I Promise to Walk With You for Half of my Life’s Journey - Chapter 24

December arrived.

Persistent low-grade fevers and stomach pain had caused An Chuxin to lose a significant amount of weight. One morning, she pushed open her dormitory door and found a crude ceramic bowl placed at the entrance. Inside were several warm potatoes, roasted until their skins were blackened, resting on a clean leaf. There was no signature.

During the break between classes that day, she noticed Lhamo, a girl who was usually taciturn and always had high-altitude blushes on her cheeks, stealing several glances at her. After class, Lhamo lingered until everyone else had left and whispered, “Teacher, the potatoes were roasted by my mother. She said that if you eat them, your stomach will stop hurting.”

An Chuxin froze. Watching Lhamo’s receding figure, she felt her throat tighten as she clutched the potato that was still radiating warmth. This was not the kind of repayment or gratitude she had imagined; it was a more primitive form of being “seen.” Lhamo and her mother had noticed her discomfort and expressed their concern in the most direct way they knew how.

That night, she no longer forced herself to eat the repetitive meals from the cafeteria. She carefully peeled away the charred skin and took a bite. It was hot, carrying a smoky aroma that scratched her throat as she swallowed, yet it miraculously soothed her aching stomach. She suddenly understood that what she had been trying to give might not be what this place needed, while what this place silently offered her might be exactly what she lacked.

She began to change. No longer obsessed with innovative teaching formats, she started with the basics: ensuring every child could pronounce words correctly and write strokes accurately. Noticing that Dolma was sensitive to colors, she gave the girl her own colored pencils and encouraged her to “imagine the gray houses as colorful ones.”

She stopped trying to change Yangzong’s father’s mind. Instead, she hiked to Yangzong’s home every few days. She did not pressure her to return to school; she simply taught her a few characters and told stories about the world beyond the mountains. Sometimes, Yangzong would walk with her along the mountain path for a while before silently heading back.

During a handicraft demonstration on how to use scissors safely, Dolma accidentally cut her hand. As the girl cried uncontrollably, Chuxin quickly bandaged the wound and held her in her arms to comfort her. Dolma noticed the scar on Chuxin’s hand and pointed to the back of her palm. “Teacher, this looks like a river.”

“It is a scar,” An Chuxin replied calmly, showing it to her. “I got it from an injury a long time ago.”

“Did it hurt?”

“It did, but it does not hurt anymore. It simply tells me that I was wounded here and that I have healed,” An Chuxin said.

The children did not fully understand, but Dolma said, “Look, I am going to have a little river here too! Teacher, my scar will heal as well, right?”

“Yes, little one. You must stay strong.”

At the end of December, the high-altitude nights were bone-chilling. Sitting by the hearth, An Chuxin received a letter from Cheng Sutong. It read: “I see leaves falling into the mud, and you touch sand gathering into a desert. They both say that time has a shape and waiting has substance. Love, An.”

For sand to gather into a desert, it requires billions of grains and immense time. For leaves to become mud, it requires decay and patience. What about the understanding and connection between people? She drew the crude ceramic bowl and the roasted potatoes in her diary, writing beside them:

December 24, Sunny and Cold. Received potatoes.

The sand says: Waiting has substance.

The potato says: Care has a shape.

Perhaps my first year here was not about learning how to teach in a remote area, but learning how to be slowly and truly accepted by this land and its people.

She closed her diary as the fire dimmed. The heart that had been suspended in mid-air for months finally seemed to find a level surface where it could temporarily rest.

Later, Zhao Xiaoyu’s unrequited crush ended quietly when the boy found a girlfriend. Late that night, Zhao Xiaoyu cried on Cheng Sutong’s shoulder until she was out of breath. “Tongtong, am I very inferior? Why does he not like me?”

Cheng Sutong patted her back. She thought of An Chuxin and remembered her standing on Mount Qingwu with red-rimmed eyes, saying, “I want your full six years.” That was a form of self-sacrificing letting go. Compared to the pain measured in years, her friend’s heartbreak was like an acute fever or a common cold that would eventually heal.

