A Rainy Afternoon Visit By A Special Friend

Disclaimer: This post was originally written in Chinese and has been republished with AI-assisted translation. The original Chinese version can be found here:https://medium.com/@purekung555/%E6%9C%8B%E5%8F%8B%E5%88%B0%E8%A8%AA-38b38a9fc703

A few days ago, an important friend visited the small courtyard where I’ve been living for almost half a year.

It was one of those dreary rainy days — the kind that had persisted for nearly a week. The water pouring from the sky seemed determined to soak the entire world into decay. My body and mind felt as though they were mildewing, much like the clothes I had washed days before that still refused to dry. And precisely because of her visit, I was forced to confront a long-postponed task: tidying up my room.

It had been quite some time since I last properly organized my room — or perhaps it was precisely because I frequently attempted to tidy it that it always looked so chaotic. Every time I mustered the ambition to clean thoroughly, I would pull everything out, including those items I had tucked away “out of sight, out of mind,” determined to find them a proper place. But perhaps I overestimated my abilities, or maybe memories held me back — I could never bring myself to throw many things away. After a long and busy effort, I would suddenly realize that there were even more things than before, and the room was in greater disarray. So, amid this chaotic attempt at order, I would eventually give up the struggle. And so, my room continued its relentless march toward an indescribable state of being.

But now, the moment of reckoning had arrived. I had no choice but to spend another hour or so giving the room a rough tidy. The result was far from satisfactory — clutter still piled in several corners, small miscellaneous items ignored any sense of categorization and were stuffed into places where they couldn’t be seen, and the desk remained as messy as ever. Still, I managed to create a semblance of a presentable space. Of course, this was largely just my own wishful thinking.

Her

Though she didn’t say it outright, the unreadable look in her eyes as she stepped into my room made my embarrassment multiply endlessly in the shadows. All I could do was try to distract her with irrelevant chatter, clumsily brushing the moment aside. But the “issue” was like the elephant in the room — especially my chaotic desk — constantly reminding me of my helpless disarray. Later, while I was distracted with another task, she quietly and methodically organized my messy desk. When I returned and saw it, I could only stand there frozen, staring blankly at her smiling face. She has always been like this — quietly thoughtful and gentle in the most subtle ways.

Since we had already started, we decided to divide the tasks and give the room a proper cleaning. She took on the daunting wardrobe, while I handled the heavier duties I should have dealt with long ago: sweeping, mopping, and sorting the clutter. What surprised and shamed me the most during the process was how, while organizing the clothes, she could still calmly direct me — pointing out where things would look better or reminding me of a forgotten corner. The soft rustling of her folding clothes and the sounds of me putting things away became the only rhythmic noises in the room for quite some time. As I cleaned, I moved quietly, deliberately, not wanting to disrupt the tranquility. An unspoken, silent understanding had quietly settled between us.

By the glass window, there was a small gray sofa and a side table — an area I had neglected for a long time, with dust hiding in every tiny crevice. This spot was one of the relics of my initial ambition when I first moved in, a testament to grand plans that never quite materialized. The table was still filled with empty liquor bottles, each holding dried flowers and covered in a thin layer of dust. They were artifacts from the long rainy season in May and June. Back then, I bought fresh flowers and placed them in those empty bottles, hoping that when the rain finally stopped, the flowers would bloom again with their own romance, glowing under the reborn sunlight.

These “Blossoms,” Now in Eternal Bloom in Another Form.

But before long, those once-vibrant flowers quickly withered, leaving behind only a sweet, rotten scent and murky, dark green sludge settled at the bottom of the bottles. The petals, once full and lush, had faded into fragile brown scraps that crumbled at the slightest touch. In the end, they never lived to see the sunlight return — they died forever in the hollow stillness just before the rainy season ended. As a result of that experience, I stopped replacing them with fresh flowers and switched to artificial ones. Bunches of plastic sunflowers, rough up close but convincingly realistic from a distance, once again filled those empty bottles. Like most decisions and attempts in my life — including tidying my room — this one started with great enthusiasm but ended half-heartedly. Yet, in the long days that followed, these everlasting flowers became one of the few steadfast, bright spots in my room.

It took considerable effort and time, but I finally managed to clean that area properly. When I looked over at her, she had already revitalized the once-embarrassing wardrobe and was sitting quietly on the edge of the bed. Beside her was a bag of balloons I had found while cleaning — purchased months ago as props for a photoshoot, they, like so many of my plans, had been forgotten in some obscure corner.

The Only Gentle Light on a Rainy Day

She took a deflated, uninflated balloon from the plastic bag, carefully stretched the rubber opening, and brought it to her lips. Slowly, she breathed into it, and the balloon gradually expanded in her hands. The rubber walls transformed from thick to thin, their shape shifting from flat to full, until it became a perfectly round, real balloon. Then, she pinched the opening shut with her fingertips to prevent the air from escaping. With her other hand, she picked up a thin white ribbon, wrapped it twice around the balloon’s neck, deftly tied a knot, and trimmed the excess. Once finished, she gently shook the red sphere, letting the white ribbon dangle naturally. Then, her mischievous smiling face peeked out playfully from behind the balloon. One by one, she repeated the process — inflating, tying, and adorning the remaining balloons with ribbons. Finally, she connected ten balloons of different colors, cradling them gently against her chest, letting those vibrant hues embrace her delicate strength. Then, with light steps, she walked to the window and hung the entire bunch, allowing the wind to drift through the cracks and sway them softly.

And so, during those relentlessly gray and rainy days, the bouquet of balloons she had arranged and my empty bottles filled with fake sunflowers became the only soft, bright colors in the entire room.

In the end, we sat side by side in the freshly cleaned room, without another word, while the rain outside continued to fall incessantly.

(The End)

Written on November 9, 2025 In Dali, under clear skies