The Long Winter

This afternoon, the sky of the European Empire stretched wide with a dramatic sweep of golden-orange hues. The slowly sinking streaks of sunlight seemed carved so perfectly by the universe, as if intentionally presented so that every pair of eyes would be mesmerized and admire it. However, not on this school field. Amidst all the noise, the cheers of the spectators, and the sound of cleats slamming against the grass, that majestic beauty in the sky lost all its meaning. Perhaps the people around me did not think so. They might see the evening sky as a sweet conclusion to the day. But for me, no. The definition of the most beautiful orange, to me, is that single figure who is running agilely chasing the ball in the middle of that green field. Some other female students in the stands might also adore the same view. However, deep inside my chest, I knew this heartbeat was different. My heart was anchored deeper, much more fragile than anyone sitting in these stands. I squeezed my own fingers until my knuckles turned white and ached. My eyes stared straight, locked onto that silhouette, while chanting a thousand silent prayers in my heart. I prayed that he would enjoy every second of this match, that he would feel satisfied with his hard work, and begged the universe never to let any disappointment dwell in his heart—neither on this green grass, nor in the pages of his life. However, perhaps God was indeed jealous. Perhaps the Creator was angry because I idolized a human figure too much instead of admiring the beauty of His creation in the twilight sky. In the thirtieth minute, he fell. Not in a dramatic way. Just fell. That body collapsed, hitting the field's grass. Yet the atmosphere seemed to unfold dramatically. Hysterical screams from dozens of other female students exploded, thundering to shatter the afternoon air, then colliding and painfully trapping themselves inside my eardrums. For a fraction of a second that felt very long, my lungs seemed paralyzed. My breathing stopped completely. I saw him slowly rise while holding back a grimace. And among the dozens of seconds of that incident, our gazes met. Our eyes locked onto each other in a cruel distance. Or was it just a hallucination created by my overly high expectations? “You’re not the one who fell, Hana.” That cold voice, sounding weary and impatient, shattered my daydream, dragging me back to the boring reality. I turned my head reluctantly. By my side stood Freya. The girl had bright blond hair with a pair of blue eyes carved beautifully yet harboring a chill. She was my friend—or more precisely, the only person willing to stand near me. And we were probably friends just because we were both lonely outcasts in this place. Yes, both of us were ostracized. Yet in a very different caste of suffering. If I was shunned because I was born into a poor family and possessed an appearance deemed unworthy of matching this school's standards, then Freya was at the opposite pole. The girl was not bad-looking; she was actually dangerous because she was too pretty. A beauty that caused her to be isolated instead by vicious gossip created by the malice of those around us. They said Freya sold herself. “I know..., but I hope he is okay,” I whispered softly, my throat feeling choked. “He’ll be fine, Hana. Who would be willing to let our school prince, Raphael Chen, suffer for even a single second?” Freya replied in a cynical tone. I fell silent for a moment, letting the cold afternoon breeze sweep across my face, before finally answering to preserve the remnants of my thin pride. “You?” Freya’s slender fingers pointed directly right in front of my nose. "You're right.” Her blue eyes shifted to stare straight at the field, flashing a bitter, triumphant smile in front of me. A moment later, her gaze turned sharp, skinning Raphael’s back as he was being swarmed by the medical team. “You know, there is a rumor circulating that he is actually an aristocrat of a major lineage, just like Hardin. That’s why the two of them stick together like a pair of newly spit-out chewing gum.” “Then?” I asked weakly. “Then?” Freya turned her head, looking at me with a gaze that stripped bare our despair. “It means every student in this school will never be equal to that arrogant man. Especially you and me, Hana Worth. So, stop wasting your stupid time here. Wouldn't it be much better if you hurry off to your part-time job instead of spending the rest of the day gazing at a man who doesn't even know where the ground you stand on is located?” I stood frozen in silence. Every word sliding from Freya’s lips felt like shards of glass piercing my heart. It hurt. But deep down in the innermost part of my heart, I knew precisely that those words were one hundred percent true. We were indeed never equal. Even if Raphael had been born to commoners, without the noble status attached to his shoulders, the distance between us was already stretched too steep. We would never be on the same line. He was the dazzling star shining brightly, while I was merely a speck of dirt beneath his footing, so trivial. Yet, was it a great sin if someone like me just wanted to have one small reason to smile in this cold world? Even if that joy was merely adoring from afar. Would it still be a crime in the eyes of the universe? The long whistle finally blew. The match ended in a draw. Students began to crowd the center of the field, laughing lightly while capturing the moment of small victory in the snapshots of their cell phone cameras. Freya and I synchronously took a step back, choosing to slip away in silence. Aside from the fact that our presence was never wanted, our existence was intentionally drowned out from their sight. I walked listlessly beside Freya, strolling down the school sidewalk while my eyes unconsciously fixated on the rows of anti-bullying campaign banners lined up rigidly along the corridor fence. Over the past few months, precisely since half a year ago, this institution suddenly became very vocal about voicing social justice. Of course they had their own motives. That massive campaign was merely a theatrical mask intentionally put up to muffle the foul stench of depravity that had already surfaced to the public. Two weeks before those banners scattered every corner of the school, a grand scandal exploded like an atomic bomb, collapsing the foundations of this elite school overnight. A senior teacher named Lailya was proven to have committed savage abuse against dozens of her students. There were twelve victims whose futures were destroyed, with thousands of indecent video files confiscated as undeniable evidence. The case shook the entire corners of the Western European Empire, bringing this school almost to the brink of permanent license revocation. Yet, miraculously, within just two weeks, the storm subsided as if swallowed by the earth. And now, the school shamelessly campaigned for morality that was entirely fake.