However, she could not say “it is nothing.” Instead, she whispered, “It is not your fault. You are simply walking on different paths that happened to cross once before moving apart.”

Zhao Xiaoyu sobbed, “What about you, Tongtong? You never seem to worry about these things.”

Cheng Sutong’s fingers paused on Zhao Xiaoyu’s back as moonlight leaked through the gap in the curtains. “Me?” she said, her voice drifting. “My path is quite long. It is so long that I do not have time to stop and grieve over a single crossroads.”

The words were too deep for Zhao Xiaoyu to understand, but her crying gradually subsided.

Cheng Sutong joined the art club and was occasionally dragged to the drama club by Lin Wei for guest appearances. She had zero interest in the power struggles or resource competition within the clubs; she viewed them as children fighting over toys. Instead, she would sit quietly in the corner and draw sketches.

During a rehearsal for the play Thunderstorm, the girl playing Sifeng broke down in tears after being repeatedly criticized by the director for failing to deliver an emotional outburst. The onlookers exchanged glances. The director, a junior, had high artistic standards but was also quick-tempered.

Cheng Sutong put down her sketchbook and walked over to crouch in front of the weeping girl. “Have some water,” she said, handing over her thermos.

The girl sobbed and looked up. “I just cannot act it well. I have never been in love, so I do not know what it feels like to love so despairingly.”

Cheng Sutong looked into her eyes. What does it feel like to love to the point of despair? She remembered lying on the operating table, her last thought before the anesthesia took effect: If I do not wake up, will An Chuxin…

She could not say that aloud. “Imagine,” Cheng Sutong said calmly, “that you possess something more precious than your life. It is not gold, jewels, or a dream, but a person. Yet you know you could lose the ability to protect her at any moment, or even put her in danger. That feeling of wanting to hold on tight while being forced to let go is Sifeng’s love for Zhou Ping; it is also her rebellion against fate.”

The girl was stunned, tears still clinging to her lashes. Cheng Sutong stood up and said to the director, “Give her ten minutes.”

Later, the girl performed exceptionally well. After the scene, she ran to find Cheng Sutong. “Tongtong, you were right! I feel like I finally grasped it!”

Cheng Sutong simply smiled. She knew she had told a lie; she had not been describing Sifeng, but herself and An Chuxin. She had transformed a private, heavy truth into a “performance technique” that others could understand and use. It was a gentle form of cheating.

The club president later approached her. “Cheng Sutong, you have great insight. Do you want to try being an assistant director? Or at least come by more often?”

Cheng Sutong shook her head. “I am just an observer. I am not suited for participating.”

“An observer?” the president asked, puzzled. “Then what have you observed?”

Cheng Sutong looked at the young, dedicated faces in the rehearsal hall, arguing over a single line or a stage position. They were so earnest in portraying the tragedies of others, yet they were oblivious to the fact that the youth they were currently experiencing was itself a grand, authentic drama that could never be replayed.

“I observed,” she said softly, “that everyone is seriously ‘living,’ even if it is only within a fictional story. That in itself is wonderful.”

The president did not fully understand. However, Cheng Sutong knew this was the entire meaning of her participation: to witness these vivid lives, untainted by the shadow of illness and death, burning so brightly.

Being able to enjoy university life was a privilege. It was not as hurried or exhausting as high school; there was plenty of free time and money to spend. It was a unique, comfortable period of life. Sutong loved her bright and flamboyant self. The next day, after finishing her classes, she went to dye her hair red. She did not need to ask anyone for permission, confidently believing she could handle any style.

This confidence came from the good looks her parents had given her. Cheng Xia had been a handsome man in his youth, and while her mother’s looks were not stunning, she was above average. Sutong could switch between a gentle look and a “sweet-cool” style at will.

When she returned to the dormitory, her roommates teased her. They no longer called her Sutong or Tongtong; instead, they shouted, “Hey, Redhead!” or “Little Red Monster!”

Sutong was not annoyed. They were all smiling, and there was no malice in their words.

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