The classroom was quiet.
Outside the window, wind rustled through the tops of the plane trees.
Meng Song switched off the projector and returned to the center of the podium. "In my years working at Wild Grass, I've noticed something interesting: the younger the writer, the more likely they are to shout outright, 'I love you,' 'I hate you,' 'I'm in pain.' More mature writers will write, 'Last night, I dreamed of that rain again,' or, 'As the subway passed, I heard your voice, only for it to be swallowed by the darkness of the tunnel.'"
"Today's assignment is to write a piece about love."
A faint stir ran through the audience. Some snickered; others exchanged glances.
"What are you laughing at?" Meng Song smiled too, pushing up his glasses. "Think it's trite? Think a literature class should discuss something more 'sophisticated'?"
He shook his head and explained patiently, "Love is sophisticated in itself. It can be someone leaving without saying goodbye. Or someone planting sunflowers every spring, even though he'll never see them bloom again."
"Any genre, any length. But there's one requirement-"
He turned, sweeping his gaze across the room.
"The word 'love' must not appear anywhere in the piece."
The room erupted.
"If we can't write 'love,' how are we supposed to write about it?" a boy wailed.
"That's the challenge." Meng Song smiled. "Submit your work by next Friday. The best pieces will be recommended to Dongzhou Poetry Pages, with a chance to enter the intercollegiate literary competition at the end of the year."
After the event, Lin Jia was still buzzing with excitement. "Teacher Meng was so good! Pu Yu, what are you going to write about?"
Pu Yu paused as she packed her bag.
"I haven't decided yet," she said.
But she already had