Jiang Zhizhi's cello is her only language.
Her mother placed all her expectations on her - to be admitted to the best music conservatory, to become the youngest cellist, and to fulfill her mother's unfulfilled dream.
She has no weekends, no friends, no time for herself.
The only luxury is to sneak past the basketball court every day after school.
Because Xiao Yuan is there.
The sun fell on his raised face, and the sweat reflected the tiny light. He and his teammates were laughing and running, and the whole person was so bright that it was hard to open your eyes.
Ranked first in grade, top in science, "Capital Medical University" is written neatly in the application column.
He was so dazzling that she felt guilty even taking another look at him.
And she was just an art student carrying a piano case and walking by with her head down, silent and gray, like a shadow in the piano room that would never be noticed.
Xiao Yuan doesn't know who she is.
He didn't even know why there was always a bottle of his favorite sports drink near the window of the piano room.
Little did he know that before every exam, there would be a handwritten note on the key points of music theory on his desk - organized into a mind map in a way that he could understand.
I don't know that the girl who is always the last to leave the piano room will freeze on the music stand for three seconds every time she hears cheers coming from the direction of the basketball court.
In the second semester of her senior year of high school, she was forced to perform on stage during the school art festival.
She had a bad poop that day - because she saw him.
He was sitting in the third row of the auditorium, joking with the classmates next to him and not looking at the stage at all.
She stared down at the strings and played the last note softly and tremblingly.
After the concert, she found a note on the ground at the door of the piano room, pressed by the piano case:
"Classmate, there is something in your piano sound. I guess you are too tired. Go to bed early. - A passerby"
No signature, no signature.
But she recognized the handwriting - it was his handwriting on the honor roll.
She clutched the note and sat in the piano room until dark, tears dripping on the strings and leaving a small patch of rust.
What happened next?
Later he went to Beijing and she was admitted to the Conservatory of Music in the provincial capital.
She never saw him again or drank sports drinks.
Later, the note was tucked into the deepest part of the music score. It had been pressed for ten years, and the edges of the paper had turned yellow.
Sometimes she still thinks of that afternoon when the sun filled the court, and the way he raised his face and smiled after he made a three-pointer.
At that time she was thinking
Some people are born to be the rest of others.
Stop here, that's enough.
Intention: Some people appear not to stay, but to tell you what light is like.