I Promise to Walk With You for Half of my Life’s Journey - Chapter 8

At half-past five in the afternoon, the school bell was completely drowned out by the sound of rushing footsteps and laughter in the corridor. Cheng Sutong’s movements as she packed her bag were a beat slower than everyone else’s. This was both a habit and a necessity; she preferred to wait for the crowd to disperse before heading downstairs.

Today, she planned to take a walk around the track before heading home.

The synthetic track glowed a dark red under the setting sun, and the air carried that unique scent belonging to early summer evenings.

Why is An Chuxin there?

The teacher had arrived a few minutes earlier than Cheng Sutong and was walking unhurriedly along the innermost white line of the track. Her steps were even, her back was perfectly straight, and she sometimes held a folded lesson plan in her hand, while other times she held nothing at all.

During their first “chance encounter,” Cheng Sutong felt somewhat flustered. She stopped at the entrance of the track with her small backpack, looking at the figure not far away. She hesitated between speeding up to catch up or slowing down to maintain her distance.

At that moment, An Chuxin turned her head. Their eyes met, and she gave a brief nod as a greeting before turning back to continue her path.

Cheng Sutong pursed her lips and stepped onto the track. She did not dare to walk in the inner lane, choosing instead the second lane from the outside. A single white curved line and a distance of about six or seven meters separated them.

They were like two celestial bodies moving along their own fixed orbits, following a certain pattern—neither drawing closer nor drifting further apart. Cheng Sutong divided her attention between the ground beneath her feet and the silhouette in front of her. She noticed that An Chuxin’s shoulders hardly swayed when she walked; her stride was remarkably stable.

By the third time they met like this, An Chuxin suddenly slowed her pace as Cheng Sutong stepped onto the track. She did not look back, but Cheng Sutong felt it was a silent invitation. After a moment of hesitation, she quickened her pace, reducing the gap from seven meters to about three or four, though she remained on her side of the lane line.

“Teacher An, do you… do you also enjoy walking?” Cheng Sutong asked awkwardly.

“Yes, I come here sometimes,” An Chuxin replied. Cheng Sutong softly murmured an “Oh,” and the conversation lapsed into silence.

A while later, as they reached the curve, a dusty sparrow suddenly darted out from the grass. It flapped its wings and flew low between them. Cheng Sutong instinctively paused, and An Chuxin stopped as well. Separated by the white line, they both watched the sparrow disappear into the trees on the other side.

“It seems to be in more of a hurry than we are,” Cheng Sutong said quietly.

An Chuxin turned her head to look at her. The setting sun cast a soft, warm golden glow over her cool profile.

“Yes,” she responded.

She then resumed her pace, and Cheng Sutong followed.

As time went on, their walks occasionally featured brief, awkward conversations, usually initiated by Cheng Sutong about trivial matters.

“The braised pork with potatoes in the cafeteria today had about two more pieces of meat than yesterday.”

“Yes, the supplier changes on Thursdays.”

“The method Teacher Liu used for the final math problem seemed different from the one you mentioned last time.”

“Different paths lead to the same destination. As long as the result is correct, it is fine.”

“I heard there is a physical examination next month.”

“It is just a routine check. Do not be nervous.”

An Chuxin’s answers were always concise and pragmatic, but Cheng Sutong gradually began to discern subtle differences in her flat tone. For instance, when she said “different paths,” there was a hint of relaxation in her voice. When she mentioned “do not be nervous,” those words were spoken slightly slower than usual.

One evening, when the wind was particularly strong, Cheng Sutong’s hair became disheveled. As she reached up to smooth it, the two books she was holding accidentally slipped. They hit the track with a loud thud and rolled right to An Chuxin’s feet.

An Chuxin stopped, leaned over to pick them up, and noticed several sticky notes tucked between the pages. She patted off the dust and walked directly into the outer lane where Cheng Sutong was standing to hand the books back.

“The wind is strong. Hold them firmly,” she said.

As Cheng Sutong took the books, her fingertips brushed against An Chuxin’s knuckles. An Chuxin did not immediately return to the inner lane. Instead, she walked beside Cheng Sutong. They walked half a lap in silence, and neither of them mentioned the line that had been crossed.

It was only when they reached the shaded side of the track and the wind died down that An Chuxin walked back to the inner boundary.

