I Won't Stay for You

In November of junior year, the campus mornings were always wrapped in a biting chill. The sky had not yet fully brightened, and the fog gently veiled the Teaching Building like a thin shroud. The gray-white outline of the building loomed faintly through the mist, tiny droplets clinging to the window glass, winding down the walls, leaving pale gray streaks as if harboring secrets unwilling to be revealed. The air was bitterly cold; each breath sent shivers through my nostrils and chest. Even the white breath I exhaled lingered unusually long, hovering briefly before slowly dissolving into the morning fog. The path beside the Teaching Building was thickly carpeted with ginkgo leaves. The golden leaves softly cushion the ground beneath my feet, their gentle rustling sounding like a delicate whisper. That sound, fragile and tender, stirs sharp pains within my heart — this path was once Daniel Collins's and my favorite place to walk. Every year at this season, we would hold hands as we strolled here, bending down to pick a few leaves of beautiful shapes, carefully pressing them between the pages of our textbooks as bookmarks. He always said the ginkgo leaves were like small fans, capable of fanning away all sorrow, yet now, this carpet of gold weighs heavily upon my heart. That afternoon, free of classes, sunlight filtered through the sparse clouds, carrying the distinct chill of early winter, casting mottled patterns of light and shadow upon the ground. Daniel Collins and I walked side by side along Ginkgo Avenue. Occasionally, classmates clutching their books passed by, smiling as they greeted us, but Daniel only offered a perfunctory nod, his lips stiff and strained. He wore a dark navy coat, its collar standing tall; his hands were buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders tight and tense, his steps noticeably quicker than usual. The tip of my shoe occasionally kicks up a ginkgo leaf, which twirls once in the air before being swept away by the wind, just like the bond between us slowly drifting apart. I deliberately slow my steps, the off-white hem of my skirt lightly brushing against the roadside grass, stirring up fine wisps of fluff that cling to the fabric, swaying gently as I walk. I want to stay with him a little longer, even if only to walk in silence, but he remains completely unaware of my thoughts. His eyes stay fixed on the intersection ahead, as if hurrying toward some urgent matter, completely oblivious to my falling behind. Unconsciously, a half-meter gap has stretched between us. That slender space is filled with biting wind, chilling the heart, while even the fingertips grow cold.