“The desert is lonely.” That was the beginning of my diary entry the day when my mom and dad went out to take photos of the desert at night in Xinjiang. Will I be able to make new friends this semester? Maybe not, but I won’t care. I quickly brushed away my previous thought, but my eyes moved faster than my brain as they moved cunningly toward the name list in the corner of the tent. Anna was the name that caught my attention. I stared at her name while trying to recall my impression of her. “A studious, gifted, and charming girl” was the conclusion I ended up with. I’m certain the naïve and isolated child in the desert would never have envisioned that an unapproachable girl would drive her middle school life to a distinct path.

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Astonished as I was, I faithfully answered every question in the document and replied, “It’s good to meet you.” Gazing at the “friend invitation” document sent by Anna on the screen, I felt as if a beam of sunshine delicately brushed the leaves of a tender seedling, melting away all the frost on a winter morning. I pressed “enter” on the keyboard and anxiously awaited her response. What if she decided to retrieve the invitation? What if she didn’t like my reply? What if… Seconds passed like years as my uncontrollably thoughts drifted back to when I first entered this school.

My eyes refused to blink until they felt dry, examining my blurry reflection in the screen that turned off after five minutes of inaction. I tried hard to remain nonchalant, but the face on the screen started to move, the scenes automatically flowed, and everything went on like a triple-paced flashback. The first five years of my school life were pushed passively by neighborhood tides. “Resigning to reality” was the motto. Yet everything went upside down, and the tides would no longer push me forward but suffocate me in endless waters unless I struggled to find a pulp board and surf with them. I knew absolutely nothing about the school before the night I decided to transfer. It was the first time I experienced the world outside of my neighborhood. And I was all by myself.

“Bilingual educational mode, international perspective, open and passionate…What else? Mom, these all seem vague.” I was perplexed by the flood of keywords used to praise this new school.

“Darling, you’ll know everything when needed.” Mom tapped me on the shoulders and uttered, “Now, go to bed. You must wake up early tomorrow. You don’t want to be late on the first day of school, do you?”

Despite hearing about the school in official and informal ways, the initial time I walked in, reality fell short of the lofty expectations. Even though it was only the first of September, the nipping breeze made me tremble involuntarily. The damp imprints on the sidewalk signaled a preceding heavy rainfall. Buzzing insects in the bushes and sinister laughs of mischievous kids filled the air, magnifying the crowded feeling.

The feeling wasn’t unfounded. My first year as a transfer student to the school didn’t leave me with vibrant memories.  I remember struggling to follow along in English classes, frantically jotting down every note on the whiteboard. I somberly stood on a lonely island in the middle of an ocean, seeking someone in the crowd who wanted to converse in Chinese amid the sea of English speakers. I grappled with perplexing questions on worksheets and bore laughter of disdain during peer review. I ended up losing faith and trust in friendship and not daring to reach out to others and present myself in public.  Part of my heart withered from a thousand cuts in the storm, and I had to carry on with an indelible scar. Consequently, I came to the school the second year more fortified. I wrapped my heart up like vulnerable glass and concealed it from any potential ray of light.

Nonetheless, no matter how self-contained one tries to be, human nature has its vulnerabilities. The allure of an unexpected drop of morning dew to an almost blasted weed was immeasurable. Kindness and communication with the outside world offer ghosts proof of presence and nomads a sense of home.

Anna’s “friend invitation” struck me hard and contributed to a sleepless night on my first day of middle school. Her message seemed to come alive, and her voice surrounded my ears, “Would you like to be my friend in middle school? Please answer and fill out my friend invitation.” The idea of friendship had been absent for a year, and it wasn’t until I regained the taste did I realized it was the sweetest, warmest, and most graceful kind of connection in the world. She posed a series of distinct questions, making the conversation almost like an interview. Thankfully, the conversation was between me and the document, so I wouldn’t express my peculiar feelings before her. She asked about my basic information, what I expected to know about her, and how close I envisioned us to be in this friendship.  “Can anyone possibly make a friend like that by asking how far the friend wants to go in a relationship?”  I never encountered a person who wished to start a relationship by a questionnaire. Nonetheless, as a person long acquainted with solitude, options were scarce, so I filled in the document, word by word, as if I were tackling a final exam. Little did we know then that our friendship had commenced, and our branches of destiny would thrive and intertwine over four years until others couldn’t tell they were originally separated.

“Unique” was the first word that sprung to my mind after I chatted with her on social media the whole night. The more I engaged, the more I was intrigued by her intellectual soul, illuminating my daily school life. A flickering flame is adequate to light up an air-locked room; all it needs is a trigger and a swipe on the matchbox.

