On the junior high school report card, his name was always in front of mine. I wrote his name all over the back of the draft paper, imitating his fierceness with my pen, like a silent pursuit.
On the entrance day of high school, he stopped by my desk with a collection of exercises in his arms and said with a smile, "I still haven't gotten rid of you." Before I could answer, he sat down next to me, and the cuffs of his school uniform swept across my textbook, causing a soft sound.
In the evening self-study, his physics wrong question book was spread out, with red pen marking it neatly. When I was working on a math problem, I caught a glimpse of the corner of his scratch paper - my initials were circled, like a response to the small asterisk I drew next to his name in junior high school.
During the mock exam for the third grade of junior high school, he once knocked on the scratch paper I had written his name on: "Next time, let me find you on the second line."
It turns out that that few points of difference was never a distance, but a code for him to wait for me to stand side by side.
Intention: Go in both directions