I Won't Stay for You

In November of junior year, the campus mornings were always wrapped in a biting chill.
The sky had not yet fully brightened, and the fog gently veiled the Teaching Building like a thin shroud.
The gray-white outline of the building loomed faintly through the mist, tiny droplets clinging to the window glass, winding down the walls, leaving pale gray streaks as if harboring secrets unwilling to be revealed.
The air was bitterly cold; each breath sent shivers through my nostrils and chest. Even the white breath I exhaled lingered unusually long, hovering briefly before slowly dissolving into the morning fog.
The path beside the Teaching Building was thickly carpeted with ginkgo leaves.
The golden leaves softly cushion the ground beneath my feet, their gentle rustling sounding like a delicate whisper. That sound, fragile and tender, stirs sharp pains within my heart — this path was once Daniel Collins's and my favorite place to walk.
Every year at this season, we would hold hands as we strolled here, bending down to pick a few leaves of beautiful shapes, carefully pressing them between the pages of our textbooks as bookmarks.
He always said the ginkgo leaves were like small fans, capable of fanning away all sorrow, yet now, this carpet of gold weighs heavily upon my heart.
That afternoon, free of classes, sunlight filtered through the sparse clouds, carrying the distinct chill of early winter, casting mottled patterns of light and shadow upon the ground.
Daniel Collins and I walked side by side along Ginkgo Avenue. Occasionally, classmates clutching their books passed by, smiling as they greeted us, but Daniel only offered a perfunctory nod, his lips stiff and strained.
He wore a dark navy coat, its collar standing tall; his hands were buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders tight and tense, his steps noticeably quicker than usual.
The tip of my shoe occasionally kicks up a ginkgo leaf, which twirls once in the air before being swept away by the wind, just like the bond between us slowly drifting apart.
I deliberately slow my steps, the off-white hem of my skirt lightly brushing against the roadside grass, stirring up fine wisps of fluff that cling to the fabric, swaying gently as I walk.
I want to stay with him a little longer, even if only to walk in silence, but he remains completely unaware of my thoughts. His eyes stay fixed on the intersection ahead, as if hurrying toward some urgent matter, completely oblivious to my falling behind.
Unconsciously, a half-meter gap has stretched between us. That slender space is filled with biting wind, chilling the heart, while even the fingertips grow cold.

Over these two years, we have left behind countless memories along this path.
When we first met in freshman year, I mistakenly borrowed the wrong book at the library—I took Introduction to Literature instead of the Fundamentals of Computing he needed.
That book was thick, its cover a dark brown hardback, heavy in my hands.
Clutching the book, I paced nervously back and forth at the library entrance, anxious and afraid he might be angry.
Later, when I finally found him in the Study Room, my face flushed deep crimson, and my words stumbled out: "S-sorry, I accidentally took your book by mistake. If you need it urgently, I can go exchange it now..."
He was not angry; instead, he put down his pen, smiled, and gently ruffled my hair. His voice was as tender as a spring breeze: "It's alright. Perhaps this is fate, giving me a chance to learn more about your major."
That day, he wore a simple white T-shirt. Sunlight streamed through the Study Room window, catching the tips of his hair and bathing them in a faint golden light. Watching him, my heart skipped a beat.
It was only later that I realized he had truly finished reading that thick volume of Introduction to Literature, even filling the blank spaces in the pages with numerous notes.
Some were musings on lines from the text, such as beside 'If only life were as it was at first sight,' where he wrote, 'I hope we always remain as beautiful as when we first met.'Others were hastily drawn crooked little suns; though simple in their strokes, they radiated a deep warmth; There were also a few annotations marked 'This passage reminds me of something I said to Ruby,' with a tiny heart drawn beside them.
When he returned the book to me, those dense notes became my most treasured keepsake from that time.
I placed the book in the most conspicuous spot on my desk, flipping through it whenever I had the chance. Each time I saw those notes, my heart warmed, as if carrying a little sun within.

