我只能是一道追逐别人的影子。
炎热的教室里，老式风扇发出咔咔的噪声，一道严厉的声音划破空气：“xxx，你来回答这个问题。”
我缓缓走向讲台，站在白板前。无数道目光如针芒般刺在我的身上，汗水早已浸湿衣襟。想在白板上下笔的手悬在半空，脑海一片空白，终究还是无力地垂了下来。
我僵硬地转向身侧的老师。从她的眼神中，我看到的不是答案，而是失望、不解、疲惫，还有我自己那模糊的身影——茫然且无能。
当我怯懦地走回座位时，与我擦肩而过的是那自告奋勇的回响。清亮而流畅的回答在教室中回荡，每字每句精准无误，像重锤一样击打着我的耳膜，也狠狠砸在我的心上。
瞬息之间，羞愧灼伤我的耳蜗，所有余音绕梁般的声音都消失得无影无踪。整个世界陷入一片静默，独留我一个。我看见自己躲在阴暗的角落里无措地蜷缩着，仰视着那个如同遥远的光点，永远触不可及、理想中的自己。我试图伸手去触碰，却只是徒劳无功，只能感受到迷雾般的虚无。
“可是，我真的只能这样吗？”我忍不住低声问自己。
回答的是一个嘲弄的声音：“不然呢？看看你此刻的样子。”
我无言以对，只能沉默地坐回座位。风扇依旧咔咔作响，似乎在无声地附和着那个声音。
柏拉图说：走出漆黑的洞穴，你将会来到真实而有阳光的世界。
留学是走出洞穴的一个契机。如同初入世界的新生儿，我跌跌撞撞地向前走着。
阳光透过薄薄的云层，暖暖地洒向草地，草地上散发着雨后泥土的香气和野花的清香。我小心翼翼地踩在湿润的泥土上，看着天空一片的蓝，不时有鸟儿叽叽喳喳地飞过。我不自觉地微眯着双眼，感受着微风轻拂我的脸庞，感受着阳光刺破浓雾洒在我的脸上，让人既觉得刺目，又莫名惬意。
我不曾想过这将会是这个世界的全貌，可我怎么也没想到，这样美好的场景只维持了片刻。
异国的小酒馆里灯光昏暗，空气中飘着酒精与香料的混合味道。
大家围坐在一起，谈笑风生，用着我还不熟练的法语说着让我听不懂的笑话和俚语。笑声像潮水般将我淹没，周围的笑声和交谈声像是从遥远的地方传来，被某种看不见的屏障隔开。
每个人的笑容都清晰可见，但我却感受不到任何温度。耳朵里回荡的声音像是被厚重的水幕过滤过，模糊不清。
我嘴角僵硬地上扬，笑容似乎只是为了掩饰内心的茫然，假装自己明白并附和，而握着杯子的指节渐渐变得苍白，手背上的青筋隐隐可见。
有人拍了拍我的肩膀，带着好奇的语气问我从哪里来。我的回答断断续续，像从破旧的收音机里发出的含混声。他礼貌地微笑，却迅速转向下一个人继续聊天，而我低头看着自己的饮料，觉得自己此刻的存在不合时宜。
从某个时候，周围好像一个人都没有了。我感知到有点奇怪的时候，已经晚了。
我默默地离开酒馆，想就此逃避，想就此忽视内心强烈的失重感，想就此离开这个不属于我的世界，这个没有意义的世界，这个令人唾弃自己，看不见一丝光明的世界。
此时，天空突然下起了一场雨。我原以为这不过是一场短暂的阵雨，却没想到它是持久的潮湿。
雨倾泻而下，忘了带伞的我被浇得透心凉。积水渐渐漫过脚踝，每一步都溅起冰冷的泥水，鞋底发出“噗嗤噗嗤”的声音。风裹挟着雨水袭来，雨声将世界吞没，除了不绝于耳的“哗啦啦”，一切都显得遥远而模糊。脚下的泥泞让我步履维艰，冷意从湿透的衣衫渗入肌肤，直达心底。我无数次想停下，却又不得不继续向前。
就在我以为自己将被这场雨击垮时，一群模糊的身影向我靠近。他们的步伐轻快却坚定，在雨幕中仿佛带着光亮。
他们走近了，用温暖的手掌试探性地触碰我贫瘠的灵魂。我原本以为，他们会被我的荒芜吓退，但他们没有。他们没有替我拨掉废土，他们用关怀的雨露浇灌这片土地。
奈何雨实在下的太大了，我已经全身湿透，鞋子里早已灌满了冰冷的水。上了层层枷锁的心房，依旧毫无波澜。
在一个平凡的夜晚，风轻柔地拂过窗帘，房间里的灯光昏黄而温暖。我和几个人围坐在一起，桌上摆着一盏还在冒着热气的茶壶。气氛没有过多的修饰，甚至有些随意。有人双手环膝坐在沙发上，有的人在开怀大笑，也有人温暖地注视着话语中的人。
似乎察觉到我不寻常的沉默，身边的人眼神中带着关切，低声问我：“怎么了？”
嬉笑声渐渐停下。早已不堪重负的我苦笑着，带着迷茫和无措脱口而出：
“我早已陷入泥沼中被它吞噬。我这辈子只能是颗尘埃。”
他们围绕着我，轻拍我的肩膀，我抬起头与他们的眼神交汇：“看看我们眼中的你吧”
瞬息之间，回忆在眼前如同跑马灯般急速滚动，一串串画面接连不断地闪现，模糊又清晰，仿佛每个片段都在争先恐后地涌上心头。
我看见，在我鼓起勇气挑战新事物时，他们眼中不自觉流露出温暖的支持：
“我为勇于克服逆境的你感到骄傲！”
我看见，在我兴奋地分享自己的所见所闻的时候，他们的眼神中传递着的鼓励：
“你的存在让这座阴沉多雨的城市更温暖。”
“你是一颗用善良和爱包裹着的小太阳。”
我看见，在我做出觉得会让他人失望的决定时，他们的轻声耳语：
“不要因为害怕让他人失望而选择不做自己。失望的人不重要，重要的人不会失望，而是希望，希望你活出你想要的人生。”
这样的夜晚发生过无数次，有时候是轻松的闲聊，有时候是严肃的探讨，有时候是带着疲倦的慵懒。但每一次的谈话都有一种无法忽视的力量——就像微弱的烛火，也能点亮一整片黑暗的房间。每一次的谈话也逐步拨开了我心中的迷雾，让我开始相信，荒地也能开出花朵。
雨渐渐停了，阳光穿透乌云洒下，微风轻拂，带来了雨后泥土的清香。我抬头望向天边，那遥不可及的光点此刻变得真实可触。我不需要再用力地走向它。我回头看，那片曾被我嫌弃为贫瘠的土壤中，已长出了点点绿意，像是开始疯狂生长的自由意志。
泥泞的存在并不是失败，而是孕育新生的基础。
