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The day the walls came down completely, he found me carrying half a sack of dried sunflower seeds, his trouser cuffs still dusted with the grit from the demolition. "I found a great spot," he said, tugging me toward the abandoned teaching building with a mischievous grin. "The eastmost room on the third floor—its windows aren’t broken, and you can see the sunflowers in the playground from there."

The desks and chairs in that classroom had long been cleared out, leaving only stacks of old books in the corner. Sunlight filtered through the window lattice, painting checkered patterns on the floor. He emptied the sunflower seeds onto the teacher’s desk, then pulled two roasted sweet potatoes from his pocket—they’d been baked over the leftover fire in the cafeteria, their skins charred black. "We should live here," he said, taking a bite of the sweet potato, his face fogged with steam. "I’ll sleep on the desk, you take the window-side table. We’ll be close, easy to talk."

I froze, not quite getting what "live here" meant, but his eyes were bright, like he’d tucked two freshly shelled sunflower seeds in them. "The teachers will scold us," I poked at his sweet potato, "and it’ll be dark at night."

"I brought candles," he fished a stub of white wax from his bag, then pulled out a tin box to use as a holder. "If you’re scared of the dark, I’ll keep the candle burning all night. Besides, I can tell you stories—about the time I stole potatoes from the neighbor’s field." He spoke so earnestly, as if "living together" was no different from doing homework side by side in class, just a new place to share roasted sweet potatoes.

That evening, he really did bring his bedding—a patched old quilt that smelled of sunshine. "See?" he spread it over the desk, patting it. "Nice and soft, better than the haystack I used to sleep on." Watching him crouch to tidy up, I suddenly remembered how he’d said, by the vegetable plot, that "watering’s faster with two people." The eagerness in his eyes now was the same as then—as if "living together" was just about sharing candlelight, counting stars outside the window, with someone else.

I didn’t dare stay that night. When he walked me back to the dorm, he still clutched that梧桐叶 (sycamore leaf) ring. "Tomorrow I’ll wipe your table clean," he scratched his head, "and find some pretty stones for decoration. It’ll be comfier than your dorm bed, promise." I laughed. "Who said I’m sleeping on a table?" But he looked flustered. "Then… I’ll take the table, you take the desk? The desk is wider."

Later, we really did spend a lot of time in that classroom. He’d pile books on the desk for a pillow, while I sat on the windowsill nibbling sunflower seeds. He’d suddenly sit up and say, "Living here’s not bad, y’know? The moon shines right on the table, like it laid out a silver cloth for you." I flicked a seed at his face. "Always with the nonsense." He caught it, popped it in his mouth, and mumbled, "Mostly… ’cause you’re close."

One morning, I pushed the door open to find him tiptoeing to place things on my usual windowsill—a row of lumpy clay dolls and sunflowers, all lopsided but facing the sun. "Someday," he turned when he saw me, grinning to show his teeth, "we’ll make this our home. I’ll gather firewood, you light the stove—just like by the vegetable plot."

Sunlight flooded the classroom, gilding his mud-streaked hands and those ugly little clay figures. I suddenly got it: his idea of "living together" was never complicated. Like the wild jujubes he’d slipped me, or the crooked sprout I’d sewn, it was just wanting to turn "me" and "you" into "us"—counting days under the same sun, waiting for sunflowers to seed, two kids with a secret stash of sweetness, hiding their nicest thoughts in the candlelight of that one little room.

When wind from beyond the walls blew in, warm now, he was napping on the desk. Sunlight snuck through his open collar, branding a gold patch on his collarbone. I went to wake him, but the second my finger touched the patch on his back, he rolled over and grabbed my wrist—not hard, but with a warmth that wouldn’t be pushed away.

"Don’t move," his voice was rough, lazy with sleep. "Let me lean a bit. You’re warmer than the quilt." He inched closer, resting his head on my knee, his breath brushing the ankle peeking out from my裤脚 (trousers), ticklish as a bug crawling. I tried to push him off, but he held my hand to his chest. Through his thin shirt, I could feel his heart thudding, faster than a night watchman’s gong.

At night, when the candle flickered, he’d always lean close, his breath fanning my ear. Once, as I bent to tie my shoe, he suddenly caught my chin, lifting it. His eyes glowed bright in the candlelight. "You’ve got a sunflower fuzz on your lash." Before I could speak, he leaned to blow it away, his lips brushing mine—like touching a spark. We both froze. The candle crackled, flaring, and his ears burned red in the light.

The quilt he spread on the desk kept inching toward me. On cold nights, he’d sleepily reach for me, pulling me closer, muttering, "Don’t want you cold." Once, I woke to find half my body on his arm, his hand on my waist, palm hot as a small coal stove. When I stirred, he woke, but didn’t let go—only nuzzled deeper into my neck. "Warmer this way," he said. "Saves candles." His breath on my skin sent shivers, hotter than the day’s sun.

Once he found a smooth plank, sanded it into a small table by the window, and insisted I sit beside him. When moonlight spilled in, he suddenly took my hand, counting my fingers one by one, his thumb brushing the gaps slowly, making me curl my fingers at the tickle. "Your hands are so soft," he chuckled, voice low, "softer than anything I’ve touched." He pressed my hand to his knee, and even through his rough cloth pants, I felt his warmth seeping in.

On a night of heavy rain, we huddled under the same quilt. His back pressed to my chest, I could count the knobs of his spine, but he suddenly rolled to face me, our noses almost touching. "Wet clothes stick, uncomfortable," he said, reaching to unbutton my coat. When his finger grazed my collarbone, I flinched like burned, but he held my hand, voice thick as if with water. "Don’t move. I’ll help… just the coat."

The candle danced in his eyes, like two small flames. His fingers were clumsy—fumbling with the button, yanking it tighter instead, until he broke into a sweat. I laughed, and he suddenly bent to bite the button open, his warm breath on my neck, more flustering than the rain.

Truth is, we didn’t know much. Just that being close felt warm, that skin touching made hearts race, like holding a hopping rabbit. Like the wild jujubes he hid under my pillow—sweet with a little tang, hard to stop tasting. Those unnameable stirrings, in brushing fingers, pressed backs, and moonlight-soft breaths drawing near—like sunflowers, quietly gathering strength in the dark, waiting for dawn to unfold all their liking, bright and clear.Generated by AI, for reference only. The author is not responsible for any mistakes or translation errors.