I still remember when he played on the Basketball Court; I would always go to the supermarket half an hour early to buy chilled mineral water.
Afraid the water would warm, I wrapped the bottle tightly in a clean towel, holding it close to my chest, warming it with my breath. Though the cold seeped into my skin, I couldn't bear to let it go.
When he came off the court, drenched in sweat, he ran over. The stray hairs on his forehead clung tightly to his skin, his cheeks flushed with the afterglow of exertion. Sweat streamed down his face, dripping onto his jersey, spreading a small patch of darker stains.
When he tilted his head back to drink, his Adam's apple moved up and down, sunlight softly caressing his face. That moment always made my heart race. I couldn't help but secretly take out my phone to capture how he drank, storing it in my album as a private treasure.
Once, he twisted his ankle playing basketball; it swelled like a steamed bun, and he walked with a pronounced limp.
I supported him on the way to the infirmary; though he was in pain, he teased, 'See, I can't even walk straight just to see you.'
That day, sunlight filtered through the infirmary window, falling on our entwined hands, warming them so gently I didn't want to let go.
He secretly traced a small circle in the palm of my hand and softly said, "It's truly wonderful to have you here."
When the doctor was applying medicine to her, he gritted his teeth in pain yet still turned to smile at me. That smile, full of reliance, made me feel that being by his side was an especially precious happiness.
During the busiest mealtimes in the canteen, we could always find a corner seat by the window.
From that spot, one could clearly see the plane trees outside: budding in spring, their tender green leaves gently swaying in the wind; providing shade in summer, dense branches blocking the fierce sun; Autumn leaves drift down; golden leaves settle upon the ground, paving a shimmering path of gold. In winter, bare branches reach skyward, exuding a poignant desolation.
Every time he shared a bowl of rice noodles laced with double pickled cabbage, he would always give me all the quail eggs, eating only the greens himself, smiling as he said, 'You should eat more to nourish your brain, or you'll borrow the wrong book again next time.'
Though I teased him for his mockery, my heart was sweetened; I would secretly pick out the shredded meat from the rice noodles for him, and watching him eat with satisfaction brought me happiness too.
Our friends often say we are the most perfect couple on campus.
Whenever the Dorm Supervisor sees us, she always smiles and teases, 'Young lovers going out to eat together again? Did you bring any snacks today?'
Every time I hear this, I hide behind Daniel Collins, silently laughing, my ears quietly flushing red.
He gently slips his arm around my shoulder, his voice as tender as the spring breeze: 'Ms., next time I'll bring some snacks from our hometown for you to try.'
The Dorm Supervisor laughs until her eyes narrow to slits, nodding eagerly: 'Alright, alright, I'll be waiting.'

But after the semester began, Daniel Collins suddenly became busy.
At first, he said the Club was preparing for the welcome party, rehearsing late into the night every day.
I felt sorry for him and occasionally waited downstairs by the Club building, holding warm milk and bread in my hands, hoping to give him some energy.
But each time, after waiting for a long while, all I saw was his hurried back fading away.
He always said without looking back, 'It's too late, you should go home first, don't catch a cold.'
His tone lacked the tenderness it once had, replaced by a trace of indifference, and he didn't even pause his footsteps.
Later, he said that our major course required group projects, necessitating frequent discussions with classmates.
I sent him messages asking if he had eaten on time, if he was resting properly; he replied after long intervals, sometimes not at all.
When he finally did reply, his excuse was always, 'I was busy just now, didn't see your message.' Those simple words struck my heart like cold water, turning my once full hopes instantly empty.
In time, even on weekends, there was no trace of him.
He said he had to go to the Library to research materials, or conduct fieldwork off-campus—one excuse after another—yet never once mentioned bringing me along, nor was he willing to say exactly where he went or with whom.
Every time I try to talk with him or invite him to walk along Ginkgo Avenue as we once did, his eyes always wander restlessly.
Either fixed on the cracks between the paving stones, as if something extraordinary hid within them; Or gazing blankly towards the distant teaching building, his eyes hollow, lost in some unknown thought; seldom now does he look at me with the focused attention he once showed, listening earnestly.
When he speaks, his mind seems elsewhere, his fingers unconsciously tracing the edge of his pocket, sometimes suddenly pulling out his phone for a quick glance before slipping it back swiftly, as if hiding a secret he cannot let me know.
Once, I saw his phone screen light up, displaying the name "Melody Scott," but he quickly pressed it dark, didn't answer the call, nor offered me any explanation.
Once, I could no longer hold back and asked him, "Daniel Collins, is something troubling you? If you're tired, we can rest together—don't push yourself so hard."
But he shook his head, his tone detached, as if speaking of someone else: "No, it's just that I've been too tired lately, a bit drained."
Yet the evasion in his eyes was unmistakable; it was not mere exhaustion, but a refusal to be honest, a silent push to keep me at a distance.

Download the SnackShort app, Search 【 224723 】reads the whole book.

I Won't Stay for You

My Fiction

SnackShort

相关推荐