那年，我从市郊转入市区的职专，遇见了比我高一年级的她。那时的她扎着双马尾，说话时尾音总带着温软的拖腔，像初夏的风拂过柳梢，性格温和又充满了灵动，我一下就被她深深吸引了。那年夏天，蝉鸣最盛的时候，我鼓起勇气向她表白。她微微低头，耳尖泛红，轻轻点了点头。那一刻，我以为抓住了整个夏天。
但那些开心的日子总是短暂的。夏末秋初，我因与隔壁班同学打架而违反校规，被学校劝退，去了另外一所离家较近的院校就读。当年学生时代，相距又远又没时间，现实不足以支撑两人频繁相见，最多也只能在QQ相互留言聊以慰藉。但思念如野草疯长，我也曾跨越几十公里，只为见她二十分钟。还记得那个深秋的傍晚，她站在校门口的路灯下，呵出的白气在空中凝结又消散，我们相视而笑，却都红了眼眶。最终，距离终究成了鸿沟，两个人心照不宣的各自退回到了朋友的位置。
后来，随着年纪的增长也各自参加了工作，有了各自的家庭，虽有微信好友但也仅限于逢年过节互发祝福，朋友圈点点赞的关系。但期间多年，我一直都有默默地关注着她的近况，但从不主动打扰。
随着时间推移来到了2025年，我的工作、家庭也相对稳定，通过多年努力，也在市区有了房，有了车。我以为年少时那段青涩的恋情早已随风而逝，直到那个春日午后。
餐厅门口，一个纤细的身影一闪而过，我的心突然漏跳一拍，但奈何只看到了一眼正脸，并不能确定是她，只是觉得非常像。回到办公室，打开微信她的聊天窗口，我犹豫再三，发去了消息，随即便得到了肯定的答案，对面的她显得又惊又喜，还嗔怪我当时没有叫她。聊天过程中，我很明显能感觉到她非常开心。随着我们的聊天，也得知原来她工作的公司离我不过咫尺之遥。随即约了几天后一起吃个饭，聊聊天。
几天后，我如约来到她公司门口接她，她化着淡淡的妆，穿着蓝色的工装，左耳旁戴着个可爱的发夹，在阳光下显得格外好看，真想不到，时隔多年，她依然会像学生时代一样的让我心动，难道这就是白月光的杀伤力吗？中午的饭局氛围很和谐，两个人似乎有聊不完的话题，随着话题的不断延伸，她也讲述了这些年的遭遇，不幸的婚姻，赌博的丈夫，怀孕时婆婆的恶语相向。对面的我，如坐针毡，听着她淡然的诉说这些往事，我竟心如刀绞，不敢想象她这些年一个人承受了多大的委屈。
饭局结束，我送她回公司，下车的时候我满眼不舍，她落落大方的约我下次一起吃烧烤，我坦然应允。看着她的身影渐行渐远，我突然想起多年前那个在校门口目送我离开的少女。在回公司的路上，我很难过，愤怒婆家对她不公，自责自己年轻时候为什么没主动一点跟她联系，如果当年我们走在一起，就不会发生这些令人感到恶心的事情了。我很奇怪，我为什么会这么想，但我的确是很难过。
后来的几天里，我心情依然很低落，但我们依然不断的聊天，但越到后来就越是觉得气氛不太对，好像总是我在不断主动提出话题，她只简短几个字的附和着，聊天间隔也从秒回到了十几分钟，1个小时。直至她委婉地提醒我注意分寸，我才发现，我可能有点冒昧了。也想到了，前一天晚上因为自己心情一直不好，竟在酒后给她发了"想你"，还在朋友圈分享了属于我们那个年代周董的“枫”这首歌到朋友圈。事已至此，我便苦笑着回复，这只是对白月光的怀念。但我们都明白，有些界限，一旦越过就再难回头。亦或许她离婚后结交了新的男朋友，可能我最近跟她的频繁聊天，也给她带来了不便吧。
那夜我独自坐在书房，窗外月色如洗。二十年光阴，足够让少年白头，却没能冲淡那份最初的悸动。我选择了再次隐退，很不舍但又无能为力，我没有合适的身份出现在她的身边，也不能在她受委屈的时候做她那个可以依靠的肩膀。就当一场梦吧，愿她余生皆得所愿，愿有人疼她入骨，免她惊，免她苦。而我，会继续在她看不见的地方，默默祝福。
少年时没能送出的那封信，中年时也不必再递了。
有些白月光就让它悬在旧时光里，才能永远皎洁。
That year, I transferred from a suburban school to an urban vocational college and met her—a year my senior. Back then, she wore twin ponytails, her voice trailing soft, lingering syllables when she spoke, like early summer breezes brushing willow branches. Gentle yet vibrant, she captivated me instantly. That summer, when cicadas screamed at their peak, I mustered the courage to confess. She lowered her head, her earlobes blushing pink, and nodded softly. In that moment, I believed I’d grasped the entire summer.
But joy, as always, was fleeting. By late summer, after a fight with a classmate led to expulsion, I was sent to a school closer to home. Distance and time, the bane of student romance, left us with only QQ messages to cling to. Yet longing grew like weeds. Once, I traveled dozens of kilometers just to see her for twenty minutes. I still remember that deep-autumn dusk: she stood beneath the school gate’s streetlamp, her breath crystallizing into mist that dissolved mid-air. We smiled at each other, eyes reddening. Eventually, distance became an unbridgeable chasm, and we retreated into friendship, tacitly.
Years later, with careers and families settled, our connection dwindled to holiday greetings and perfunctory likes. Still, I quietly followed her life from afar, never intruding.
By 2025, my life had stabilized. I owned a home and a car in the city. I thought that youthful infatuation had long faded—until a spring afternoon.
A slender figure flashed past a restaurant entrance. My heart stuttered, but I glimpsed only part of her face, hauntingly familiar. Back at my desk, I opened our WeChat chat. After hours of hesitation, I sent a message. She replied at once, startled yet delighted, chiding me for not calling her years ago. Through our conversation, I learned her office was just steps from mine. Days later, I picked her up outside her workplace.
She wore light makeup, a blue uniform, and a dainty hairpin by her left ear, glowing in the sunlight. How could she still stir my heart like this? Was this the power of a “white moonlight” memory? Our lunch flowed effortlessly, stories spilling out. She spoke of her troubled marriage—her gambling husband, her mother-in-law’s venom during pregnancy. I sat frozen, listening to her recount these years of quiet suffering. If only I’d been braver, dared to cross paths sooner. Why hadn’t I? The question gnawed at me.
Afterward, she walked me to my car. Her departing figure echoed the girl who’d once waved goodbye at that school gate. Driving back, rage boiled—rage at her family’s cruelty, guilt for my own cowardice. Why do I feel this? I wondered. That night, moonlight bathed my study. Two decades had silvered my hair but not dimmed that first flutter. I withdrew again, powerless. I lacked the right to reenter her life, to be her refuge. Let this be a dream. May she find peace, may someone cherish her beyond pain. As for me—I’d linger in her shadows, silent.
The letter I never sent in youth would stay sealed in middle age.
Some white moons belong suspended in old light,
to remain forever untarnished.
