In our sophomore year of high school, we thought the days were still long, but in fact it was just a long goodbye.
In the row near the window of the classroom, Lin Yu was always changing plasters. The faint smell of mint mixed with the chalk dust was her secret to fighting pain. Chen Yu's school uniform cuffs are always spotless, and the way he frowns while remembering his name is like the ridiculous seriousness unique to that age. Xu Zhiyao's shiny earrings occasionally flashed in the boring afternoon, reminding us that she still carries a little bit of inappropriate pride.
At that time, the pages of Song Yanqing's book were turning loudly, Wei Ming was lying on the table drooling, and Jiang Yue was hiding behind thick glasses and copying the lyrics. We also crowded in the corridor to enjoy the breeze between classes, discussing whether to climb over the wall to buy fried noodles after evening self-study. We also sweated the thin paper when we handed out the test paper.
We are all waiting for the end of get out of class, waiting for school to be over, waiting to grow up. But no one knows that those desks heated by the sun, those blackboards filled with formulas and then erased, those dust flying in the sunset, are the golden age that we can never go back to.
Write down the texture and temperature of contemporary high school life. It does not tell the myth of counterattack, nor does it exaggerate the unnecessary pain. It just records honestly: In that classroom, we complained about being "bored to death" while clumsily and forcefully exhausted our youth.
This is a book written for all readers who have experienced the "Chinese-style senior year of high school". If you remember the feeling of the pen tip grinding against your fingertips, the heart palpitations when watching your ranking drop, and the emptiness under the streetlight at the end of evening study, then this book is an epitaph and hymn written for you.
Intention: In the roar of collectivism, listen to the crisp sound of individual bone growth.
This book is not intended to praise struggle, nor is it just about accusing pressure, but it is an attempt to capture the trajectory of every soul trying to "slightly deviate" under the huge inertia during those three years - that is the wavering revealed by Chen Yu in the 0.1 Second pause of the red pen, the breath that Lin Yu let out in the gap of pain, and the little bit of self-esteem that Xu Zhiyao regained after losing everything. The reason why dust is worth writing about is because every particle has struggled to fly.
