Exiting the advisor's office.
Walking along the campus path, a gentle breeze blew, and bursts of playful noise reached my ears. Young faces were full of laughter, and occasionally I'd pass a rosy-cheeked girl hopping along. The whole atmosphere was relaxed and harmonious—students, except those rushing to class, mostly strolled leisurely. How could such an environment not soothe the soul?
Suddenly, a melody came through the campus broadcast, one of Zhou You's favorite songs from before. It was a tune he'd first heard when he'd just stepped into society, feeling deeply out of place, yearning for his college days, especially that summer right after the college entrance exam. After stumbling upon it, he'd fallen for it completely, unable to pull himself away. Hearing it now, it felt like a lifetime ago.
Chewing gum until it turns bitter, Look up and see the color of the sky. Hair might be a little too long, Tickling my eyes, making them itch.
After school, on the way home, The heat's so bad, who knows the degrees. Kids over there chasing each other, What's so special about it, I don't see.
A diary full of pages, nothing to write, Some worries and sorrows, but at least, I still have happiness, happiness.
Back then, I always used to walk with my head down, Slowly moving forward, watching the snails on the ground. Back then, I'd often sit alone in a corner, Thinking about how he just told me he liked me.
Back then, days were lazy and slow, Even zoning out all day didn't feel lonely. Thinking of those times, I can't help but feel a little sad, The summer of seventeen or eighteen, I still remember it now.
Zhou You hadn't listened to much of Liu Xijun's music, but this song, *That Time Me*, really struck a chord with him. Back then, every day was boring, time felt endless, and now thinking back, he really missed it. Though it was dull, it was truly happy.
After the college entrance exam ended, all pressure vanished. He ran wild in the village, spending every day with friends swimming in the river and catching fish, using the most primitive, crude methods. Find a small creek, not too deep—at most knee-high—bring a shovel and two basins. Two people would start from opposite ends of the creek, herding the fish toward the middle, then use the shovel to dig up dirt and block off that section at both ends. You had to get the length and depth just right—too much water and you couldn't finish, too little and there might be no fish. Then, each person with a basin, they'd start splashing water from both ends. Such a pointless activity, and they'd play at it all afternoon. Splash for a while, rest for a while, until the water was nearly gone—then came the harvest. With the water shallow, there was nowhere to hide. You could clearly see the black backs of small crucian carp struggling through the water. Creep up quietly, and you could catch one with a single hand. As they caught fish, they'd show off to each other: "Whoa, look at this one, it's huge!" "Come on, check out mine!" "There's a ton over here, hurry, hurry!" "Haha, this is so fun, let's find another creek next time." They'd end up covered in mud, then find a slightly cleaner creek nearby to rinse off, split the fish among the group, and head home.
Zhou You's parents were very open-minded. Every time he brought fish home, they never complained about how few or how small they were. Before cooking, they'd lightly fry the little fish, which for Zhou You was a nice treat. Yeah, the summer of seventeen or eighteen, Zhou You would always remember. It was a point in his heart, a memory that would make him smile and chuckle involuntarily whenever it came to mind. Whenever Zhou You was alone in the dead of night, he couldn't help but recall that summer, those creeks, and those adorable little fish. The last few times he'd returned to the village, it pained him deeply, because he could no longer see those creeks. Maybe that's what made the memory even more vivid. Someday, when he had the means, he'd dredge the creeks in the village again—not for anything else, just for the clear water and green hills.
"Hello, Teacher Zhou." "Hello, Teacher Zhou."
The greetings from a few nearby students snapped Zhou You back to reality. What a great song—truly, every listen felt like one fewer left. The music scene later on was utterly rotten; not a single good song came out in a year. All of it was hijacked by capital, churning out cheap garbage. When you could make easy money lying down, who would bother to polish their work? Sometimes Zhou You hated those ignorant, foolish people—why were they so easy to deceive? Why couldn't they read more books, think more? He resented their lack of striving and pitied their misfortune! It wasn't until later that Zhou You realized people were different. Then he let it go—the world was just that unreasonable; don't expect universal harmony. If it ever came to that, it wouldn't be interesting anyway. Without bitterness, where's the sweetness? Without contrast, where's the joy?
Lately, Zhou You's mind often churned with all sorts of random thoughts, tempting him, urging him to do this, to do that—like little demons of desire. For instance, hearing this song made him think of Mao Mao and Hao Hao from later on, whose songs were widely popular. As an ordinary person, Zhou You loved those songs too and remembered them well. Now, the desire inside him wanted to find someone to plagiarize those songs. But Zhou You wouldn't do that. Mao Mao and the others had it hard enough; making it on their own talent and luck was no small feat. He didn't need the money, nor did he need to show off—why steal from ordinary people's livelihoods? As for supporting them now, Zhou You didn't dare. If Mao Mao hadn't lived through those ordinary days, could he still write those classic songs? A youth who doesn't know sorrow pretends to feel it for the sake of poetry. Only after enduring life's beatings could one write songs that moved the soul, with genuine emotion, free of affectation. Look at what came later—could those even be called songs? Damn, the more he thought about it, the angrier he got. Not worth it—a bunch of rotten people.
"Brother You, where are you? Wang Ping and I want to find you to discuss something," Wang Fangfang called, saving him from his wandering thoughts. "I'm at school. Where are you? I'll come to you. Let's meet at the guesthouse," Zhou You decided on the spot; they were probably there too. "Okay, we're right here anyway." Every time they discussed things there, it felt awkward to Zhou You, never quite smooth.
"Fangfang, do you think Brother You will feel we're overstepping?" Wang Ping was uncertain. A while back, Zhou You didn't want to manage things and let them take the lead. At first, it was fun, but later, they felt uneasy, like something was off. "It's fine, it's not settled yet. Besides, you know Brother You—he doesn't expect us to make money, just not to lose any," Wang Fangfang said. She knew Zhou You didn't care, but she and Wang Ping did—this was their livelihood. Now they were famous on the swim team; many retired seniors and juniors had contacted them, asking to buy in or work there. The place was upscale, offering shelter from the elements—no scorching summer sun, no worry about winter unemployment—and the pay was good. Those who'd done well didn't care, but everyone's luck was different; not everyone had good fortune. So now, they were torn, unsure what to do.
The summer of seventeen or eighteen—a lifetime to remember!