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Chapter 34.1 - Rainy Days (1)
Mid-November, winter was approaching. Yesterday the dorm finally turned on the heating, and since then Luo Zhi had been curled up in a corner, unwilling to go out.
She didn’t eat dinner that night—just grabbed a pack of instant noodles from the supermarket on a whim. Halfway through eating, she realized it had no flavor. The seasoning powder packet had been left inside the box. These past couple of days, she had been sluggish and scattered.
Using her fork, she fished out the oily, transparent little packet from the noodle soup, and immediately got goosebumps from the disgust.
Back in high school, she was the fastest at making instant noodles. Standing by the window sill in the boiling water room, listening to the kettle gurgle, then struggling to tear open the oil packet. Sometimes the tear was too small, and she had to squeeze the hardened oil inside into the bowl with force. She clearly remembered a boy she didn’t know standing nearby, frowning at her as she squeezed the oil packet. The scene was vivid in her mind. Luo Zhi knew the words that boy never said.
Indeed, the stuff squeezed out looked a lot like poop. The color, shape, and… the way it moved, all looked very much alike.
But today it went smoothly. Maybe because it was so cold, the oil had solidified. When she tore it open, a neat, square chunk fell into the bowl, not at all interesting.
She threw the noodle bowl on the table, half the noodles still left. She had lost her appetite. Luo Zhi stood up, took a tissue to wipe the seasoning packet clean, and tossed it around in her hand while staring blankly at the powder and vegetable flakes inside.
My middle school deskmate had a strange habit. Every day he would bring a packet of instant noodle seasoning, then pour it into his own water bottle and shake it vigorously. The vegetable powder floated up and down inside, turning the water into—well, a color that’s hard to imagine.
Then, he’d start drinking it with great enjoyment, savoring it slowly, taking small sips with half-closed eyes. Of course, he never saw Luo Zhi’s face twist in disgust.
Eventually, she couldn’t hold back and one day asked, “Where do you get so many seasoning packets?”
He widened his eyes, acting as if it were obvious. “My family cooks noodles every morning, sometimes several packets at once. If we put all the seasoning in, it’d be way too salty, so we save a packet or two each time.”
“Oh... is it tasty?”
He generously handed her the bottle and said, “Here, try it.”
The corners of that mineral water bottle were worn white, and the liquid inside looked utterly miserable. Luo Zhi’s gaze lingered on the water stains at the bottle’s mouth, she swallowed hard and said, “No, thanks.”
The boy’s expression looked a little hurt but he said nothing, stuffed the bottle back into his bag, and awkwardly buried his face in his physics homework.
After that, Luo Zhi never saw him drink that “beverage” again. Looking back now, she felt sad—these seemingly harmless little life details, if asked about too much, could hurt people.
She never apologized. Apologies are a way of revisiting things—a second kind of hurt—so it’s better to just pretend nothing happened.
But at graduation, the deskmate gave her a complete set of EVA figures.
“You like Neon Genesis Evangelion, right?”
She carefully put them away and nodded happily.
“Good luck on your exams.” The deskmate looked awkward and out of place, standing in the aisle while almost everyone else had left.
“You too.”
“What’s there for me to be lucky about? It’s already good enough if I get into vocational high school.”
Luo Zhi knew comforting him with clichés like “All roads lead to Rome” wouldn’t help, so she just smiled and looked down.
After a moment of silence, the deskmate suddenly asked, “Luo Zhi, do you hate me?”
Surprised, she looked up, “How could I?”
“Really?” The deskmate’s face flushed with excitement. “Great! I like you too!”
