★A philosophical reflection on the growth of China's post-90s generation — more authentic than typical youth fiction, yet more engaging than essay collections.
★A diary-style life record, capturing the fantasies and confusions of a vibrant and dazzling peak youth.

This book documents the author’s emotional journey throughout her ninth-grade year, portraying the genuine and vivid emotions and memories of campus life and studies. It includes struggles with exams, hopeful yearnings for the future, and profound reflections on growing up — reflecting the life attitudes and spiritual outlook of this generation, as well as their inner world when facing mental confusion and immense academic pressure.
This is a philosophical meditation on the coming-of-age of China’s post-90s youth, hailed by media and readers as a "soul companion" for this generation.

Bachelor of Dramatic Literature from the Central Academy of Drama, Master of Film Theory and Practice from Newcastle University in the United Kingdom, and a member of the China Writers Association. She is currently a screenwriter.

Her published works include the "Youth Trilogy" (the novel " Intermittent Footsteps", the poetry collection "The Invisible Wind Blows", and the essay collection " Like a Pumpkin, Growing Silently"); the essay collection " Like Mist"; the short story collection "Whose Dreams in the Dream"; the long fantasy novel "The Young Simon and the Tamed Reindeer Lyka"; the long youth novel" Running Towards the Sun"; the picture book "The Cherry Tree"; and the "Zhang Mudi Fantasy Literature Series" (including "The Mirror in the Sky", "The Forest of Summer", "The Kite Lantern That Flew Away with the Wind", "The Night-Light Bird, Grandpa’s Secret Theatre", "Miss Qiu’s Clothing Store", and "The Bear Living on the Roof").
She has been honored with the title of one of the Top Ten Young Golden Writers by "Children’s Literature", the Excellence Award in the Fairy Tale Contest by "Oriental Children", the Taiwan Mudi Award, the Jin Jin Award by "Children’s Literature", and the Silver Award in the Hot Spring Cup Fairy Tale Contest by "Children’s Literature". Five of the books in the "Zhang Mudi Fantasy Literature Series" have been selected for the "National Hundred Classes and Thousand People Shared Reading List"; The Mirror in the Sky has been included in “Shanghai’s Good Children’s Books”; and "Miss Qiu’s Clothing Store" has been selected for the National Close-to-Mother Tongue Graded Reading List.

A Wild Chrysanthemum Blooms by the Dusk Window
Meeting You in the Autumn Chill
The Sun Is a Lost Kite
A Glass House for One
Certain Year, Certain Month, These and Those
One Snowfall, Then Another
A Flower Field on a Handkerchief
A Smiling Tangerine Tree
Who Is the Color of My Sorrow
How to Believe, How to Forget
Growing Up Just Like This

Afterword: Still Feeling Lonely

Appendices:
Yearbook
Letters Exchanged Before Anran Left for Singapore
Zhang Mudi’s Writing Chronicle

Afterword

At first, I wrote these words out of loneliness. I chose this way to comfort myself, avoiding those sharp, painful details and passages, avoiding the despondent emotions and numb gazes that had settled over long, silent years. With every exam, I felt as though I were traversing a boundless forest — plants I couldn’t name scratching at my hands and feet, yet I couldn’t stop. I had no choice but to keep moving forward. During those dim days of ninth grade, I prayed to be struck by a ray or two of light, hoping the world would transform because of it.
Back then, loneliness wasn’t about a lack of friendship or occasional idleness. Rather, as Anni Baobei once wrote, it was the confusion and panic of those with weaker spirits when faced with stronger ones. Whenever loneliness crept in, I buried myself in writing. Quietly, I listened to the sound of our growth — like wind rustling through tall larch trees, "hualala, hualala". In those moments, all the shadows cast by loneliness bloomed with fuzzy little flowers. They weren’t particularly beautiful, but they were proof of the three years we’d spent cherishing one another.
Cherishing, yes. I wrote about them — the arguments, the crushes, the snowball fights, the fainting spells after long-distance runs. Their tears, their laughter, their silliness, all those tiny happinesses and secrets they brought me, lighting up my mundane, trivial middle school life. And then there were the letters from sister Bei included in this book, warm and fragrant as cotton candy. She whispered: "When I look back on my childhood, I see how that little version of me grew inch by inch, and then courage wells up inside—you can’t betray that self who worked so hard to grow, you can’t become someone you don’t like." Those words moved me deeply and lingered in my heart.
And Xiao Tong. I’ve never been sure whether those two short months we spent together counted as love. From a brief confession to his silent departure, it all felt like a dream. Standing amid the fallen petals of youth, I gathered fragments of memory — so lovely, bright, and pure. It forced me to reexamine myself: Do I understand love? Can I love? What does love even look like? The wind came and went like tides, and when I searched again, it had vanished without a trace. So many things are like that.
And yet, I was happy. During those days when stacks of test papers and exercises drained my passion, I could still sit at my computer, brew a cup of green tea, and write my diary, passing one peaceful morning or afternoon after another. Sometimes I’d laugh out loud unwittingly while writing about people or things I loved, then secretly think: How nice it would be to stay this carefree forever. Yes, happiness is precisely that—thinking of someone or something and laughing without realizing it.
I also wrote about books that moved me — "Maomao", "Lotus", "Sophie’s World" — works of different styles that left me similarly awestruck. And then there were the films and music, though "NANA" remained my favorite. It portrayed a life I could forever fantasize about but never reach. I’d turn on the speakers and listen to "Endless Story" on repeat until tears streamed down my face. Sound is a wondrous thing — it always reaches the heart before images do.
Day. After day. After day. What receded into the distance — was it the scenery, or the pessimistic, timid self I once was? I’d forgotten by then. Even if our wings were temporarily bound, wherever the sun shone, there would always be light.