Water Lily

7

The January wind cut through the air with a bitter chill, making the donation banner in the teaching building lobby rustle loudly. Lin Yan stood beneath the banner, his fingertips clutching a crumpled donation appeal form—its edges frayed from his tight grip. The words "Lin Yan’s grandmother is critically ill and in urgent need of medical expenses" pricked at him like countless fine needles, burning his cheeks with embarrassment.

Yesterday, he’d received a call from a neighbor back home: Grandma had suddenly suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and was admitted to the intensive care unit (ICU). The medical bills alone cost several thousand yuan a day. The family had sold everything they could, but still couldn’t scrape together enough for the surgery. When his counselor found out, she’d organized a donation drive at school without telling him. By the time he learned about it, the banner was already hung, and several student union members were helping register donations.

Lin Yan hung his head, his fingers unconsciously picking at the strap of his canvas bag—where the mended stitches had split again, revealing the worn fabric underneath. Occasionally, classmates passed by, casting glances of sympathy or curiosity. Each look seared into his skin like a red-hot iron. He wanted to run away, but the image of Grandma lying in the hospital bed with an oxygen tube stuck in her nose—sent to him by the neighbor, her face as pale as paper—held him back. He couldn’t flee. No matter how humiliating it was, he had to raise enough money to save Grandma’s life.

"Lin Yan?"

A gentle voice sounded above him, and Lin Yan’s body stiffened abruptly. He looked up, crashing into Su Wan’s clear eyes. Shen Ze stood beside her; both wore thick down jackets, and Shen Ze held an insulated bag in his hand—they must have just returned from outside.

Su Wan’s gaze fell on the donation appeal form in his hand. Her brows furrowed slightly, her tone filled with genuine concern: "I heard your grandmother is sick? Is it serious?"

This was their first real conversation—not a nod in passing, not a polite greeting as they brushed by, but explicit, targeted care. Yet Lin Yan’s throat felt tight. He opened his mouth, but only managed a few words after a long pause: "Yeah... She’s in the ICU."

Shen Ze stepped forward, pulled out a thick stack of cash from his wallet—easily several thousand yuan—and held it out toward the donation register. "Let us know if you need more help. Don’t be shy," he said naturally, without the slightest hint of condescension, as if he were saying something trivial. But that thick pile of cash made Lin Yan’s face flush bright red instantly.

Su Wan also took out her wallet, pulled out several hundred-yuan bills, and placed them next to Shen Ze’s money. She looked at Lin Yan, her eyes brimming with warm kindness: "I hope your grandmother gets well soon. Take this money first—we’ll think of something if it’s not enough."

A student union member quickly grabbed a pen, smiling: "Thank you, Shen Ze! Thank you, Su Wan! Could you please sign your names?"

Shen Ze took the pen and scribbled his name quickly. Su Wan followed suit, the scratch of her pen against the paper sounding unusually harsh to Lin Yan’s ears. He stared at the two stacks of money on the register, a sharp, dull ache piercing his chest.

"No, thank you."

Lin Yan’s voice suddenly rang out, trembling slightly, barely perceptible. He reached out and pressed down on the pile of cash, his fingertips whitening with exertion. The air around them went quiet instantly. The student union member froze, and Su Wan and Shen Ze looked at him in confusion.

"I... I don’t need this much," Lin Yan avoided their gazes, staring at the floor, his voice as soft as a mosquito’s buzz. "Thank you for your kindness, but I can’t accept this money."

He knew his words were inappropriate. Grandma was still in the ICU, waiting for the money to save her life. But he couldn’t control the discomfort in his chest. The stack of cash Shen Ze had offered was like a mirror, reflecting his embarrassment and poverty. Even Su Wan’s money, though filled with goodwill, reminded him of the chasm between their lives—they could pull out several thousand yuan without a second thought, while he had to rely on part-time jobs and donations just to cover his grandmother’s medical bills.

Shen Ze frowned, seemingly confused by his refusal: "Lin Yan, getting treatment is the most important thing. Don’t worry about the money."

