Leon

Recording what I thought about during a run...

I've been feeling down lately, troubled by the same old issues I've complained about too many times: dissatisfaction with myself, excessive demands on the world, and too many regrets about the past. With finals approaching, the fear of failing has caused me a lot of unnecessary anxiety. Recently, I lost my headphones during a volunteer rehearsal—my beloved AirPods Pro, which I had bought less than a year ago. My mood collapsed because of this; I couldn't believe such bad things could happen to me in succession. I felt like the world was against me...

Most of my pain comes from my own issues, but those close to me inevitably get affected. Having someone who is always gloomy around can impact the mood of others. If I were in their shoes, I would have cut ties long ago. But at that time, I was struggling to keep myself afloat, and thinking about the feelings of those around me only made me feel exhausted. I wished the world could pause for a moment, allowing me to sort through my chaotic thoughts, catch my breath, and quietly shed a few tears. But time doesn't stop; trivial matters come at me like raindrops, and the more I think about them, the deeper I sink, feeling like I can't breathe. So, I decided to distract myself.

Driven by some unknown force, I tidied up my wardrobe, changed my clothes and shoes, and went to the playground to run.

I didn't bring my phone; I only took the MP3 player and wired headphones I used in high school. I put on my headphones, listening to music while walking, but I found the sound of the headphone cord rubbing against my clothes quite uncomfortable. Later, I remembered that when I used to run, I would thread the headphone cord under my clothes to keep it from bouncing around. Upon reaching the playground, the temperature was mild, and the air was still damp from the rain earlier in the day. There were more people on the playground than usual—some walking in small groups, others scattered in the stands. It was graduation season, so I guessed most of them were graduates.

Just like before, I started running from the 100-meter starting line. This habit dates back to my second year of high school. During the school sports meeting, because there weren't enough boys in my class, I had to participate in the boys' 4×100 relay, where I was responsible for the third leg. So, I set the finish line for my laps at the end of the third leg. Every time I reached that last segment, I would sprint through it, making my sprinting distance equivalent to what I needed to run in the race, effectively adapting through daily runs. After taking a few deep breaths, I started running.

First Lap#

I maintained steady breathing and light footsteps. I started running regularly in my second year of high school, specifically in October 2017, but back then, it was just to prepare for the sports meeting. It wasn't until my third year that I began running daily in a more structured way. I can't say it was unwavering, as I would skip running if it was thundering, but aside from that, I insisted on running six laps every day. Usually, I would run after the last class in the afternoon, during the long break we had for dinner, showering, and laundry. If I couldn't run in the afternoon, I would go at noon, and if that didn't work, I would run after evening study sessions. Regardless of the blazing sun or pitch darkness, torrential rain or bone-chilling cold, the mechanical act of exchanging legs on the rubber track, moving forward bit by bit, gave me a sense of peace. The most memorable feeling throughout my senior year was probably the leg pain—most noticeable when going down stairs, carrying assignments, and before bed—followed by fatigue and drowsiness. I remember we still had PE classes, where the teacher mostly let us have free time. Once, I wanted to play soccer with the boys, but on the field, I found I couldn't lift my legs quickly enough to perform any actions. Whenever I tried to change direction quickly while running, my supporting leg's calf and knee would hurt so much that I couldn't hold myself up. After stumbling a few times, I decisively left the field to run on the track. Although my legs still hurt, the stable, slow pain from running was at least within an acceptable range. From then on, I completed my running laps during every PE class. Looking at how I was nearing the end of my first lap now, I didn't feel too tired and couldn't help but feel grateful that I had let go of things for a few years, yet my condition still felt pretty good.

Second Lap#

My breathing began to quicken, and I tried to increase my cadence while shortening my stride. I remembered a roommate who used to run with me; he had a monk-like dedication to his studies. Aside from Detective Conan, he seemed to have no other "extracurricular" interests, and he was well-versed in the humanities and social sciences, basically a living historical timeline and atlas. His level of self-discipline was beyond what most could achieve. I can't recall a time he ever overslept, missed a duty, or failed to submit an assignment. I don't know how many times after class I wanted to skip running because I had unfinished tasks or simply wanted to be lazy, only to hear him say, "Then I'll go by myself," and I would drop what I was doing to catch up with him. I later realized that the things I was reluctant to put down to avoid running had no impact even if I did let them go midway. Looking back now, I think a large part of my ability to maintain that torturous habit was due to him. He didn't perform well on the college entrance exam and ended up studying Chinese at Guangdong University. From the few posts he made on social media, it seemed he also learned Japanese and joined a translation group, sharing photos of his classes at the end of each semester. I still remember running into him after the college entrance exam during a volunteer session, lying on a chair in the auditorium, smiling with his front teeth exposed, as if nothing could make him sad.

Third Lap#

My heart rate suddenly spiked, and I began to struggle for breath. Since starting college, I had hardly run at all, and it seemed impossible to expect to maintain the same condition after years of not running. I recalled a parent-teacher meeting at the beginning of my senior year, where each teacher sat at a table, and parents brought their children to speak with different teachers. It was a hot day, and the classroom was crowded with people coming in and out, the air conditioning couldn't cover the body heat of so many people. I sat with my mom at the history teacher's table, feeling irritated. History was my strong subject, and I didn't think the teacher could offer anything worth listening to; I just wanted to finish quickly and leave. The history teacher looked at my hands, which were constantly tugging at my clothes to fan myself, adjusted her glasses, and said, "WL is very smart," as I expected, "but he's too smart, so he doesn't do well in school." I was taken aback.

This history teacher happened to be married to my middle school history teacher and homeroom teacher. I thought I was a favored student of her husband, yet he had never said anything like I wasn't doing well in history. "He's smart, so he can quickly grasp what's in the textbook and memorize it," she continued, "but he easily becomes satisfied with these things, content with the tip-of-the-tongue effect." She even stuck out her tongue and pointed to it with her red pen, "And when he doesn't listen in class, he selectively tunes out. As soon as I mention something important, he knows to look up and take notes, and once I'm done, he goes back to not listening." I didn't know whether to take this as a compliment or criticism. "But this is being too clever for your own good. To do well in history, it's not enough to just understand these key points; it might suffice for new lessons, but it's definitely not enough for the college entrance exam." After saying this, she hugged her knee with both hands, leaned back in her chair, and looked at my embarrassed reaction with a half-smile, as if she already knew I would take her evaluation to heart and it would catch me off guard. My mom glanced at me and continued talking with the teacher, but I didn't pay attention to their conversation. I was still pondering what the tip-of-the-tongue effect was.

From that moment on, it felt like I had a knot in my heart. Every time I attended history class, I was careful not to let her catch me zoning out again. I didn't want to be the kind of student she could easily tell was trying to be clever. Unknowingly, a year later, whenever I flipped through my history book filled with notes, I could slowly unfold the chapter's content in my mind just by looking at the chapter title. I could easily answer questions that the teacher said were "a bit difficult," all thanks to her candid remarks at that time. Later, I ran into her on the playground; I was on the horizontal bar, and she was walking. She looked over at me from a distance, seemingly recognizing me but hesitant to confirm. She squinted and walked toward me, and when I waved, she smiled and walked back to the track.

Fourth Lap#

I was starting to feel tired, and I told myself I had to at least finish this lap. One weekend, I went for a run in the evening, and the new math teacher happened to be returning to his apartment and called out to me. He was a teacher rehired from Hubei, specifically teaching our class. When this was announced, our homeroom teacher "complained" about our principal, saying this teacher could easily lead a math research group, but the principal insisted on using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. The school arranged for him to have a room in the building next to the playground, where he lived alone. This Hubei teacher had the appearance of an old intellectual, with graying hair cut in a buzz cut, always wearing a white shirt, black trousers, and flat cloth shoes. However, when he spoke, his thick accent made it hard not to laugh, yet he was a very serious person who didn't seem to joke around. Therefore, it was really tough for my classmates to hold back laughter during his first few classes. I, on the other hand, always saw myself as a rebellious and difficult student, so not submitting assignments or doing them carelessly was the norm, which led him to criticize us more than once in class.

That day, I happened to be at the entrance of the playground when he waved me over and walked slowly toward me. We walked side by side for a few steps before he asked me if I had any goals and which university I wanted to attend. Naturally, I replied in a cheeky tone, "Fudan." He made a hissing sound, furrowing his brow as if recalling something—perhaps my grades, the cut-off score for Fudan, or a psychiatrist's number. After all, in our school, where the previous few graduating classes had to promote their university admission rates, Fudan might not have been an expected answer. "Given your current situation, I can only say it's a bit challenging," he said in his thick accent. I struggled to understand, "So you have to work really hard. I believe if you set Fudan as your goal, you'll definitely excel in the end." At that time, sarcasm wasn't in vogue (even if it was, he probably wouldn't have used it), and I thought he would realize I was joking. His seriousness caught me off guard, and I hastily made a few replies, intending to continue running, but he called out to me again: "Make sure to get enough sleep."

The next day, during self-study, I passed by the office on my way to class and saw that most teachers weren't there, except for him, who was hunched over his desk writing something. He might not have been wearing glasses, as he was sitting very low. At noon, I passed by the office again, and he was still writing. When I returned in the evening, he was still writing, and his posture hadn't changed much. Later, I learned that this was his routine: teaching while standing when he had classes, sitting down to prepare lessons when he didn't, and walking a few laps on the playground in the afternoon to think about problems, repeating this cycle.

The prowess of a skilled teacher always gradually reveals itself. Once everyone got used to his accent and began to understand the content behind it, we finally realized why it was said that teaching us was using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. He was basically a combination of the college entrance exam syllabus and all the answers to math problems. What he said in class was almost devoid of fluff, concise and accurate like a reference book (later, when discussing this with the homeroom teacher, she mentioned that many reference books from their area were authored by him). If you wanted to keep up with his thought process, you couldn't afford to zone out for even a second. He rarely used slides for teaching; he would start writing from the top left corner of the blackboard, filling a column before starting a new one from the top, erasing the leftmost column only after filling the entire board. If you didn't keep pace with him, you might not even know whether what he was writing was related to the other content on the board.

I remember that before he came, very few students in our class would ask teachers questions after class. But after he arrived, it quickly became insufficient for everyone to ask him questions during the ten-minute break. Eventually, even when going to the office to ask questions, we would first peek through the window to see if anyone was there (because some science students occasionally came to ask questions too). Many classmates would save up questions, eager to ask everything they didn't understand in a week whenever they got the chance. When we asked him questions, he could generally glance at them and provide several approaches, encouraging us to try the best one ourselves. I don't recall any question that stumped him. He once said in class that learning math was like climbing a mountain: "Why can some top students self-study university-level math and easily score full marks on the college entrance exam? Because they are looking down from a high point, so they can see the path clearly. But if you're on the mountain path trying to find your way, it's easy to get lost."

I naturally wouldn't compete with them for questions. Previously, whenever I ran in the afternoon, I would see him walking on the playground, so I started memorizing the questions I needed to ask in advance. Whenever I encountered him, I would catch up and ask while walking. After listening to the question, he would furrow his brow and look up for a moment before starting to provide a solution. I would try to remember all the steps and calculate them again in the classroom later. Sometimes, when I encountered complex problems, he would call me to his office during evening study to teach me a simpler method, explaining while calculating on paper, and then hand me that paper to take home. If I came across typical problems, he would dig out notes on that category from his stack of notebooks, flipping through pages filled with red and blue notes until he found the one summarizing the solutions for that type of problem, then tear it out and remind me to share it with everyone. But more often than not, he would flip through and say, "Uh-oh, I think I've already given this to XX student; you should go ask him to copy it." Although I wrote down my college entrance exam goals as Zhongda, I was still satisfied with my final math score.

I felt a bit regretful for not getting to know this teacher better, as it seemed I knew nothing about him outside of work. But later, I thought perhaps education was truly his entire life, and he had already revealed himself to us completely. During the summer after graduation, on the day the college entrance exam scores were released, I did well and thought to thank him via WeChat for his guidance. I heard from classmates that he was already preparing for the next year's senior review at school. I shared my progress with him and expressed my gratitude, and he told me, "Keep it up; you'll be even better in college."

Fifth Lap#

I might have started hitting the wall; my legs felt heavy, and I couldn't stabilize myself. My arches began to cramp, my back hurt, and my throat was dry and painful. I still tried to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, but the faint metallic taste of blood mixed with the air I inhaled. I began to swing my arms, hoping to get my legs moving. As I reached the first bend, I thought of the coming-of-age ceremony. In my high school, the coming-of-age ceremony was perhaps the most anticipated event. Our school had many activities: sports meetings, art festivals, club exhibitions... Although we felt each event was just the school showing off, the coming-of-age ceremony was the one we looked forward to the most, probably because it was related to each of us. We would walk through the adult gate in formal attire, everyone could dress freely, and some classmates even invited makeup artists to school. The auditorium of the high school was just outside the first bend, and that year's adult gate was right at that first bend.

The coming-of-age ceremony was in the afternoon. Throughout the lunch break, my roommate hardly slept and started fussing with his hair, while I lay in bed desperately trying to fall asleep, unable to contain my underlying excitement. So, I forced myself to stay still, and slowly, I became drowsy until the sound of the hairdryer woke me up. Seeing that my roommate was basically dressed and ready, I remembered I was the planner and host, so I needed to get to the auditorium early to rehearse with the other hosts and check on the backstage preparations. I got out of bed, washed my face, hastily shaved, and pulled out the suit still in its dust cover from my wardrobe. I quickly put it on, ruffled my hair, checked myself in the mirror, and headed out. Compared to the loose sports uniform I usually wore, I felt the suit was quite constricting, and I unconsciously straightened my back and lifted my chin while walking. As I walked down the dormitory corridor, the boys who had changed into suits were sizing each other up and joking around, while those who hadn't changed looked hurried, scurrying around with sprays, colognes, and curling irons they probably borrowed from other dorms. The entire corridor was filled with the scent of hairspray, body spray, and perfume, along with the sounds of chatter, laughter, and hurried footsteps.

I left the dormitory, and the sunlight reflecting off the school's concrete path was blinding. I hurried to the classroom to pick up the printed host scripts. It was still early, and the younger students hadn't finished their lunch break yet, so the teaching building was empty. I breathed a sigh of relief, as I was a bit afraid of being scrutinized in my suit. I picked up the thick stack of scripts for the few of us hosting and headed out into the corridor, where I spotted the geography teacher walking toward me.

The geography teacher was tall, about half a head taller than me. He always wore a polo shirt tucked into his pants, making his legs look disproportionately long. His face often bore a pained expression, and he only started teaching our class in senior year. The first time I saw him without a smile, I feared he would be difficult to deal with. His speech often conveyed a sense of dissatisfaction with his fate; drawing maps and locating global coordinates were just basic skills for him. When he taught, he frequently referenced classics, from Confucius and Mencius to Laozi and Mao Zedong, from Plato and Aristotle to Marx and Hemingway, covering everything from ancient to modern times. But what impressed me more was his professional ability (specifically, his ability to find problems and print papers). I often visited teachers' offices and was frequently asked by various teachers to pick up papers from the printing room. The papers from other subjects were usually just thin stacks, easily foldable in hand, while his papers could stack up to several centimeters high, and our class only had 36 students. He often said that geography papers looked thick because they contained more pictures than words, but the actual content was minimal. However, the time I spent on geography papers clearly disagreed with that statement. I dreaded it when he would say in class that everyone had done poorly on a particular question, and then he would find several similar questions. If he had just casually assigned homework without much thought, it would have been fine, but he always managed to find a large number of similar questions, leaving me with no way to complain. He had excellent handwriting, even on the blackboard, and during evening study sessions, he would occasionally read books I couldn't even pronounce the titles of, then borrow a modern Chinese dictionary from the front row to look up a character.

I genuinely admired him, but I didn't want to be the good student who respected the teacher. I took pride in my cleverness, while he seemed to disapprove of students who were only clever without being grounded. So, we never got along. During a parent-teacher meeting, he bluntly said that I seemed to dislike him, and my mom exaggeratedly laughed, trying to ease the awkwardness, while I just lowered my head in silence.

Before a round of revision, our class held a mobilization meeting. Besides the homeroom teacher's speech, the math and geography teachers also spoke. The math teacher's speech lasted nearly an hour, with dozens of slides prepared, providing a complete and detailed analysis of the role, importance, time management, and mindset preparation for the first round of revision. I was left in awe, and I felt a bit anxious for the geography teacher, as after such a detailed presentation, there wouldn't be much left for him to say. He walked up to the podium with the same expression he had in class, calmly, without any notes, and said, "I have ten sentences for you." I lifted my already numb head from listening to the first round, and all ten of his sentences were "famous quotes." I don't remember the entire content, but I recall one was "I love my teacher, but I love the truth even more," urging us to not only listen to the teacher but also to think for ourselves. Another was "No one is a self-sufficient island; every person is part of a vast continent. If the waves wash away a piece of rock, Europe diminishes, just like a cape losing a corner, or like your friend or your own territory losing a piece. Every person's death is my sorrow because I am part of humanity. So do not ask for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for you." This was to remind us that during exam preparation, teachers and students are actually part of a whole, comrades on the same front. I felt a bit self-important, thinking this statement seemed directed at me. His speech ended, and the applause seemed even more enthusiastic than after the math teacher's speech. While clapping, I wondered how he remembered the ten sentences he wanted to say.

So when I encountered him in the corridor, I suddenly felt uneasy, especially since I was still in a suit. I felt awkward walking, as if my movements were somewhat uncoordinated. Eventually, I reached a distance where he could clearly see me, and I saw him break into an uncontrollable smile. I quietly greeted him, and he nodded, turning his head to the other side, still smiling. He rarely smiled, and it didn't seem like a malicious sneer. As I thought about it, I couldn't help but smile too.

I arrived at the playground, where colorful flags hung, balloons floated in the air, and a long red carpet stretched from the center field to the adult gate at the bend, leading to the auditorium. People were already standing on both sides of the red carpet, seemingly waiting for their children. I met up with a few classmates who were also hosting and handed them their scripts. Since we were among the first to go to the auditorium, we had to walk the red carpet first. I waited for my parents, and my mom said my lips were very dry, grabbing my face to apply lip balm. It wasn't until later when I saw photos of my bright red lips that I realized the lip balm could change color.

The younger students in their uniforms slowly approached, gathering in waves on both sides of the red carpet. The playground gradually became lively, and soon music started playing, making us raise our voices to talk beside the red carpet. Finally, it was our turn to walk the red carpet. The first few hosts walked past, and I had no choice but to follow them. As I stepped onto the red carpet, it made the green field feel softer. The cheers from the younger students filled my ears, the scent of perfume filled my nose, and the sight of cameras, streamers, balloons, and the backs of girls in dresses filled my eyes. I felt light-headed, and my consciousness seemed to blur. By the time I came to my senses, I was already backstage, not even remembering how I had walked through the adult gate.

The ceremony that day went smoothly. Whenever I recall that day, I feel a fleeting joy. I remember those girls who suddenly looked so beautiful that I barely recognized them, and those boys who seemed to mature all at once, their demeanor filled with shyness and pride. I remember everyone congratulating each other, the air filled with excitement, and the geography teacher unable to suppress his laughter. Of course, I would soon fall into the melancholy of "youth no longer." Before walking the red carpet, the history teacher asked me when my birthday was, and when I said June, he replied, "That's still half a year away; you are 'being made an adult.'" I was only seventeen then, and the most pressing pressure was just to raise that number called grades. Everything seemed possible at that time.

Sixth Lap#

I really couldn't run anymore; my speed was barely faster than walking. I told myself that if I could finish six laps, there would be no difficulty in my life that I couldn't overcome. I gritted my teeth and continued. A month before the college entrance exam, I wasn't in good shape. It might have been anxiety and tension or just natural fluctuations in my state. The teachers were quite nervous and often called me in for talks, urging me not to lose heart and that persistence would lead to victory, which left me feeling flustered. One evening, the political teacher also called me out, smiling as he looked at me and said, "So, have the other teachers talked to you?" He was always a teacher who got along well with students. "Actually, I didn't want to talk to you, but I was afraid you would think I didn't care if I didn't," he suddenly revealed that familiar sly smile. "I actually care a lot, but I believe you know what you're doing; there's no need for me to say much." Politics had always been my weak point in liberal arts; I could recite theories fluently, but when it came to materials, I was at a loss. Yet the political teacher often inexplicably praised me, which made me feel embarrassed. Once, during a class, he suddenly started talking about how a student in his class (the next year's liberal arts key class he taught) was my "fan." I had been resting my head on my book, preparing to close my eyes, but hearing my name jolted me awake. I didn't look up because the class had already started laughing, and he showed no signs of stopping, continuing to say how his class used ours as a model, "Especially WL and X, who are really excellent..." He went on, "I often praise those two in front of my class..." I felt a mix of indescribable embarrassment, shame, and pride. I finally couldn't help but look up, covering my face with my hand. Thankfully, through my fingers, I only saw a few familiar classmates looking at me and laughing. His praise and indulgence had reached a somewhat inexplicable level, but at least this time he chose to "trust" me, which made me feel relieved. It at least indicated that I was just slightly off track and hadn't completely derailed. If he had also told me to pay attention and adjust my mindset, I might have felt like I was doomed.

For the same reason, the English teacher later called me in as well. She also started teaching us in senior year, and judging by her accent, she was probably also recruited from Hubei. On her first day in class, she wore a sleeveless top, and a roommate who played basketball next to me glanced at her shoulders, opened his mouth, blinked, and turned to me, saying he thought this teacher could probably do more push-ups than him. Perhaps because she was young, she quickly became familiar with the girls in the class. As for me, I had never really gotten along with teachers, especially since English was my strong subject, so I hardly had any chance to interact with her. Therefore, when she called me in for a chat, I felt somewhat awkward. In the corridor, she crossed her arms and looked at me for a while before asking how my sleep was lately. I said it wasn't great, and she replied, "That's not good; you need to prioritize your sleep. Don't stay up late doing homework tonight; get a good night's sleep." I felt a strange sensation because no teacher, not even my parents, had ever inquired about my sleep. Before the college entrance exam, she prepared transparent file folders for everyone to hold their stationery and an encouraging card. Mine said, "Be careful and you will succeed." On the day of the exam, while I was hurriedly writing my Chinese essay, the invigilator probably saw me and ordered everyone to stop writing. I continued to write desperately, but my right hand was trembling so much that I couldn't write straight lines. The teacher then required everyone to stand up before starting to collect the papers. After leaving the exam room, I felt a burning sensation in my throat and was swallowing hard as I walked. When I encountered her in the corridor, she smiled at me, and I couldn't help but say I hadn't finished my essay. After saying that, I quickened my pace without looking back. I didn't know why I did that; I only heard her say loudly behind me, "That's nothing!" She said it so loudly that I and the other students on that floor heard her clearly. I looked up, but tears slipped from my eyes due to the bumps as I walked.

As I approached the last bend, I began to accelerate, desperately swinging my arms and gradually lengthening my strides. I felt my thighs becoming unresponsive, my steps uneven, and my head pulsing in sync with my heartbeat. I couldn't think too much anymore; I kept speeding up, feeling the beads of sweat on my face falling faster. The increased speed made the wind stronger, penetrating my clothes, and I began to feel the refreshing coolness from the evaporation of moisture on my chest.

Stretching#

I dashed past the last bend and gradually transitioned to walking. The wind had picked up, but my lungs still burned like fire. I crawled over to the equipment area to stretch for a while. I started doing pull-ups, getting tired after three, so I forced myself to do one more and held it at the top. "Going up" seems to always go against human instincts; we prefer sitting over standing, and lying down over sitting. The lower our center of gravity, the more comfortable we feel. But comfort isn't the purpose of our existence; otherwise, no one would do pull-ups. I kept repeating this process: do three, hold, come down, rest for a bit, and then do another round until I was exhausted.

My chest, back, arms, shoulders, waist, and legs all ached, and I cherished this pain. The geography teacher once told us why climbers who encounter difficulties halfway up the mountain often have serene expressions: because after losing body heat, brain function is suppressed, and they can't feel pain or cold, ultimately falling into a coma and dying with a smile in an illusory warmth. I closed my eyes and quietly felt this pain. In those days filled with anxiety and uncertainty, these reassuring pains were a testament to my continued existence.

I descended back to the playground, wanting to walk a few laps to calm my heart rate. The night breeze continued to blow, and I wasn't sure if I had just not noticed, but it seemed there were more people on the playground now. Most of them, like me, were just walking along the track. I guessed they were graduates chatting and reminiscing about the campus one last time. As I passed the last straightaway, I noticed a girl who looked like a graduate standing by the edge of the track, facing the green field, looking up at something unknown. On the field, a few people were playing soccer under the dim lights, and the surrounding track was filled with snippets of laughter and conversation. A subway train roared past on the elevated bridge outside the school, while she stood still, her skirt fluttering in the evening breeze. I suddenly remembered standing on the high school playground in a daze just days before the college entrance exam, not for any particular reason, but simply wanting to take in everything about the school. I might have been at this university for many years, and one day I would graduate too. What would it feel like to graduate from here? I thought it would be more complex than graduating from high school. Would I also stand quietly somewhere in the school like her, looking at the scenery that seemed to have nothing to see?

Perhaps whether it takes five years or six, it's just a small segment of life. The older we get, the less time allows us to pause. Whether we are happy or not, we rush through each experience and every place like unfamiliar passersby. Thinking this way, I suddenly felt that the playground beneath my feet now seemed connected to that playground thousands of kilometers away from years ago. The me who once ran on that playground was so carefree and unrestrained, firmly believing that my life should always remain innocent and curious, thinking that the purpose of existence was to continuously acquire new information, learn, master it, and transform it into new knowledge. That me hoped to be gentle yet resolute throughout my life, meticulously recording every minute spent on homework in my Bullet Journal to ensure that time was not wasted. That me could help classmates identify where they misunderstood concepts and assist them in truly understanding those concepts. I could also help my roommate confirm whether he had a chance with a girl he liked. That me was confident I would be a candidate for any awards or honors, able to plan a coming-of-age ceremony for my grade and be teased as the behind-the-scenes grade director. That me could continue doing pull-ups even when strangers walked by, receiving many cards and gifts on my birthday, with someone writing on a card, "You are a kind person." That me once felt down during a mock exam and didn't write an essay, and the principal would talk to me, reciting a popular poem at the time: "All days / All days come to me / Let me weave you / With the golden thread of youth / And the beads of happiness / Weaving you." Even after graduation, someone would post on social media saying, "I can't see WL on the playground anymore; it's a bit strange." Of course, that me also experienced pain and confusion, but that me always reminded myself to stay clear-headed, able to separate emotions from reason. Even when facing immense pressure, I could use an imagined rational persona to guide myself, solving internal issues before continuing to do what needed to be done...

And all of this hadn't really drifted far away. I myself hadn't changed much from then; I was just facing some new pains, momentarily losing my footing, losing my passion, and choosing not to act. So when in pain, just go for a run, and recall that more crucial and courageous time. Life must go on; perhaps as long as I muster the courage to face life, I will find that the difficulties ahead are merely the gentle breeze on the track, always surrounding you. As long as you maintain your balance and alternate your legs, you are moving forward.