I was unwilling to reach out to others when teachers let students select their partners and collaborate on group activities. Passivity would result in isolation in an environment where nobody had the privilege. Whenever she spotted me leaning back on my chair, surveying the classroom at the back row with despair, she would traverse the room from the front and say, “Hey, wanna be in the same group? Oh! And try to use English as much as possible.” I wouldn’t be enlightened by the depth of the adage “practice makes perfect” if I didn’t confront the struggle and embrace the rapid growth in my language skills.

Forming a group was merely the first step. Excelling within the group would be another story. “Do I have to speak up for our work? You’ve got better oral skills, and we’ve both thoroughly comprehended the content.  It doesn’t matter who’s speaking, let alone that I’m intimidated merely standing in front of so many people.”

“It feels different when you stand in front of audiences and tell them what we have accomplished,” she reminded me.

I imagined myself standing in front of the entire class, glancing over their faces when their nuanced facial expressions surged like waves and continuous shots. I could almost hear someone rubbing their nose, saying, “She’s weird; she ruined her partner’s work,” with frozen eyebrows. Subsequently, I heard myself apologizing, “Sorry, but our work was meaningful; don’t judge our work just by the presentation.”

And then the fight began.

“You’ve only got five minutes, and you’ve left with one-fourth of your content to cover when time was up.”

“That wasn’t on purpose! I just need more practice…”

“You are just bad at presenting.”

 “I know it wasn’t a satisfactory performance, but I’m trying to do better…”

“Do you understand everything? Where’s your partner?”

 “We came up with every word and every sentence together. She’s downstage watching. I didn’t want to let her down…”

Those voices rose maniacally like bubbles and quickly soaked in. It was all water and fire inside. Conflicting thoughts rang like drums until they were sounds of thunder. I could sense bits of floating despair rising around me.

“Mag! Don’t be terrified! The only person who can truly beat you is yourself!” Anna uttered beside my ears as she saw my face grow pale before stepping to the front of the classroom. “Take a deep breath, and you will be just fine.”

“It’s my first time. I’m just so nervous. My fingers are trembling and sweating!”

“Remember what we read in Dune? What’s the most impressive line?”

I raised my head, and her eyes, which seemed to incorporate the universe, rushed into mine. I tried to sound determined, “That ‘I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer.’”

“We are not anticipating success; we are aiming for fewer mistakes. In a competition, the one who makes fewer errors automatically wins.” Anna finished her last comment and returned to her seat.

I coerced myself to release the piece of cloth I’d been kneading in my hand, repeating Anna’s words to myself silently, reviewing the techniques we had discussed together to keep the audience focused on our presentation.

The presentation rolled over like a bittersweet coffee cake. Not until the usual applause of the audience slowly faded did I realize I made it. Although criticism and compliments were half and half, I dared not to expect anything better, and I knew I would one day be able to face the dazzling and scorching sun. I should, I want to, and I will work toward it.

As I proceeded, I began to neglect all the voices that were only impeding my process and obstructing my way. Confidence won’t descend naturally overnight, and scars won’t heal without appropriate care and time. They require ample practice, support, and patience. Anna acted as a perfect companion during my first year in middle school, propelling me to become a passionate presenter and a self-motivated learner.

I had the habit of dictating every detail on the presentation slides for years since I could write fast, but it wasn’t always an advantage. Once, my deskmate asked me, “What's your opinion about this?"

I mustered an innocuous smile and murmured, "Sorry, but what's the topic we are discussing again?"

The dilemma between taking notes and listening carefully to the instructor brought me excessive pressure, burden, and increasing challenges.

Anna used to tease me, “Don’t you ever get tired? I’d go crazy if I wrote everything down. I tend to remember by simply listening.” That was an ideal learning status, but I knew it wouldn’t work. Thus, I combined my advantage as a fast writer and her inspiration to devise my personalized notetaking method. The result proved the strategy effective. 

As we knew each other well, I got accustomed to the intermittent surprises she offered, but one bright sparkle among all precipitated more complex thoughts. Right when the bell rang, signaling the dismissal of a class, I hopped up like a rabbit from my seat and wandered along the columns of chairs and desks. A golden halo of noon caressed Anna’s English notebook while a refreshing breeze gently flipped a page. I discovered not blank papers or fragmentary drafts, but keywords aligned well-organized on the notebook from the presentation slides. “Why do you seem so astonished?” I was startled by Anna’s sudden appearance.

