Water Lily

3

The study room is always packed at the end of October. Lin Yan arrived half an hour early to secure a window seat. He spread out the newly borrowed postgraduate entrance exam real questions on the desk, and the tip of his pen raced across the scratch paper. It wasn’t until the morning light filtered through the glass and fell on the exercise book that he realized he’d been writing intensely for two hours.

As he raised his hand to rub his temples, the corner of his eye caught a cream-colored figure walking in from the door. Lin Yan’s pen froze mid-air, his heart feeling as if gently squeezed — it was Su Wan. She held a thick album, her steps light. Her gaze swept across the crowded room, finally resting on the empty seat diagonally behind Lin Yan.

Lin Yan quickly bowed his head, pretending to focus intently on the real questions, but his ears involuntarily picked up the movements behind him. The soft sound of a chair being pulled out, the faint rustle of the album being placed on the desk, and the scratch of a pen gliding across paper — every detail reached his ears clearly, slowing his heartbeat by half a beat.

He stole a glance backward from the corner of his eye, seeing Su Wan bending over to sketch something in her album. The sunlight fell on her profile, and the shadow of her eyelashes flickered gently on the drawing paper. Even the way she held the pen exuded elegance. In front of her was a cup of hot coffee, a limited-edition piece from a luxury brand. Lin Yan had seen it in a mall window; its price was enough to buy him a month’s worth of breakfast.

The study room was quiet, filled only with the sound of turning pages and pens scratching paper. Lin Yan forced himself to focus back on the real questions, but his thoughts kept drifting to the person behind him. He remembered the distant look in Su Wan’s eyes when she spoke to her family during their chance encounter at the restaurant, and the impenetrable barrier under her umbrella on that rainy day, a faint sense of loss welling up in his heart.

After about an hour, Su Wan stood up to get water. As she passed Lin Yan, her steps paused for a moment. Lin Yan’s body stiffened instantly, and he tightened his grip on his pen, fearing she might speak. But she only glanced briefly at the real questions on his desk before continuing forward, no pause, no extra expression.

When she returned with water and sat down, a girl holding a sketchbook approached, asking softly if she could consult her about composition. Su Wan looked up, the corners of her mouth curving into a gentle arc, her voice soft yet clear: “Of course, let me see your sketchbook.”

Lin Yan pricked up his ears to listen to the conversation behind him. Su Wan explained patiently, from composition proportions to color matching, her words well-organized. Yet there was always a polite distance in her tone — not overly close, nor perfunctory, just treating the girl as an ordinary classmate.

After the girl thanked her and left, the study room fell quiet again. Lin Yan stole another glance back, seeing Su Wan packing her art supplies with her head down. Her fingers brushed the paintbrushes gently, her eyes calm as if the earlier interaction had been just an ordinary trivial matter.

So she really was like this with everyone — gentle and polite, yet always maintaining a perfectly appropriate distance. Lin Yan smiled bitterly. He’d once had his heart racing over her simple “Be careful,” but now he realized it had all been his illusion. Her politeness had never been exclusive; it was just a habit etched into her bones.

At lunchtime, Lin Yan ran into Su Wan again at the cafeteria entrance. She was walking with a boy who held two ice creams, handing one to her. Su Wan took it, said “Thank you,” but didn’t eat it immediately, just held it in her hand. They walked side by side, the boy talking about something, while Su Wan nodded occasionally in response. Her eyes, however, were fixed on the parasol trees in the distance, clearly distracted.

Lin Yan quickly bowed his head and turned to another food counter. As he carried his bowl of green vegetable noodles to find a seat, he saw Su Wan and the boy sitting by the window. The boy was still talking, but Su Wan took out her phone, glanced at it, and said to him: “Sorry, I have something to do this afternoon. I have to leave first.”

The boy froze for a moment, then smiled and said: “Okay, let’s chat next time.” Su Wan nodded, stood up, and left. The ice cream in her hand, still unopened, was casually placed on the table.

Lin Yan watched her back disappear at the cafeteria entrance, a strange feeling stirring in his heart. He thought of the anticipation in the boy’s eyes earlier, and then of Su Wan’s distant gaze. Suddenly, he felt that perhaps it wasn’t that she didn’t want to get close to others, but that she was used to using politeness as a protective layer, keeping everyone out of her world.

When he returned to the study room in the afternoon, Su Wan was gone. Her seat was neatly tidied up — she’d taken her album and coffee cup, leaving only a small sticky note. On it was written in elegant handwriting: “Thank you for using,” probably for the next person who sat there.

Looking at the note, Lin Yan suddenly thought of the folded square note in his wallet. The same handwriting, the same politeness, but no special meaning at all. He sighed softly, turning his attention back to the real questions. His pen continued to scribble on the scratch paper, but the hidden affection in his heart seemed to fade a little more.

By the time he left the study room in the evening, it was already dark. Lin Yan walked along the parasol-lined path, the streetlights stretching his shadow long. Passing the dessert shop at the school gate, he saw a poster for the same ice cream Su Wan had left unopened that afternoon, a nameless emotion welling up inside him.

He took out his phone, opened the contacts, and clicked on the unmarked number. His finger hovered over the dial button for a long time, but he finally turned off the phone. He knew that even if he made the call, he wouldn’t know what to say. Su Wan’s world was like an exquisite glass cover — he could only stand outside and admire it from afar, daring not to approach, nor able to.

Back in his rented room, Lin Yan took out the note from his wallet, glanced at the elegant handwriting, then carefully folded it again and put it back at the bottom. He turned on the desk lamp, picked up the postgraduate exam real questions, and his pen resumed scribbling on the scratch paper. Outside the window, the parasol leaves rustled in the wind. Lin Yan looked at the explanations in the exercise book, his heart unusually calm — perhaps this was for the best. Hiding this affection deep in his heart, not disturbing, not coveting, like a distant faint light in the study room, occasionally illuminating his heart without burning it.