If you ever open this letter, I don’t know when that will be. I also don’t know how this piece of paper will pass through your fingers, or what you’ll feel the moment these words catch your eye. Maybe you won’t feel anything at all.

But I want to tell you, I’m writing this letter at night.

I love the night the most. Many girls are afraid of the dark, but I’m not. The night is quiet and silent, which actually makes me feel very safe. Especially when I have something on my mind, the night feels even more like a shield that can block out all disturbances, so I can think quietly by myself, and no one will know. That’s why I chose my favorite time to pick up my pen.

I wonder what your favorite time of day is.

It’s autumn now. I don’t know if you’ve noticed that if you stand in the corridor outside the classroom and look southeast, you can see the plane trees near the library. Their leaves have already turned yellow. By winter, they’ll definitely be bare, like an old monk with a thick skull.

Actually, just thinking that the few scenic spots on campus may have also been seen by you makes me happy, as if you’ve given them flesh and soul again (maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration). Of course, it’s not entirely like that—even if you’ve never noticed them, I still really like the environment at Meizhong.

I feel like I’ve written a lot of nonsense—boring, childish things. I hope a top student like you won’t mind. I really want to stay up all night writing you this nonsense, but that’s impossible, because I have to study too, and I have to take the college entrance exam. I’m sure you do as well. Allow me to be a bit presumptuous and ask: what’s your dream university? I want to study in Beijing. With my grades, I definitely won’t get into a top university, and maybe I’m the only one who wants to go to Beijing just because Mr. Yu Dafu wrote “Autumn in the Ancient Capital.”

It’s okay if you don’t answer these questions. I’ll be happy enough if you see this letter.

If by any chance this letter gets thrown away, and someone picks it up and reads it, I think I’d be mortified. No matter who reads this letter, please don’t laugh at me too much. Thank you.

Sigh, there are stray cats outside the window, meowing again and again. I saw them during the day—their eyes are black and shiny. They look at you for a moment, then turn and walk away silently. My grandma often brings them leftovers to feed them.

I wanted to have an elegant ending, but unfortunately, I was interrupted by the stray cats. I’ll stop here. Best wishes.”

The letter ends abruptly.

What is all this? Henry Webb frowned as he read. Is this what a girl’s love letter is like? It’s not as if he’s never opened one before, but it didn’t seem like this.

But he had to admit, he actually read it patiently to the end. Maybe, probably, it was just because someone else liked the night as much as he did.

Only then did Henry Webb notice that there was no salutation at the beginning and no signature at the end. In other words, if this letter hadn’t been delivered to him, it could have been for anyone.

At the time, when the boy from the next class handed him the letter, he hadn’t paid attention to the girl’s name. Now, no matter how hard he tried to recall, it was just a vague and distant voice.

But that didn’t matter. Henry Webb knew this kind of thing would eventually fade away; the only difference was how long it would take. He wouldn’t reply, nor was he very interested in knowing who liked him.

Especially someone with such terrible handwriting—Henry Webb didn’t know how he managed to read through it so patiently. Ridiculous.

He folded the letter and tossed it into the storage cabinet on the balcony. There were osmanthus trees planted in the neighborhood, their strong fragrance wafting in waves, like a surging tide. The boy suspected that every neighborhood had such pungent flowers. He got up and closed the window.

The holiday was long, and the city library was crowded every day. Brian Clark had gone several days in a row, but never saw the person she wanted to see.

She returned home disappointed, and even her grandma’s cooking didn’t taste good anymore.

At her desk, surrounded by piles of books and materials, she worked through subject after subject, endlessly. From time to time, Brian Clark would look up at the window and space out for a while. The moment she thought about actually writing that kind of letter to Henry Webb, Brian Clark immediately felt terribly embarrassed. She turned around, flopped onto the bed, and covered her head with a pillow.

She stayed in that oxygen-deprived state for ten seconds, then let go, each breath accompanied by the pounding of her heart.

Brian Clark couldn’t help but roll over on the bed.

So embarrassing—how could she have written that? The more she thought about it, the more mortified she felt. But she also knew clearly that she would do it again.

Outside, her grandma was knocking on the door. Brian Clark jumped up, quickly straightened her clothes.

When she opened the door, her grandma’s smiling face appeared: “Baby, Auntie Li from downstairs gave you a Xinhua Bookstore gift card. You can buy books with it. Here you go.”

Brian Clark’s eyes lit up. She could buy books again, and in a way, it was free. She didn’t like taking advantage of others, but she was still very happy that Auntie Li gave her a book card.

“Your mom…” The old lady, seeing her reaction, subconsciously started to say something, then suddenly realized and stopped herself, her eyes darting away. Brian Clark felt something surge up in her chest, churning and swelling, and she almost blurted out a question.

But she didn’t. She just smiled sweetly, as if she hadn’t heard anything: “I’ll give Auntie Li one of my little potted plants as a thank-you.”

Those were flower seedlings her grandpa had brought back from the countryside during the summer. Brian Clark had raised them, and each pot was thriving.