雨水依旧残留在叶尖，折射着阳光的光芒，像极了聚光灯，而我的绿意，也有幸成为灯下翩翩起舞的灵魂。 或许，这片花园从未真正荒芜，它只是等待着我去用心耕种。现在的我，愿意用爱与勇气去浇灌它，去种下属于自己的花草树木，让它茁壮成长。
风雨不再是障碍，而是陪伴我走向远方的足迹。那些曾经困住我的影子，已经无法阻挡我追逐阳光的步伐；如今，我学会了爱自己，也学会了在泥泞与风雨中发现新的希望。或许某天，那道不曾停止追逐的影子会回首，凝视着来时的萧瑟处，归去，垂首微笑：“也无风雨也无晴”。
小编说：
从困于云雾的自我怀疑，到走出洞穴的勇气，再到遇见爱自己的知己，和最终敢于回首的自信——这是一件非常难得且值得感恩的事。如果还没有勇气和能力踏出沼泽，那就先欣然接受别人的扶持。这并不羞耻，因为接受爱，也是一种勇气。愿你我都能走出洞穴，或者，能牵上你我爱的人，走出潮湿。
I can only be a shadow chasing others.
In the stifling hot classroom, the old-fashioned fan emits a creaking noise, and a stern voice pierces through the air: “xxx, come and answer this question.”
I slowly walk towards the front, standing before the whiteboard. Countless gazes pierce me like needles and sweat has soaked my collar. My hand, poised to write on the whiteboard, hovers in the air, but my mind is blank. In the end, my hand drops helplessly.
I stiffly turn to look at the teacher beside me. I see confusion and fatigue in their eyes, where a blurry reflection of myself appears—lost and useless.
As I stagger to my seat, I brush past a self-assured echo. A clear response reverberates through the classroom. Each word, precise and flawless, strikes my eardrums like a heavy hammer and lands heavily in my heart.
In an instant, shame sears through me, and all the lingering, resonant murmurs vanish without a trace. The world falls into silence, leaving only me. I see myself huddling in a shadowy corner, lost and curled up, gazing at that distant, gloomy light, that ideal self, out of reach. I try to stretch out my hand to touch it, but all I feel is the void, like mist.
“Is this all I can be?” I can’t help but ask myself.
A mocking voice answers: “What else could it be? Just look at yourself now.”
I have no words to respond, only returning silently to my seat. The fan still creaks, as if agreeing with that voice.
Plato said: “If you step out of the dark cave, you will enter a world full of truth and sunlight.”
Studying abroad is an opportunity to step out of the cave. Like a newborn entering the world, I stumble forward.
The sunlight filters through thin clouds, gently spilling over the grass. The earth smells of rain and wildflowers. I carefully step on the damp soil, watching the sky stretch in endless blue, the birds chirping. My eyes squint unconsciously feeling the breeze brushing my face and the sunlight piercing through the mist, both blinding and strangely comforting.