I jumped a step back, looking into her glittering eyes full of curiosity. “I... I was just stunned that you started to take some notes. You said you remember by listening...” When I retrieved my attention to the conversation, my soul seemed to go in the opposite direction. I rubbed my fingers behind my back and smiled politely.

“You scared me!” She stood on her tiptoes and leaned toward me, “I thought some catastrophe happened. I’ve reflected on my method since the last time we discussed notetaking. Content and new information in my head have been accumulating, so I think I would be more effective if I jot keywords down. Thank you for the inspiration, by the way.”

“You’re welcome,” I replied in relief, and what was even more reassuring was that our friendship revolved around mutual complementation in which neither of us relinquished our individuality. Instead, we promoted each other toward better versions of ourselves.

Four years elapsed, and we grew closer, more collaborative, and chummier. Plants grew from the wasteland, and flowers burst into blooms. Pain turned into power, and scars turned into strength. Another spring had dawned, and it was time for graduation and farewells. The last night of the graduation trip was tranquil. The crickets and birds suspended their twitters, and winds ceased their rustles. Only the hum of the air-conditioners reverberated in the dorm rooms. All was quiet as if a dropped needle on the floor would shatter the stillness. Just as I was about to break the silence and express my sincere gratitude towards Anna for her support for the past four years, a soft yet sturdy utter came in. 

“Still awake?” 

I turned to her and nodded.

“Did you know I was called a nerd in primary school before I met you?” she began.

“Oh my god. I didn’t know. You never told me about that before.” My drowsiness vanished in a blink. I always perceived her as successful, independent, and charismatic, and all the beautiful qualities one could possess gathered on her thin shoulders. I couldn’t restrain the tears accumulating in my eyes.

“I thought this could be the time,” she added.

We switched on our bedside lamps and turned to each other as we lay down on our pillows in tacit agreement. She disclosed the days she felt isolated, times when she couldn’t find a partner for group projects, and the comments she had heard branding her as weird.

Stars gleamed brighter and brighter, the streets became quieter and quieter, and the creek of memory flowed farther and farther.  The water was cool, but our hearts were warm. I was surprised and proud of how she had altered from a purely rational, talented, socially distant child to an empathetic and experienced youth during those four years we spent together.

Graduation was a school ring for dismissal. Friends dispersed and rushed to different cities in China; it was also an alarm bell foreshadowing an ambiguous reunion. I invited Anna to camp in a desert near Dunhuang, a historical site with temples of ancient China, just like my parents and I went the summer before my first year of middle school. But this time, it was exclusively for her and me, forming a promise that we must stay in contact for years while my parents and hers were having a chitchat at the nearest shack.

“The desert is less desolate than I thought, compared to the one in Xinjiang. Even though we still struggle to seek water, at least we have a sky full of stars—no more mists and dust. I can’t believe I’m finally here, in the middle of nowhere, staring through my camera, waiting to capture nature’s beauty.  Maybe it’s a comet, a shooting star, or just nothing but those sparkling lights.” I turned to Anna; her smile fluttered like a dancing angel, and I saw my reflection in her greyish pupils.

“I heard you’ve made some new friends on social platforms. Although we aren’t in the same class in high school, I’m sincerely proud of you.”

“Not really. I haven’t talked to any of them yet. I’m pretending to be more social.” I laughed.

“Stop deceiving yourself. Admit that you enjoyed the process. Be proud of your growth instead of denying your efforts.”

“I’ve got a long way to go. Breaking the inner barrier is only the threshold.”

“Keep me updated. Although we won’t be able to hang out together as frequently, I’m sure our paths will cross again someday.”

Silence lingered for a while; time seemed immeasurable. I shifted my attention to the camera, determined to capture spectacular moments. However, something kept distracting me, caressing my ankle intermittently.

“Bugs are getting frantic; we need more bug spray tomorrow.” I reminded her.

“Bugs? I don’t feel any.” She looked perplexed, randomly shaking her limbs.

I looked down at my ankle. It was in no way a bug but a bright green seedling nodding its head with the rhythm of the breeze.

Spring had come to the desert, and it flowered deep within me.

By then, I had the offer from my dream high school, and language was no longer a barrier that would constrain my future academic pursuits. Growing up with Anna, I became more receptive to all voices, whether challenges, invitations, compliments, or criticism. I gained resilience, confidence, motivation, inspiration, and most importantly—friendship. She unwrapped the knots in my heart, and light poured in like a waterfall. Our story was set with perfect timing and narrated with genuine love. Calm as I pretended to be, I hugged her with tears in my eyes excitedly and whispered, “It’s so good to have you as a friend.”