"Yes," Su Wan echoed, trying to persuade him. "This is just a small token of our care. Please don’t overthink it."

"I’m not overthinking," Lin Yan suddenly looked up, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I know you mean well, but I can’t take it. I can work more part-time jobs. I can apply for a scholarship from the school. I don’t need donations like this."

His voice carried a hint of stubbornness, and an undeniable sense of humiliation. He looked at Su Wan—at the familiar watch on her wrist, at the parasol leaf necklace around her neck—and then at his own faded jacket and worn shoe edges. A wave of bitterness surged in his heart.

He thought back to the first time he’d met Su Wan in the library, how elegant she’d looked; to helping her pick up her sketches in the Art Building, the delicacy of her fingertips; to countless times watching her and Shen Ze together, happy and intimate. It turned out the gap between their worlds was truly insurmountable. Their kindness, to him, felt more like a reminder—of the distance between them, of his own insignificance and inferiority.

Su Wan seemed to sense his humiliation, a flicker of hesitation crossing her eyes. She gently pulled Shen Ze’s arm, whispering: "Maybe Lin Yan has his own reasons. Let’s not push him."

Shen Ze froze for a moment, then nodded in understanding and pulled his hand back. He looked at Lin Yan, his tone softening: "I’m sorry, we didn’t think this through. If you need anything later, feel free to ask us."

Su Wan nodded too, her eyes filled with apology: "I hope your grandmother gets better soon. If there’s anything else I can do to help, please tell me."

Lin Yan didn’t speak, just shook his head slightly. He watched as they turned to leave—Shen Ze naturally taking Su Wan’s hand, the two of them walking side by side into the bitter wind. The thorn in his heart dug deeper.

The student union member whispered, "Lin Yan, they really mean well. That money could really help your grandmother..."

"I know," Lin Yan interrupted, his voice hoarse. "But I can’t take it."

He picked up the donation register, tore out the page with Su Wan and Shen Ze’s names, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into the nearby trash can. Then he took a deep breath, straightened his back, and forced a smile—uglier than a cry—at the students approaching one after another: "Thank you all for your help. I’ll keep track of every penny, and I promise to pay you back someday."

That afternoon, Lin Yan stood beneath the donation banner, accepting donations from many classmates—ten yuan, fifty yuan, a hundred yuan. He recorded each amount carefully in a notebook, his heart filled with gratitude. But only Su Wan and Shen Ze’s money lingered like a thorn in his chest, making him restless and uneasy.

After finishing his part-time job that evening, Lin Yan called his neighbor back home. Learning that Grandma’s condition had stabilized temporarily, he finally felt a little relieved. He sat by the window of his rented room, staring at the moonlight outside, clutching the notebook full of donations in his hand, his heart a jumble of emotions.

He knew Su Wan and Shen Ze meant no harm. They’d only wanted to help, out of kindness. But he couldn’t bring himself to accept that kindness—because behind it lay a life he could never reach, a gap he could never bridge, no matter how hard he tried.

He thought back to the way Su Wan had looked at him that day—with apology and concern—but that gaze had only made him feel more humiliated. He’d felt like a clown stripped bare, standing in front of them, his embarrassment and inferiority laid bare for all to see.

Lin Yan pulled out the last remaining scrap of the parasol leaf sketch from the drawer—the one he hadn’t burned completely. Staring at that tiny piece of paper, a fierce sense of unwillingness surged in his heart. He couldn’t go on like this. He had to work harder. He had to become stronger. He had to give Grandma a better life, and he had to stand in front of anyone—including Su Wan—with dignity.

He picked up his postgraduate exam real questions, the scratch of his pen against the paper sounding unusually clear in the quiet room. The wind outside still howled, but Lin Yan’s eyes had turned unusually resolute. All those uncomfortable emotions—humiliation, inferiority, embarrassment—had transformed into motivation for him to move forward. He knew the road ahead would be tough, but he had to keep going—for Grandma, and for his last shred of dignity.