From then on, their walking pattern became fixed. Most of the time, they stayed in their respective lanes, but occasionally on a straight stretch or when the wind blew, An Chuxin would step into the outer lane to walk side-by-side for a short distance.

Cheng Sutong began to look forward to these brief moments of proximity. She would secretly use her peripheral vision to measure the distance of less than a foot between their arms. She noticed the wear on An Chuxin’s heels and caught glimpses of her pale collarbone where her shirt collar was slightly open. Sutong would swallow hard and immediately shift her gaze.

When the walks ended, they usually parted ways at the school gate. An Chuxin would remind her to “be careful on the road,” and Cheng Sutong would reply with a “Goodbye, Teacher.”

Cheng Sutong never looked back, but An Chuxin would sometimes stand still, watching her walk into the distance.

The rainy night arrived without warning.

At ten o’clock on Thursday night, as Cheng Sutong was doing her homework, her phone screen suddenly lit up. It was a direct call from a number she had long since memorized, despite having no contact name for it.

She answered, “Teacher An?”

There was only suppressed breathing and the sound of torrential rain outside the window on the other end. Raindrops hammered against the glass.

“Teacher An?” Cheng Sutong asked again, her heart beginning to throb with unease.

“It is… nothing,” An Chuxin’s voice finally came through. It was so hoarse she was almost unrecognizable. “I dialed the wrong number.”

But Cheng Sutong heard something else in that voice—something breaking and collapsing.

“Where are you?” Cheng Sutong asked, already standing up to put on her jacket.

“The office,” An Chuxin said, before adding, “Do not come over. The rain is too heavy.”

The call disconnected.

Cheng Sutong stood still, holding her phone and listening to the busy signal. The rain outside grew heavier, and lightning flashed across the night sky, followed seconds later by rolling thunder.

She did not hesitate. She grabbed her umbrella and rushed into the rain.

The bike ride from her home to the school took fifteen minutes. The streets were almost deserted on such a rainy night, and the streetlights blurred into hazy yellow circles through the curtain of rain. Cheng Sutong rode fast, the water soaking her pant legs and hair as the cold seeped through the fabric.

Yet, she did not feel the cold. She thought only of the broken voice on the phone and the image of An Chuxin sitting alone in her office.

She cannot be alone, the thought echoed in Cheng Sutong’s mind. Tonight, she cannot be alone.

It was half-past ten by the time she reached the school. The teaching building was pitch black, except for a light in the third-floor Physics office. Cheng Sutong locked her bike and ran inside. The voice-activated lights in the corridor flickered on with her footsteps, casting her hurried, moving shadow against the walls.

The office door was slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of light. Cheng Sutong pushed it open gently.

An Chuxin was sitting at her desk with her back to the door. Her computer screen was lit up with complex medical documents and a transfer interface. Several payment receipts were scattered on the desk, the amounts on each one more shocking than the last. She held her head with one hand while the other gripped the mouse.

Upon hearing the door, she quickly closed the window and turned around. When she saw the soaking wet Cheng Sutong, her pupils contracted.

“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice even raspier than it had been on the phone.

“The rain was too heavy,” Cheng Sutong said, closing the door as she walked in. “I came to… get a notebook I left behind.”

It was a clumsy excuse, and both of them knew it.

An Chuxin stared at her for a few seconds before looking back at the computer screen. “The notebooks are in the second cabinet on the left.”

Cheng Sutong did not go for the notebook. She walked to the desk and looked at the scattered documents. Hospitalization fees, surgery costs, medication expenses, and caregiver fees—each one was stamped with a red “Urgent” seal.

She silently began to organize them, categorizing the documents, placing the ones requiring signatures on one side and the ones that could be deferred on the other. Her movements were too practiced for a high school student; this was a skill her twenty-three-year-old soul had learned while caring for herself when she was ill.

An Chuxin watched her without speaking. The office was filled only with the sound of rain and the rustling of paper.

“This one,” Cheng Sutong said, pulling out a form, “is eligible for a critical illness medical subsidy. You need to go to the community center to get a certification.”

“This one is a list of materials needed for a commercial insurance claim. You are missing the third and fifth items.”

“This medication,” she pointed to a receipt, “has a domestic substitute. The effect is similar, but the price is one-third. I can… help you ask about it.”

