The Scarf and the Ten-Year Silence

My phone vibrated while I was in the kitchen, fumbling through the chaos of frying an egg.

It was a WeChat message from Old Chen: "Class reunion next Saturday. It’s been ten years since we’ve had everyone together. You coming?"

I stared at the screen for several seconds, my thumb hovering over the input box, typing and deleting, deleting and typing. Finally, I replied with a single word: "Coming."

I knew what I was looking forward to. Or rather, I knew who I was looking forward to.

After I put the phone down, I stood dazed in the kitchen for a while. The egg in the pan scorched at the edges, sending up a burnt smell. I turned off the stove and leaned against the counter to light a cigarette.

Ten years.

Some people you think you’ve long forgotten are actually just locked in a corner of your heart. You’ve been clutching the key in your palm all along, never once throwing it away.

Her name was Su Wan.

Back in eleventh grade when the classes were reshuffled, she sat in the row right in front of me. The sunlight was beautiful that day. She turned around to borrow an eraser, and her ponytail brushed against my textbook, carrying the scent of her shampoo. I still remember that scent today—a very faint, delicate fragrance of gardenias.

Later, I specifically went to the supermarket to find that brand of shampoo. It took forever to find. When a big guy like me bought it, the cashier gave me a couple of curious looks, and my face turned bright red.

Back in high school, I was a total coward.

I liked her, but I didn't dare say a word. Every day in class, I would just stare at the back of her head—watching her lean down to write, watching her tuck her hair behind her ear, watching her shoulders shake as she giggled while whispering to her desk-mate.

I wrote her love letters—writing and tearing, tearing and writing—but in the end, I never had the nerve to hand them over.

The only time I plucked up the courage was during the winter of our senior year. The power went out during evening self-study, and the classroom descended into chaos. I groped through the dark to her seat, stuffed my scarf into her hands, blurted out "Don't catch a cold," and turned and ran.

After I got outside, my heart was pounding like a drum. I paced around the track three times before I dared to go back to the classroom.

She eventually returned the scarf to me, washed clean and folded neatly. She smiled and said thank you, her eyes clear and simple, thinking nothing more of it.

I knew then that this girl hadn't caught the hint at all.

The night after the Gaokao—the college entrance exam—ended, the whole class went to a KTV to stay up all night. She sang René Liu’s "Later," and by the final line, I almost rushed up to confess. But Old Chen, drunk out of his mind, slumped on my shoulder and started crying because the girl he liked was going to a university in another province. My courage just deflated.

Some people are like that; you think there will always be a chance to speak up, but opportunities never wait for anyone.

After university graduation, we went our separate ways. I stayed in this city to work; I heard she went to Shanghai, and later heard she returned to her hometown to become a civil servant. Occasionally, I’d see photos she posted on her "Moments," still smiling that same way, eyes curving into crescents.

I "liked" her posts many times, but I never commented. I didn't know what to say, and I was afraid that saying too much would look intentional.

It’s not like I haven't dated in these years. Blind dates, introductions from friends—I’ve seen a few people in a passing blur. But every time things reached a certain point, I would unconsciously compare them to her—her smile isn't as pretty as Su Wan’s, her voice isn't as gentle as Su Wan’s, she doesn't carry a white shirt the way Su Wan does.

I know it’s not right; it’s unfair to everyone involved. But with matters of the heart, logic can control your actions, but it can't control your soul.

Last month, my mother called and asked what I planned to do, now that I’m in my thirties. I said I was waiting, and she got anxious: "Waiting for what? For a wife to fall from the sky?"

I didn't dare say that I was waiting for someone impossible.

The reunion was in a banquet hall of a hotel in the south of the city. I arrived an hour early and sat in my car for a long time, smoking several cigarettes. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror—my hair was thinning a bit, a few white strands were showing at the temples, and I was wearing a brand-new shirt I’d bought specifically for this. No matter how I looked at it, I felt awkward.

I laughed at myself, thinking how at my age, I was still acting like a seventeen-year-old about to meet his crush.

Inside the banquet hall, many people had already arrived. Old Chen was the first to rush over and slap my shoulder: "Holy crap, you've gotten thin!" After some small talk, my eyes instinctively began scanning the crowd.

And then I saw her.

Su Wan was sitting by the window, her head turned as she talked to a girl next to her. She was still the same—her eyes curving like little crescent moons when she laughed. Her hair was shorter than before, draped over her shoulders, and she was wearing a pale blue knit sweater. She looked so gentle.

Ten years had passed, and she seemed barely changed, yet everything seemed different. There was a touch of maturity in her features now, less of that teenage greenness, but that comfortable aura of hers hadn't faded one bit.

My heart was racing—so fast I found it pathetic. A man in his thirties who had seen the world, yet the moment I saw her, I was that same green boy from high school.

I took a deep breath and was just about to walk over to say hello when the person next to her stood up.

It was a man.

He was tall, wearing glasses, looking refined and scholarly. He poured a glass of water for her and naturally put his arm around her shoulder. Su Wan looked up and smiled at him—that smile...

I had seen that smile before. In high school, the way she looked at me was clean and polite. But this smile was different. This was the smile of someone who has placed another person in their heart.

Old Chen leaned in and whispered: "See that? Her husband. Surname’s Lin, heard he’s a doctor. Good guy. They’ve been married for two years, very much in love."

