingertips lightly brushed across the paper, and he paused on the string of names before landing on the words "Duan Qingwen". I stared at his movements and remembered that under the warm yellow light of the night market that day, he also lowered his eyes like this, twirling the handstring with his fingertips and looking at it for a long time. It turns out that his name is Duan Qingwen, and my name and my name are like a pair of accidentally misplaced words. "Thank you." After he finished writing, he turned to leave. The sound of the water glasses clinking was mixed with the noise in the corridor. I looked at his back. The hem of his school uniform jacket swayed slightly with his steps, and the end of his hair was soaked in the warmth of the sun. The registered classmate was still complaining that "the name is too similar", but I was distracted - when his fingertips ran across the paper just now, I smelled the faint lemon fragrance on his sleeves, which was exactly the same as when he stood in front of my booth that day. Until the last day of the semester, the corridor was filled with the sound of packing school bags. He walked by holding the carton, and I finally mustered up the courage to stop him: "Duan Qingwen, did you buy your bracelet at the night market?" The wind blew through the street, blowing the tips of his hair. He looked at me, his eyes filled with the sunshine of the whole summer, and said softly: "I later went to the night market to look for your stall, but I couldn't find it." It turns out that the heartbeat hidden in the details has never been my one-man show. Intention: to write about the ignorant hearts of young boys and girls, and to correctly treat the throbbing of youth