I never imagined this would be the full picture of the world, yet I never expected such a splendid scene would last only for a moment.
In a foreign tavern, the lights are dim, and the air is filled with the mixed scent of alcohol and spices.
Everyone sits around, laughing and chatting in French, a language I’m still learning, filled with jokes and references I can barely understand. The laughter floods me like a wave, and the voices around me seem distant as if separated by an invisible barrier.
Their smiles are bright, but I can’t feel any warmth. The sounds that echo in my ears are muffled as if filtered through a heavy curtain of water like whispers coming from the deep sea.
My mouth twists into a stiff smile, masking the confusion I feel. I pretend to understand and join in on the conversation while the fingers gripping my glass turn pale, making the veins in my hand visible.
Someone taps my shoulder and asks out of curiosity where I’m from. My reply is broken, like a garbled sound from an old radio. He smiles politely but quickly turns to the next person, and I lower my head, looking at my drink, feeling that I no longer belong here.
I quietly leave the tavern, wanting to escape, wanting to ignore the overwhelming sense of weightlessness inside, wanting to leave this world that doesn’t belong to me, this meaningless world, this world that makes me despise myself and see no brightness.
It suddenly begins to rain. I expect it to be a brief shower, but it ends up being a lasting, damp drizzle.
The rain pours down. Without an umbrella, I am drenched, the cold seeping into my bones. The water accumulates around my ankles, each step splashing cold mud. The wind carries the rain, the sound of the downpour swallowing the world, leaving everything distant and muffled. The mud beneath my feet makes each step difficult, the cold creeping through my soaked clothes, seeping into my skin, and reaching my heart. I want to stop, but I can’t help but keep going.
Just when I think the rain will swallow me, a group of blurry figures approaches. Their steps are light yet firm as if they carry a glow through the rain.
They draw near, their warm hands tentatively touching my barren soul. I thought they would be frightened by my desolation, but they aren’t.
The rain turns into a deluge and I am soaked through. My shoes are filled with cold water. They don’t clear away the wasteland for me. Instead, they water this land with tender care.
The rain falls harder, and I am soaked through, my shoes filled with cold water. Yet, my heart, locked behind layers of shackles, remains utterly unmoved.
On an ordinary night, a gentle breeze brushes the curtains, and the room fills with warm, dim light. I sit with a few others, a teapot still steaming on the table. The atmosphere is unassuming, even casual. Some sit with their knees hugged to their chests, some laugh heartily, while others watch the speaker with warm eyes.
Sensing my unusual silence, someone beside me asks with concern, “What’s wrong?”
The laughter gradually dies down. Overwhelmed, I force a bitter smile, my voice trembling with confusion and helplessness: “I… I’m already sinking into the mud and being swallowed by it. In this lifetime, I can only be a speck of dust.”
They gather around me, lightly patting my shoulder. I lift my head and meet their gaze: “Look at how we see you!”
In an instant, memories rush through my mind like a spinning carousel, images flashing by, blurry yet clear, as if each fragment is rushing to the forefront of my thoughts.
I see, when I bravely embrace new challenges, the warm support reflected in their eyes:
“I’m proud of you for overcoming adversity!”
I see when I excitedly share my experiences, the encouragement in their gazes:
“Your presence makes this gloomy, rainy city warmer.”
“You are a little sunshine wrapped in kindness and love.”
I see, when I make decisions I fear might disappoint others, their whispers:
“Don’t be afraid of disappointing people. Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind. Live your life how you want to live it.”
Nights like this occur countless times. Sometimes it’s lighthearted chatter, sometimes serious discussion, lazy fatigue. But this conversation is like a light piercing through the fog in my heart, making me begin to believe that even barren land can bloom with flowers.
The rain gradually stops, the sunlight breaks through the clouds, and a gentle breeze carries the scent of the rain-soaked earth. I look up at the sky, and that distant light now feels real, within reach. I look back, and there are now tiny signs of green in the soil I once deemed barren.
I have learned to accept the weeds and the mud because they are part of my world too.
The raindrops still cling to the leaves, refracting the sunlight. My greenery, too, is fortunate to become the soul gracefully dancing under the light. Perhaps this garden was never truly barren; it was simply waiting for me to tend it with care. Now, I am willing to water it with love and courage, planting my flowers, trees, and bushes, and watching them grow strong.
The wind and rain are no longer obstacles; they are footprints guiding me forward. Those shadows that once held me captive can no longer stop me from chasing the sunlight. I have learned to love myself and to discover new hope in the mud and rain. Perhaps one day, that shadow I have never stopped chasing will look back, gazing at the desolation it came from, return, bow its head and smile: ‘There is no more storm, nor sunshine—just quiet, just being.’
Remarks:
I’d like to give special thanks to LIM KAI XIAN for the fruitful suggestions and modifications. I also want to thank my beloved SPBM 10 batchmates. This is not written solely by myself but with you guys.