（English version follows）
從奧林匹克競賽脫身之後，我只剩不到一年的時間在高考前追上其他人的進度。回到陌生的學校。父母對我失望透頂，而老師對我也全無期待，甚至我自己也拋棄了對美好未來的一切幻想。我機械地做著無法理解的試題，盯著手錶指針消磨時光。
漫長的假期結束後，校方為了抵抗疫情，關閉了側門，只允許學生從正門出入。和我同住一個小區的同學大多不滿於新政加長了他們回家的路程，但我卻暗自欣喜。對那時的我來說，每天最美妙的事情，是可以晚自習結束後和他一起走回家，而延長的路程是求之不得的贈禮。
夜晚的紅谷北大道，暖黃的路燈透過樟樹灑在疏於維護而不太平整的步道上，也灑在無論四季，總是能在環衛工人工作的間隙鋪成的落葉上。我會把手搭在他的肩上 – 儘管這樣會被保安數落有悖防疫規定 – 然後拋下被題海折磨的苦惱，享受深夜的片刻安寧。我會傾聽遠處的汽車引擎和微風吹過樹冠的聲音，它們是場景的底色；然後是操場上時有時無的說話聲、我們踩過落葉的沙沙聲，最後是身邊人的呼吸聲。我可以就這樣保持沉默，保持我的渺小和卑微，保持適當的距離，讓自己成為隨機飄來的一陣風，或是無聲落下的一片葉。
兩百米之後，便要拐向錦江路，對面便是小區臨街的高層住宅。若是抬頭看，頗有些鋪天蓋地的逼仄之感。但我對高樓不感興趣，視線依舊望向正前方，眼角餘光卻瞥向他。當然，愈靠近小區門口，行人便愈發多了起來，微妙的氣氛也被擾亂不少。小區裡又是另一番風景了。路燈稀疏，植株的種類倒是多了不少。樟樹之外，路上還能見到銀杏和柿子樹，而小徑盡頭的桑樹更是迫使人經過時俯下身子 – 我們已無數次地撞上它攔在路中央的枝條了 - 起身就到了他家的單元門口。
那裡會有一棵遭受著蟲害的樟樹，被挖空的樹洞前放著一個給流浪貓餵食的瓷碟。他堅稱他在洞裡看到過密密麻麻蠕動著的蛀蟲，但我下定決心，拉他作為護盾去檢查的時候，卻什麼也看不到。
短暫的陪伴一般在這裡蒼白的路燈下結束。待腳步聲漸遠，大門打開又關閉，一切歸於平靜。我會駐足他房間的窗下，看三樓的窗簾被檯燈照亮，看他忙碌的影子模糊地跳躍；燈下飛舞著的昆蟲扇動翅膀的聲音又會把我拉回現實，我長舒一口氣，繼續朝住所走去。
我會在路上用手機提前打開桌上的檯燈。等我到樓下的時候，抬頭，就能看到柔和的燈光透過米色的窗簾，無目的而又堅定地照射出來。我期望這燈光，不是因為它能給我一種出租屋裡有人在等著我的錯覺，而是因為在能看到那扇窗的不長的步道上，我能再次享受擁有目標的路程 - 那有一盞燈，那裡就是我要去的地方 - 在內心深處，我知道這燈光羸弱無力，很快就會被黑夜吞噬；這目標虛無縹緲，在我踏進單元門之時就不復存在。
然後我走上台階，一頭扎進無光的眩暈中。
高考之後，家人為了阻止我離開大陸，扣住了我的護照和港澳通行證，間接導致了我手上所有 Offer 的作廢。我連夜從故鄉逃回高中所在的城市，準備修改高考志願做最後一搏。坐上地鐵末班車，我回到了熟悉的地鐵站，走上了熟悉的人行道。暖黃的路燈和樟樹的落葉依舊，引擎聲和風聲依舊，但卻是那麼安靜，讓我在這個夏日的夜晚打了好幾個冷顫。
我打開手機告訴他我回來了。他很快回覆，說他家可以讓我暫住幾天。我謝絕他的邀請，卻又不自主地沿著原來的路線回到小區，回到他的樓下，抬頭望向熟悉的窗口，然後坐在單元門口的台階上。有樹洞的那棵樹已不知所踪，留下的只有切面並不光滑的樹樁，放貓食的碟子還在，卻是被污漬覆蓋，大抵是投餵者已暫停了自己的工作。我沒有過去細看 – 上次我這樣做的時候，驚動了其中的覓食蟑螂，嚇得我抱著他鼠竄。
我笑著回憶，忽然心一顫，視線變得模糊。我用力眨了眨眼，直到我又能看清燈下的飛蟲和對樓窗戶上閃爍著的光，拿起手機，恰好收到他的訊息，「找到地方住了麼？」
我正準備打字回覆，指尖卻停在了螢幕上。大門打開又關閉，腳步聲漸近，一切歸於平靜。
After breaking free from the Olympic competitions, I had less than a year to catch up with everyone else before the college entrance exam. Back to an unfamiliar school. My parents were utterly disappointed in me, the teachers held no expectations, and I had even abandoned all fantasies of a bright future. I mechanically worked through incomprehensible practice problems, watching clock hands tick away my time.
