Spring came a little late to Dongzhou that March.
The plane trees had only just begun to bud, and the chill of late winter still lingered in the air.
After the semester began, Pu Yu wrote several more columns, and the response grew increasingly positive.
A publisher even contacted her about putting together a book.
For a student, it was an opportunity that had practically fallen into her lap.
But Pu Yu turned it down.
"Why?"
Her academic adviser asked in bewilderment, "Do you know how many people dream of an opportunity like this?"
Pu Yu straightened her manuscript pages and explained softly, "I feel like my writing is still too immature to carry a whole book."
"You're too modest, Little Rain." Her adviser looked at her. "Your writing has a unique power, that feeling of being... broken yet resilient. It's very moving."
Pu Yu smiled and said nothing.
Life had taught her that. It wasn't a gift she had been born with.
In April, the Literary Society held a writing salon.
Professor Meng Song invited several local Dongzhou writers to talk with everyone about writing. After the event, he asked Pu Yu to stay behind.
"I read your recent articles. Your writing is quieter than it was last year, but sharper, too," he said.
Pu Yu held her notebook against her chest. "Thank you, Professor."
"But you're writing about the same emotions." Meng Song adjusted his glasses. "Longing, waiting, silent goodbyes. Pu Yu, literature requires you to broaden your horizons. You can't stay trapped in one theme forever."
Pu Yu paused, slightly taken aback. "Am I? I just feel that writing should be honest."
"Honesty includes looking forward, too," Meng Song said gently. "That boy matters to you. I understand. But he shouldn't be the only thing in