Chapter Forty-Three: Eighty-Nine Stars

After months of anxious waiting at home, I finally received an admission letter. It was from an obscure university, hardly known to anyone. Even so, my family had gone through considerable trouble to get me into this school. Because my scores in English and math had dragged me down, my college entrance exam results were a pitiful 389—just barely above the minimum for junior college admission, and still a long way from the 450-point threshold for a bachelor's program. In my opinion, graduating from a junior college or a university made little difference; I didn't see the need to insist on a bachelor's degree.

But my parents could not accept that their son would only hold a junior college diploma when looking for a job in the future. They exhausted every possible means, pulling strings, paying sponsorship fees, paving a path with cash, and finally managed to place me in a private university. I was admitted as a preparatory student.

The so-called preparatory program meant that after paying the fees, you were allowed to attend classes for a year. Afterward, all preparatory students would take a symbolic entrance exam. As long as you passed, you could officially enter the undergraduate division of the school. For the school, this was an effective money-making scheme, but not every private institution could pull it off—it required powerful connections. From this, I could glimpse the impressive relationship the university’s owner had with the central authorities.

A month of busy preparations slipped by in a blink, and half of September had already passed. As the start of the school year drew closer, I suddenly felt a trace of melancholy. I was about to leave the city where I was born and raised, where I had spent nearly twenty years of my life, and set out for the unknown. Inevitably, I felt some reluctance to let go. This city held too many memories for me—whether joyful or painful, all were precious.

"Xiao Bei, I'm downstairs. Could you come down for a moment?" Just as I was lost in reminiscence, I unexpectedly received a call from Meizi. Since our breakup, I don't think she had called me once.

"Uh, what is it?" Perhaps it was a man’s pride at work, but at that moment, I didn't want to see Meizi.

"I want to give you something. Come down quickly! I slipped out from work and can't stay long..." Hearing my hesitation, she urged me.

"Alright then." Though I was extremely unwilling, in the end, I still agreed.

Nervously, I went downstairs and saw Meizi, whom I hadn't seen in a long time.

When she saw me, her expression became awkward. "Here, this is for you," she said, bringing out a hand she'd kept behind her back and handing me a beautifully wrapped gift bag.

"What is it?" I took the bag, puzzled. When I peeled away the wrapping paper, I discovered it was a transparent glass jar, filled with hand-folded paper stars. "Did you make these?" I asked curiously.

"Yes," she replied, nodding slightly.

In my memory, girls seemed to enjoy folding paper stars, as if weaving their feelings into each one. But in the end, it was just a gesture.

"I heard you're leaving... I didn't know what gift to give you, so I folded some stars during my free time at work, just as a keepsake," Meizi said, her cheeks tinged with pink. Seeing me standing there, stunned and silent, she pressed, "Hey, do you like it or not? If not, I’ll take it back!"

"Thank you, boss," I replied. The gift felt so precious that I held the jar carefully in my hands, afraid it might shatter if I wasn't careful.

Hearing the familiar title, Meizi seemed surprised for a moment, but quickly recovered, a smile blooming on her face—the first I'd seen in a long while. "Alright then, I'm heading back to work, employee," she said.

Watching Meizi leave, I returned home with mixed emotions. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I opened the jar and poured out all the stars onto my bedsheet. I counted them carefully: there were eighty-nine in total.

I seemed to remember hearing that different numbers of paper stars had different meanings—one stood for unique love, two for mutual affection, three for "I love you," sixty-six for never parting... What, then, did eighty-nine stars mean? Driven by curiosity, I turned on my computer and searched online.

I spent a long time on search engines but could not find an answer. Finally, I gave up. I gathered the stars back into the jar, found an empty spot on my bookshelf, and placed it there.

As I did all this, the question kept swirling in my mind: "Eighty-nine... don't go? Could it mean 'don't go'? Was Meizi asking me to stay?" I muttered to myself.

But in less than a second, I dismissed this guess. Perhaps these stars held no special meaning at all—maybe Meizi happened to fold eighty-nine, and the jar was full. I was simply overthinking.

After letting my mind wander, I gradually set the matter aside. That afternoon, Xiaoyi suddenly called me. He had been accepted by a university in another province and was leaving for school the next day. Before leaving, he wanted to see us all one last time.

After hanging up, I quickly messaged a few close friends, inviting everyone to dinner in the evening to give Xiaoyi a proper send-off.

Gathered around the dining table, talk of the impending parting made the atmosphere heavy. Recalling all we’d shared over the past three years, everyone became emotional. With nowhere to vent our sadness, we drank toasts to drown our feelings—even Cheng Shuai, who rarely drank, downed quite a bit.

In the midst of the clinking glasses, Xiaoyi suddenly mentioned Lele. His casual words touched a fragile nerve deep inside me, and memories long buried began to surface—like scenes from an old black-and-white film, replaying in my mind...

"Autumn wind brushes my face, watching withered petals fall, my heart filled with longing. In the distance, train whistles still sound, sleepless is the night; I search for you, but you are nowhere. I do not wish to shed tears in vain, choked by lonely words. The night is silent, who wakes from drunkenness? Parting is inevitable, and we weep. You and I live in separate worlds; in our longing, we hold hands and gaze at the clouds. Where will I be when the moon is full? Beneath the streetlights, your smiling face is gone. When tomorrow comes and the wine wears off, will the autumn rain fall incessantly? Even if spring arrives, with whom will I fall in love?"

Collapsed over the table, an indescribable sorrow swept over me.

Tonight, we would not go home until we were drunk.

(August 25, 2010—chapter revision completed)