The monsoon rain was late that year, but the wind carried the same scent of coming storms — wet leaves, rust, and distant earth. The city shimmered beneath an endless sea of lights, but for Li Wei, none of it seemed bright enough.
He sat on the balcony railing of their apartment, looking down at the stream of cars. Somewhere below, the laughter of schoolboys echoed faintly — the same kind he'd once shared in the village. But even surrounded by noise, Li Wei felt a strange kind of silence inside.
It had been years since that summer — the one with laddus, fireflies, and a girl whose laugh still clung to the corners of his memory.
Lin Yue.
He didn't know why the name kept coming back. Maybe because lately, every time he walked home from school, he'd see something that reminded him of her — the sound of anklets from a temple dancer, a girl braiding flowers by the roadside, or even just the taste of a sweet too sugary to forget.
At first, he told himself it was nothing. Just nostalgia.
But it didn't go away.
"Mom," he'd asked one night at dinner, casually at first, "you still talk to Auntie Zhang, right? Lin Yue's mom?"
His mother had paused mid-bite. "Hmm? Yes, sometimes. Why?"
He shrugged, trying to look uninterested. "No reason. Just wondering if their family's still in that village."
She gave him a knowing smile. "Oh? After all these years, now you remember her? The girl you used to fight laddus for?"
Li Wei nearly choked on his rice. "Wha— I didn't fight her! She was the one—"
His mother laughed. "You still get defensive. It's cute."
He sighed dramatically and focused on his bowl, but his heart was quietly pounding.
The next week, he tried again.
And again.
And again.
At breakfast. In the car. Even while she was cooking.
"Mom, you said you'd message Auntie Zhang, right?"
"Mom, did she reply?"
"Mom, if you don't give me her number, I'll fail math out of sadness."
Finally, one Sunday morning, his mother gave up. "You're impossible, Li Wei. Fine. Here, I'll give it to you. But don't go bothering her too much, okay?"
He tried not to grin too hard as she scribbled the digits on a small piece of paper.
That night, he stared at those numbers for a long time. The city outside glowed through his curtains — soft, electric light against the quiet hum of his thoughts.
He typed the number into his phone, hesitated, deleted it, and typed it again.
What if she doesn't remember me?
What if she does?
His thumb hovered over the keyboard for a long moment before he finally pressed send.
Li Wei: Hey. Are you Lin Yue?
The message hung there like a question in the air.
He put his phone aside, pretending not to care, even as his stomach twisted with nervous energy.
Minutes passed. Then the phone buzzed.
He grabbed it immediately.
Lin Yue: Hi… yes. Who's this?
He exhaled, smiling without realizing it.
Even after years, the words felt familiar — simple, direct, yet gentle somehow.
Li Wei: It's Li Wei. Do you… remember me?
He could already imagine her face — that tiny frown she made when thinking, her head tilting slightly.
But miles away, in a quiet classroom, Lin Yue was already standing to leave for the staff room, her phone buzzing faintly on the desk.
The school bell had just rung, and sunlight poured lazily through the dusty windows. Lin Yue's hair caught the light as she turned toward the teacher's desk.
"Lin Yue, come to the staff room for a minute," her teacher said.
She nodded, left her phone on the table, and walked out with her notebook in hand.
Her deskmate, Chen Hao, glanced at the phone. The name flashing on the screen made his pulse hitch for a moment:
Li Wei.
He'd heard that name before. Many times.
Back in middle school, Lin Yue had told her friends about him — the mischievous city boy who'd fought her over sweets and carried her home when she'd tripped. The one who made her laugh harder than anyone else ever did.
At first, Chen Hao had laughed too, pretending it was just a silly story. But every time she brought it up, something tightened inside him — something bitter and jealous.
Now, years later, here it was again. That name. That ghost from her past.
He stared at the screen as the message appeared:
It's Li Wei. Do you… remember me?
His chest burned. Without thinking, he opened the chat.
Chen Hao (pretending to be Lin Yue): I don't remember you.
He waited, glaring at the screen.
A reply came quickly.
Li Wei: Really? I'm the boy who fought you for laddus at the wedding. You scolded me for eating too many, remember?
Something twisted in Chen Hao's stomach — jealousy mixed with resentment.
He could see her face lighting up as she once told that story. "He was so annoying but… kind of funny."
Before he knew it, his fingers were moving again.
Chen Hao (as Lin Yue): I don't know you. Stop pestering me. Don't message again.
Then, coldly, he deleted the entire chat — every trace of Li Wei's messages.
He told himself it was fine. That Li Wei didn't belong in Lin Yue's life anymore. That she didn't need someone from the city reminding her of things that were better left in the past.
But deep down, he knew it wasn't protection. It was fear.
Fear that her heart still remembered someone she shouldn't.
Meanwhile, back in the city, Li Wei was staring at his phone, the faint glow reflected in his eyes.
He reread the message over and over.
I don't know you. Stop pestering me.
He laughed once, quietly — but it wasn't the usual lighthearted laugh. It was hollow.
"So that's how it is…" he muttered. "Guess I remembered more than she did."
He tossed the phone aside, stretching out on his bed. His chest felt oddly tight, like something warm had turned cold too fast.
Still, he couldn't help smiling faintly. "Maybe I deserved that. I did steal her laddu, after all."
He tried to laugh again. It didn't work.
Back in the village, Lin Yue returned from the staff room. The sunlight had dimmed a little, clouds gathering outside.
Her notebook was still in her hand when she saw Chen Hao quickly pulling his phone back and setting hers down.
"What are you doing with my phone?" she asked, half-curious, half-suspicious.
He looked up too quickly. "Oh—uh, nothing! My phone disappeared, so I just called it from yours."
Her brow furrowed slightly, but she shrugged. "Alright. Just don't mess with my chat list — my mom sends school notes there."
He laughed nervously. "Of course."
As she sat back down, the phone buzzed once — but when she checked, there were no new messages. Just a faint, empty feeling.
Something about the screen looked… wrong.
Like something had been there a second ago.
When the class ended, she found the chat labeled "Unknown Number."
The name Li Wei tugged faintly at the edges of her memory.
She typed a message, feeling an odd mix of curiosity and hesitation.
Lin Yue: Hello? Who's this?
The message was sent. Delivered.
Read.
But there was no reply.
That night, she sat by the window, her hair still damp from washing, the soft hum of crickets echoing in the distance. The stars above the fields looked brighter than usual — or maybe lonelier.
She turned the phone over in her hand, re-reading the single, unanswered message.
Something in her heart stirred — not recognition, but a kind of ache, as though she'd forgotten a song she used to hum.
Far away, Li Wei sat under the city's electric sky, tapping his basketball absently against the floor. His phone lay on the table beside him, the chat open but untouched.
The rain started again, soft and persistent, blurring the skyline.
He looked up, whispering to no one in particular, "I guess you really did forget."
And in another part of the world, Lin Yue closed her window, whispering, "Why does it feel like I lost something?"
The night swallowed both their words — one carried by city wind, the other by village rain — drifting past rivers, fields, and roads that once connected them.
And as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, their lives carried on — exams, festivals, laughter, friends — until even that strange ache dulled into something quieter.
Neither of them knew that fate wasn't finished yet.
It was just… waiting.