She spoke calmly and steadily.

An Chuxin remained silent. She simply watched Cheng Sutong, watching the rainwater drip from the girl’s hair to form a small puddle on the floor, and watching her focus intently on the documents that felt so hopeless.

After a long time, An Chuxin spoke softly.

“How do you know all of this?”

Cheng Sutong’s hand paused. “I…”

An Chuxin did not ask again. She looked at Cheng Sutong with a complex expression.

The rain outside began to let up, turning from a downpour into a light drizzle. Cheng Sutong finished organizing the last document, stacked them neatly, and secured them with a paperclip. Then, she looked up and met An Chuxin’s gaze.

They looked at each other across the desk. Something was flowing through the air—silent yet soft.

“Teacher An,” Cheng Sutong spoke first, “are you… staying here overnight?”

An Chuxin shook her head. “I will go home once the rain stops a bit more.”

“Then…” Cheng Sutong hesitated. “Have you eaten?”

The question made An Chuxin freeze for a moment. She glanced at the time in the bottom right corner of the computer: 10:45 PM. She had eaten nothing but half a cup of coffee since noon.

“I am not hungry,” she replied habitually.

Cheng Sutong looked at her and said nothing. An Chuxin looked away, her fingers unconsciously rubbing the edge of the desk as silence spread between them.

“Cheng Sutong,” An Chuxin suddenly said her name.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She spoke those two words softly, but every syllable was clear. It was a genuine expression of gratitude between equals.

Cheng Sutong’s heart thudded heavily. She looked into An Chuxin’s eyes, which were usually so calm and self-contained.

“You are welcome,” she whispered.

An Chuxin stood up and walked to the window with her back to Cheng Sutong. The city lights flickered in the night air after the rain.

“My mother,” she suddenly began, “has a brain tumor. It is terminal. The doctor said that without surgery, she has three months at most. With surgery… the risk is high, and it requires a vast sum of money.”

Cheng Sutong saw her shoulders trembling slightly.

“My father passed away a long time ago. I do not have much contact with my relatives,” An Chuxin continued. “So, it can only be me. Working, saving money, caregiving, making decisions… I am all alone.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” An Chuxin’s voice dropped even lower, “what would happen if I were to collapse too?”

Cheng Sutong stood up and walked behind her. She did not touch her, but simply stood there with her, looking out at the night.

“You will not collapse,” Cheng Sutong said firmly. “Because you are strong.”

An Chuxin gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Strong? I just… have no choice.”

“That is also fine,” Cheng Sutong said. “Only those with no choice will keep moving forward.”

An Chuxin turned to look at her. They looked at each other in the dim light of the desk lamp. They were close—so close they could see the reflected light in each other’s pupils.

“Are you the same?” An Chuxin asked. “You have no choice, so you keep moving forward?”

Cheng Sutong was silent for a few seconds before nodding. “Yes.”

That simple word admitted so many things: her loneliness, her exhaustion, and her destiny to only move forward in this misplaced world.

Outside, the rain had stopped completely, and the clouds dispersed.

“I should go back now,” Cheng Sutong said.

“I will walk you out.”

“There is no need. The rain has stopped.”

“I will walk you to the school gate,” An Chuxin said firmly.

They went downstairs together, their footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. The voice-activated lights turned on and off as they passed.

An Chuxin stood under the streetlight at the school gate, her figure looking quite fragile. She raised her hand and gave a slight wave.

Cheng Sutong waved back and then turned to continue her way home.

Once she was home, she took out the tiny note that said “Do not let it get wet” and placed it together with the note An Chuxin had given her today.

Two notes, two sets of handwriting, one person.

Cheng Sutong looked at them for a long time before carefully tucking them into her diary. As she closed the book, she gently traced the raised patterns on the cover.

Tomorrow would be a sunny day.

She knew this because An Chuxin would surely send her a text message in the morning to tell her. And she would reply: “Okay, thank you.”

Then, a new day would begin, bringing with it the sunlight, the text message, and the silent drawing closer that was slowly encroaching upon their respective worlds.

Cheng Sutong lay in bed and closed her eyes. Just before falling into a deep sleep, she remembered the way An Chuxin had looked at her tonight.

It turned out that she, too, could be fragile.

It turned out that she, too, could be in need.

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