Two years had changed many things.
But not this.
The ginkgo tree still stood where it always had, its branches wider now, its shade stretching farther across the schoolyard. The golden leaves returned each season without fail, just as the days continued their steady, predictable rhythm.
And beneath it—
Lu Yuan waited.
At ten years old, he had grown into a quieter kind of presence. He no longer lingered at the edges of everything. He stood where he wished to stand. Spoke when necessary. Watched more than he spoke. His eyes absorbed the world around him, capturing fleeting moments that others let slip away.
And every afternoon, his gaze remained fixed on the same place.
The school gates.
He did not fidget anymore.
He did not doubt.
Waiting had long since stopped feeling like waiting.
It was simply part of the day.
Then—
she appeared.
Qingyue stepped out among the students, her movements calm, composed in a way that came naturally to her now. The childish brightness she once carried had softened into something more refined—but not colder. No, not to him.
Her eyes found him easily.
They always did.
"Yuan."
He stepped forward without hesitation.
"Jiejie."
The word came just as naturally.
Not shy.
Not uncertain.
Familiar.
Qingyue smiled faintly at it, as she always did. There was a warmth in her gaze that melted the distance they felt, as if the years had forged a bond even deeper than friendship. They began walking, the rhythmic sound of their footsteps intertwining with the gentle rustle of ginkgo leaves falling around them.
There was no space left between them now—not the careful distance they once kept. Their steps aligned instinctively, shoulders nearly brushing, their pace matched so precisely it no longer required thought.
Time had smoothed everything.
What was once fragile had become steady.
Reliable.
"Did you finish your assignment?" Qingyue asked lightly, glancing up at him with an expectant smile.
"Mm."
"And?"
"I got it right."
She glanced at him, a hint of amusement in her eyes, as if she could see through the layers of quiet confidence he wrapped around himself. "You sound very confident."
"I am," he replied firmly.
There was no arrogance in his tone.
Just certainty.
Qingyue laughed softly. "That's good, then."
Her voice still carried that same warmth—unchanged, familiar, easy. Lu Yuan listened the way he always did, fully. Each word she spoke settled somewhere within him, unnoticed by her, but never lost. She was like a gentle tide, filling the spaces he didn't know were empty.
They passed the usual shops. The same streets. The same turns. All the landmarks of their journey home became markers on a map of friendship, familiar yet always fresh. Everything was as it should be.
Except—
today, Qingyue was quieter.
Not obviously so.
Just enough.
Lu Yuan noticed almost immediately.
"You're thinking about something," he said, a trace of concern breaking through his usual calm.
She glanced at him, slightly surprised. "Is it that obvious?"
"Yes."
A small pause hung between them, thickening the air.
Then she exhaled softly, her breath visible in the cool afternoon. "My father received a transfer."
The words were simple.
Too simple.
Lu Yuan's steps slowed—just slightly.
"To another city," she added, as if unveiling a plain truth.
Silence followed.
The world continued around them. A cart rolled past, its wheels creaking. Someone called out from across the street. Leaves shifted in the wind, swirling down in graceful arcs.
Nothing stopped.
But something… shifted.
"When?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Before the next school term," she replied.
Soon.
The word settled heavily this time, filling the empty crevices of his heart with dread.
"And you're going?" he asked quietly, the weight of her impending departure hanging like a pendulum between them.
Qingyue nodded. "I'll be attending school there."
She kept her tone even, practical—as though explaining something ordinary.
But it wasn't.
Not really.
Lu Yuan's gaze lowered for a moment, struggling to process this new reality. Then he lifted it again, returning to her.
"And when will you come back?" he asked, the words trembling slightly on his tongue.
There it was.
Not if.
When.
A silent pause stretched between them.
Qingyue hesitated.
"I'm not sure," she admitted finally, her voice softer now. "It might take a few years."
A few years.
The phrase didn't sit right.
It didn't fit anywhere in his understanding of things. Time had always been a companion, a steady flow he could rely on. But now, it twisted and turned, becoming a tether that threatened to snap.
They walked in silence for a few steps, the rhythm of their feet disrupted by the weight of unspoken fears.
Then—
"Jiejie."
He rarely called her that mid-conversation.
Only when something mattered.
She turned slightly, eyebrows raising in curiosity. "Mm?"
"…Do you have to go?"
The question was quiet.
Careful.
But it carried something deeper than curiosity.
Qingyue blinked, caught off guard by it. "It's my father's work," she said gently, her tone soothing. "I don't really have a choice."
A reasonable answer.
A normal answer.
But Lu Yuan didn't respond.
Because it didn't address the question he really meant.
His fingers curled faintly at his side.
He wanted to say much more, but words felt trapped in his throat.
"You said," he began slowly, "we would keep walking home."
Qingyue stilled.
It wasn't an accusation.
He wasn't blaming her.
He was simply… stating something he had believed to be true. Something constant. Something that wasn't supposed to change.
Her expression softened, and the shadows crossed her face—a fleeting flicker of guilt as she searched for words.
"Yuan…"
She didn't know how to respond.
Because to her—
that promise had never been absolute.
It had just been… time passing.
But to him—
it had been something else entirely.
They walked a few more paces in silence, the weight of her next words heavy between them.
"We still have time," she said instead, trying to reassure him, though her voice held a trace of uncertainty that pierced through her optimism. "I'm not leaving immediately."
Time.
A limited thing.
Something that now had an end.
Lu Yuan nodded.
But it was slower this time.
Less certain.
They reached the intersection.
For once, Qingyue didn't turn right away.
She looked at him, her gaze steady, searching.
"Even if I go," she said, attempting to bridge the distance that was now growing between them, "I won't forget you."
The words were soft.
Sincere.
But they didn't land the way she expected.
Lu Yuan's gaze didn't shift.
"I won't forget you either," he said firmly, the resolve evident in his tone.
A pause.
Then, quieter—
"So don't forget me, Jiejie."
Something in his tone made her chest tighten slightly.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Just… something she couldn't quite name—a heavy realization of how fragile the bonds they had formed truly were.
She smiled, softer this time, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I won't."
Then she turned and walked away.
Lu Yuan stood there longer than usual.
Watching.
Until she disappeared.
Until there was nothing left to see.
That night, the house was loud as always.
Voices. Anger. Doors slamming against walls.
But for once—
he didn't hear them.
He sat quietly on his bed, something small clutched in his hands.
A folded piece of paper.
A drawing Qingyue had given him months ago—her playful interpretation of what life could be, filled with ginkgo trees and golden autumn leaves.
He stared at it for a long time, tracing the outlines with his fingers.
Then carefully smoothed out its edges.
As if preserving it.
Holding it in place.
His fingers tightened slightly, fearing that if he released it, the memory would slip away, just as Qingyue would.
A few years.
Too long.
Far away.
Uncertain.
His gaze darkened, just slightly.
No.
Not like that.
He needed to hold on, to find a way to keep her near till she leaves.
As he cradled the drawing, he found himself making a silent vow. He would remember. He would ensure that every moment shared, every laugh exchanged, remained vivid within him.
Because to forget meant losing a part of himself.
And that, he couldn't allow.
With a deep breath, Lu Yuan folded the drawing carefully before tucking it beneath his pillow, determination blooming in the ashes of fear.
Tomorrow, hope would guide him through the uncertainties.