I gave a muffled "mm," picked up a glass of water, and took a sip. I realized my hand was shaking.

Eventually, I went over to say hello anyway. Su Wan saw me, and her eyes lit up: "Oh, long time no see!" Her voice was just as it was—soft and full of warmth.

She introduced him: "This is my husband, Lin Yuan."

I reached out and shook his hand. His palm was warm, his grip was firm but not aggressive, and his gaze was honest and open.

"Wanwan mentions you all often, saying high school classmates are the best of friends," he said with a smile.

Wanwan. He called her Wanwan.

I repeated the name silently in my head and felt a tightness in my throat.

"Is that so? She didn't talk much in class back then. We all thought she was a bit 'cool' and aloof," I said, trying to make my voice sound normal.

Su Wan laughed and gave my arm a playful shove: "Nonsense! I was just shy!"

That one gesture was exactly like high school. Back then, she would sometimes turn around to ask me a math problem, and when I finished explaining, she’d smile and shove me just like that, saying, "You're so smart."

For a moment, I almost drifted away into a trance, almost believing nothing had changed—that we were still sitting in that classroom, summer outside the window, the sound of cicadas rising in waves.

But Lin Yuan was sitting right there beside her, putting food on her plate, intercepting drinks for her, naturally draping his jacket over her shoulders. The look in her eyes as she watched him was one of total trust and reliance. You can't fake a look like that.

At the table, everyone started clamoring for old classmates to share stories from over the years. When it was Su Wan’s turn, she said a few simple words, then turned to look at Lin Yuan and said, "Actually, nothing special happened. I just met someone who is good to me, and I realized—so this is what it feels like to be cherished by someone."

As she said this, her eyes grew a little red. Lin Yuan squeezed her hand under the table. He didn't say anything, but she instantly looked at peace.

Sitting across from them, watching all this, my heart was in an uproar, yet I had to keep a smile pinned to my face.

Halfway through, I went to the restroom and stood before the mirror for a long time. I looked at the face in the mirror and suddenly felt it was a stranger's. What had I been waiting for these ten years? For a person I never even confessed to? Waiting for her to suddenly discover my existence one day? Waiting for a romance that only existed inside my own head?

I’m a damn fool.

When I returned to the private room, Su Wan was singing. It was still that song, "Later," but this time she didn't sing it very well. She was off-key, forgot the lyrics, and broke into laughter halfway through.

Lin Yuan was beside her, tapping out the beat, shaking his head with a smile, his eyes full of pure adoration.

I leaned against the doorframe and listened for a while, and it suddenly hit me—

Ten years ago, she sang that song with the melancholy of a young girl. Today, she sang it with the happiness of a woman who is loved.

They were completely different.

When the reunion broke up, people drifted out in small groups. I lagged behind at the very end; Su Wan and Lin Yuan were also walking slowly.

At the hotel entrance, Su Wan suddenly turned back to me: "Oh, by the way, that scarf back then—when I gave it back to you, were you angry? I always felt like you didn't talk to me much after that."

I froze for a moment, then smiled: "No, back then... it was just the pressure of the exams."

She nodded, seemingly convinced. Then Lin Yuan came over to take her hand, and she waved at me: "Let’s get together again next time!"

"Okay."

I stood on the steps, watching their car disappear into the night. The streetlights flickered on one by one. The wind was a bit chilly, making my eyes sting.

Old Chen walked over and handed me a cigarette: "You okay?"

"I'm fine." I lit the cigarette and took a drag. "What could be wrong?"

Old Chen looked at me, hesitated as if to speak, but finally just patted my shoulder: "Brother, some words... if you don't say them when they should be said, then don't ever say them."

I smiled and didn't respond.

In truth, I knew it wasn't that I couldn't let go of her. I couldn't let go of that seventeen-year-old version of myself. That boy who sat in the classroom secretly watching the ponytail of the girl in the front row; that coward who wrote love letters but didn't dare hand them over; that idiot who stuffed a scarf into her hands on a dark winter night and ran away.

What I missed wasn't Su Wan. It was my own unfinished story.

And the girl in that story had long ago walked far away—out of the story and into a life of her own. She had met a good man, was being loved well, and was loving someone else well in return.

That is enough.

Truly, that is enough.

On the way home, I drove past the gate of our old high school. The perimeter wall had been torn down, new buildings had been erected—everything had changed. But the old locust tree at the entrance was still there, and the streetlights were still glowing.

I pulled over and sat for a while.

Then I took out my phone and scrolled to Su Wan’s WeChat Moments. The latest post was from today—a group photo from the reunion, captioned: "Ten years, and everyone is still the way they used to be."

I gave it a "like," then exited the app and tossed my phone onto the passenger seat.

When I started the car, an old song was playing on the radio, just reaching the line: "How do you remember me? With a smile, or with silence?"

I hummed along for a couple of lines, then turned off the radio.

The world outside the window was quiet. The streetlights stretched the shadows long. As I drove slowly forward, a voice inside me said—

Let it be.

Some things, some words, and some people are meant to stay in that year.

That scarf, that unsent love letter, those afternoons spent staring at the back of her head, that dark winter night... they all stay there.

I won't take them with me.

It’s time for my story to turn the page.