Art and romance in youth

One day, he posted a photo on WeChat Moments. The picture was of a pair of old, slightly yellowed hand-painted canvas shoes. The accompanying text read: “These were given to me by a girl who secretly liked me many years ago. I’ve kept them all this time.”

Holding my phone and staring at the shoes, I felt my face heat up and suddenly covered my mouth, laughing quietly.

When I was fifteen or sixteen, it was a time of pride, sensitivity, and a love for beauty. As a student learning to paint in the art room, I was always thinking of ways to add my favorite patterns to the collars, cuffs, and shoulders of my school uniform.

Wearing the modified uniform and walking around the campus always brought many exclamations, whistles, and glances my way, making me feel immensely proud. Unfortunately, my rebellious behavior was soon “suppressed” by the school authorities.

I was forced to replace all my uniforms with new ones, but no matter how new they were, the dark blue uniforms still wrapped me in dullness. Until one day, while browsing the internet unhappily, I stumbled upon some pictures of hand-painted canvas shoes.

Those shoes, with their bright colors and romantic patterns, filled me with joy. It was like a bird, long confined, suddenly finding an opportunity to break out of its cage and fly into the blue sky. I immediately bought several pairs of white canvas shoes. With the paints and tools readily available in the art room, I enthusiastically painted beautiful patterns on five pairs of white shoes and distributed them to a few good friends.

As expected, the girls adored my hand-painted shoes and couldn’t put them down. Receiving such praise, I couldn’t stop. I started leading the other members of the art group to paint hand-painted shoes for students of all grades in the school.

The school rules said no graffiti on uniforms, but they didn’t say anything about shoes with hand-painted designs. So, a trend swept through the campus, and we freely adorned our youth with the colors underfoot.

Until I met him. He wore a pair of plain white canvas shoes without any decoration.

I followed those white shoes all the way down a school path. At the school gate, he finally stopped and turned around, asking me in a voice as gentle as flowing water, “Is there something you need?”

I looked up, and the moment I saw his face, I forgot what I had intended to say. My heart raced, and I fled in panic. I thought I was doomed. At that first glance, just like the first time I saw hand-painted canvas shoes, I was blinded by that sight, unable to discern north from south, east from west.

Years later, I admit, I genuinely liked him. Back then, just thinking about him made my heart bloom with joy. I secretly found out his name, class, height, and hobbies. I watched for him among the crowds and followed him.

During the school celebration evening, when he was being interviewed by the student reporter on the edge of the playground, I pretended to stand nearby unintentionally and listened for an hour. I even recorded his voice and listened to it every night as I fell asleep. Oh, and he loved iced bubble tea; I drank cup after cup until my stomach hurt.

I knew he was the son of the school’s discipline director, so he never wore canvas shoes with personalized graffiti. But I really wished he could run in my hand-painted shoes.

I finally couldn’t resist drawing his pursed lips and bright eyes in a cartoon style on a pair of white canvas shoes. Summoning great courage, I sent him an anonymous text message, asking him to meet me that evening under the boys’ dormitory building.

But before he showed up, I ran off at the shout of a patrolling teacher, in my panic, seemingly throwing the shoes aside.

After losing the hand-painted shoes with his name on them, I stubbornly believed I didn’t deserve to like him anymore. As if punishing myself, I stopped painting hand-painted shoes.

And so, I left my passion for hand-painted shoes and my affection for him behind in my sixteen-year-old youth. I thought we had parted ways forever, but I never expected that years later, we would become good friends.

Even more surprising was that the hand-painted shoes I lost under the boys’ dormitory had been picked up by the dormitory manager and handed over to him.

Time has passed. The shoes remain, but the story behind them never had the chance to unfold, leaving me with a blushing face, countless thoughts, and memories of those youthful years.

Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “