Beyond the Pain

The laughter in the dormitory hallway was like shards of broken glass, sharply piercing my eardrums. The door to the activity room on the third floor was half-open; my diary lay spread out on the coffee table, and a few girls were gathered around, pointing at it. The secrets I had hidden between the lines were being passed around as a joke. "So Rachel Lincoln has a crush on Harry Jones, that guy from the Computer Science Department who picks up empty bottles every day?" "Hilarious. She should look at herself first—she's from the Nursing Department. Does she think she deserves Harry?" Clutching the hem of my clothes, my nails digging deep into my palms, I rushed to close the diary and, under their mocking stares, nearly fled from the dormitory. Tears welled in my eyes, but my feet didn't stop; I kept running until I reached the wisteria bed behind the Library, only then daring to crouch down, my shoulders shaking uncontrollably. The late spring breeze carried the sweet scent of wisteria, yet it couldn't ease the weight in my heart. I buried my face in my knees, clutching my diary tightly against my chest, as if it were the last fragment of my dignity. "You're blocking me from picking up the empty bottle." The clear voice carried a faint teasing note, like a breeze gently skimming over a restless lake. I looked up and met a pair of eyes so clear they seemed untouched by any impurity. The boy wore a school uniform, faded from countless washes, with the knees of his pants frayed. Cradled in his arms was a small stack of empty plastic bottles. Without waiting for my reply, he crouched down beside me, carefully arranging the plastic bottles one by one, and somehow built them into a small tower. "See," he said, smiling sideways at me, a faint dimple appearing on his cheek, "no matter how chaotic things are, no matter how hard it gets, if you take your time sorting them out, you can put them all in perfect order." I stared at that crooked, wobbly plastic bottle tower and couldn't help but laugh out loud, but the tears came harder, splashing onto the cover of my diary, smudging a small patch of water stains. His name was Harry Jones, a second-year student in the Computer Science Department. Later, I learned that in his spare time, he always collected recyclables around campus and tutored on weekends, all to save up medical expenses for his grandpa in the countryside. That day, he stayed with me for a long time, didn't ask much—just, after I calmed down, he gave me that plastic bottle tower and said, "When you're sad, look at this. No matter how messy things get, you can always put them in order." Our paths cross from this moment on.