佚名/Anonymous
亲爱的，在你的记忆宝库里，还能找回这一天吗？
在你从遥远的异乡带回的诸多纪念品中，记载着你跨入神圣的工学院门槛后的青春岁月。在那些大学课本当中，在那些一盒盒旧磁带当中，以及那一张张老照片当中——上面好多同学的名字你已不记得。你还记得么？而那黄色便条是否在这些旧物中呢？是不是暗藏在别处，与那本你买了但一直没看的书放在一起呢，或许与那些毫无用处的礼品和从没写完或没寄出的信放在一块儿？我的便条仍在，就在这座城市里，在这所你从没来过的房子里。我曾在厨房里，回想与你谈话的情景。即使我不在家，它们也一直在那儿。如今，即便我上街了，也会开着房间的灯，放着音乐，这样当我回来时，就会有种错觉——家里有人在等我。
现在，我改变了很多——不再有需要瞒着父母的秘密，不再有人过问我和朋友，不再有人关心我如何打发无聊时光，不再有人愿意倾听我对工作的看法，也不再有人理解我对生活的感受，我知道现实生活就是这样。我不断地努力，试着让日子过得简单有序而又充满希望，试着寻找真正属于自己的生活。当然，我并不总这么想。偶尔，我会特别渴望回到那些大喜大悲的日子。记得从前，我的情感可在瞬间从狂喜转至绝望。别人的几句奉承话会让我兴奋几个小时，而一句恶语能让我有如针扎般刺痛，但如今，原本敏感的我早已干涩麻木。也许跟世上数百万普通人一样，我会从拥挤的公交车上向外张望，茫茫然，不知所措。
我是不是不该与众不同？我既没像一般小女生那样迷恋校足球队长，也没有对那个一无是处、烟不离手的未来诗人念念不忘。我们之间有着足以升华的成熟友谊。可是，当你向别的女孩伸出援助之手，当你提到远方的某人快要结婚，当你只顾看书而没意识到我们已一整天没见面时，为什么我都会感到一种莫名的嫉妒？当我们太久没它，而你终究与我见面时，我为你精心准备了一个大礼包。一首小诗、一本你一直想要但没找到的书、一张旧照片、一块可供两人分享的巧克力。我该穿什么衣服呢？我们该谈论些什么话题呢？这个礼包至今还放在我的抽屉里，期待着电话的再次响起。
那是一个星期天下午，下着雨，在我那间狭小的宿舍里，我们充满激情地谈论资本主义，谈论校园里的八卦新闻。这些话题似乎永无止境，而我们也永远都不倦怠。琼妮？米歇尔的那首《California》反复放了七遍，我们才想起该出去走走了。
但是，突然有一天，我们开始互相找寻。你总是在别的地方，做着别的事情，奇怪的是，我也一样。在一次旅途中我结识了一些新朋友，遇到了一个跟我喜欢同一些电影的男生。你也结识了那个向你请教数学题的邻家女生。我的房门总是锁着，你的也一样。我们似乎突然都找到了彼此以外的另一个世界，可悲的是，以前属于我们俩之间的世界就这样被遗弃了。
于是，我们试图补救。我们常会在宿舍侧楼上大吵大闹，相互僵持好久，然后气愤而绝情地留言。沮丧、焦虑，甚至是爱，都以最丑陋的方式表现出来。继而是冷漠、自负和放弃。我们冷静而理智
地商量着彼此仍继续做朋友，还决定继续告知对方自己的行踪。也就那时，我开始在门上贴那些黄色便条。当我回到家时，就会发现便条的空白处有你的新留言。如果现在我们都
还保留着这些便条，它们一定会更完整地叙述我们的故事。
如今，我回家后依然会在门上贴便条，希望有人将他们的行踪写在上面。
Can you still find this day，my dear，among your possessions？Among the souvenirs of your trips to faraway lands，the textbooks from those halcyon days when you walked the hallowed portals of that engineering college，the cassettes whose covers were left behind after one of those bacchanalian sessions in the hostel，the photographs of those classmates whose names you can’t remember？Or is it hidden in the darkness，put out of sight along with the book you bought but never read，the gift you never quite found a use for and the letters you never finished or sent.I can still find it here，in the city，in the house，which you have never visited，in the kitchen where I have imaginary conversations with you.It is here even when I am not，for I go out now，leaving the light on and the music playing，so I can return home to the illusion of company.I am probably better off now.Without secrets to keep from my parents.Without someone to come between me and my friends，me and my pastimes，me and my work，me and my sensible，understandable，utilitarian life.The life that I keep trying，keep failing to bring in line with the expectations that I keep trying，keep failing to make my own.It is not that I always feel like this，sometimes I yearn for those days when tears and laughter both came easy.Those easy and quick transitions from ecstasy to despair.
When a compliment could keep my mind occupied for hours on end and a harsh word could prick like a pin the same skin which now seems dry and insensitive.Like probably millions around the world，I look outside the window of a crowded bus，lost in my own thoughts and wonder how it could happen to me.Was I not supposed to be different from the rest？Not for the silly schoolgirl infatuation with the football team captain or the fascination with the good for nothing，pot-smoking aspiring poet.Ours was a mature friendship that had blossomed into more.How could I feel a pang of envy then，when you lent a helping hand to another girl，when you spoke about someone who’s far away and about to be married，when you were so involved in the book you were reading that you did not notice that we never met all day？When we decided that it had been too long and that we should meet，I carefully started preparing a package for you.
A small poem，that book you always wanted but never found，an old photograph and a bar of chocolate for us to share.What would I wear and what would we talk about？The package still remains in my drawer waiting for the phone to ring again.It was a rainy Sunday afternoon when we sat in my tiny hostel room，discussing capitalism and campus gossip with equal fevor.When it seemed as if those conversations could last forever and we would never tire of them.When Joni Mitchell sang California seven times on continuous play before we thought of getting out.Then one day suddenly we were looking for each other.You were always somewhere else，doing something else and strangely enough so was I.Those new people I met on that trip and that junior guy who loved the same movies I do.That girl next door who took math lessons from you.My room was almost always locked and yours was no different.We seemed to have discovered a whole world outside of ourselves all of a sudden.The tragedy was we had also lost the world we had before.
Then came the rescue mission.The loud fights in the hostel wing，the long silences and the desperate angry notes.Frustration，anxiety and even love revealing itself in the ugliest possible ways.Then indifference，complacency and resignation.Calm，dispassionate discussions on how we could stay friends.The decision that we should always let the other know when we would be around.That’s when I started leaving those yellow post-its on the door.Those yellow post-its which by the time I came back would have your coordinates that I never used.If we had all of them now，they would be telling this tale a lot better than I am now.Back home，I still continue leaving those post-its to this day，hoping that someone will write their whereabouts on them as well.