When the long holiday ended, the school closed its side entrance to combat the pandemic, forcing students to use only the main gate. While my classmates who lived in the same complex complained about the lengthened journey home, I secretly rejoiced. For me then, the most wonderful thing each day was walking home with him after evening study sessions, and the extended route was an unasked-for gift.
At night on Honggu North Road, warm yellow streetlights filtered through camphor trees onto the poorly maintained walkway, scattering across leaves that somehow remained year-round between the sanitation workers' shifts. I would rest my hand on his shoulder – though the guards would scold us for violating pandemic protocols – and let go of the torment of endless practice papers, savoring a moment of peace in the deep night. I would listen to distant car engines and the breeze rustling through the canopy, the background sounds of the scene; then the intermittent voices from the playground, the whisper of our feet through fallen leaves, and finally, the sound of his breathing beside me. I could stay silent like this, maintain my smallness and humility, keep an appropriate distance, let myself become a chance breeze or a soundlessly falling leaf.
After two hundred meters, we would turn onto Jinjiang Road, facing the towering residential buildings that lined the complex. Looking up gave one a sense of overwhelming confinement. But I had no interest in tall buildings, keeping my gaze straight ahead while stealing glances at him from the corner of my eye. Of course, as we approached the complex entrance, pedestrians grew more numerous, disturbing the subtle atmosphere. The complex itself presented a different scene. Streetlights were sparse, but plant species were abundant. Beyond the camphor trees, the path held ginkgo and persimmon trees, and the mulberry at the path's end forced passersby to duck – we had collided with its road-blocking branches countless times – before straightening up at his building's entrance.
There stood a camphor tree afflicted by pests, with a ceramic dish for stray cats placed before its hollow trunk. He insisted he had seen writhing wood-boring insects densely packed inside the hollow, but when I finally gathered my courage and pulled him along as a shield to investigate, we saw nothing.
Our brief companionship usually ended under the pale streetlight there. As footsteps faded and the door opened then closed, everything fell quiet. I would linger beneath his room's window, watching the curtains on the third floor illuminated by his desk lamp, his busy shadow jumping hazily; the sound of insects beating their wings in the lamplight would pull me back to reality, and I would take a deep breath before continuing toward my residence.
I would use my phone to turn on my desk lamp in advance. When I reached my building, looking up, I could see the gentle light radiating purposelessly yet steadfastly through the beige curtains. I cherished this light, not because it could give me the illusion of someone waiting in my rented apartment, but because on that short path where I could see that window, I could once again enjoy having a destination – there was a light, that was where I needed to go – though deep inside, I knew this light was frail and would soon be swallowed by the night; this destination was ephemeral, ceasing to exist the moment I stepped through the building entrance.
Then I would climb the stairs, plunging headlong into lightless vertigo.
After the college entrance exam, my family withheld my passport and travel permit to prevent me from leaving mainland China, indirectly invalidating all my offers. I fled from my hometown back to my high school city in the dead of night, preparing to make one last attempt at getting into CUHK. Taking the last subway of the day, I returned to the familiar station and walked onto the familiar sidewalk. The warm yellow streetlights and camphor leaves remained unchanged, as did the engine sounds and wind, but it was so quiet it sent chills through me on that summer night.
I texted him that I was back. He quickly replied, saying I could stay at his place for a few days. I declined his invitation, yet found myself unconsciously following our old route back to the complex, back to the foot of his building, looking up at the familiar window before sitting on the steps by the entrance. The hollow tree was gone, leaving only an uneven stump, and while the cat food dish remained, it was covered in grime – presumably the feeder had suspended their work. I didn't look too closely – last time I did that, I startled foraging cockroaches and fled clutching onto him in panic.
I smiled at the memory, then suddenly my heart trembled and my vision blurred. I blinked hard until I could see clearly again the insects in the lamplight and the flickering light in the windows across the way, picked up my phone, and just then received his message: "Found a place to stay?"
I was about to type a reply when my fingertips froze on the screen. The door opened then closed, footsteps drew near, and everything fell quiet.