I met Pun in the second year of secondary school. That morning on the way to school, not far from the gate, a girl fell over right beside me — scraped her elbow and knee. I just stood there, not because I didn’t want to help, but because I’ve always been terrible with strangers, let alone touching someone I don’t know. In the end I forced myself to crouch down and ask, quietly, if she was okay. She lifted her head, and beneath her messy hair was a pale little face.
I helped her to the school sick bay. She gritted her teeth the whole way, and when I dabbed on the antiseptic she let out a small cry. I was a sweaty mess by the time it was done, gasping like I was the one who’d been hurt. When it was over and I finally relaxed, she said softly: “Thank you.” Then: “I’m Pun.” And I said: “I’m Sun-fei.”
I offered to walk her back to her classroom and asked which class she was in. She said 3C; I said I was 2B. When we got to the second floor she let go of my arm and said she could manage from here, no need for me to go up an extra floor. I actually felt relieved — but then I watched her slowly climbing the stairs one step at a time, and regretted it immediately. I was just about to go after her when she turned around, gave a little wave, and for the first time, smiled.
After that I kept running into Pun around school or nearby. At first it was just nods or waves; later we’d stop for a few words, or walk a stretch together. But Pun and I never actually sat down for a proper conversation, let alone made plans to do anything. It was just repeated chance encounters. So I could never really say whether we were friends. But compared to anyone in my own class, I talked to Pun more than anyone — which says a lot about how few friends I had. In that sense, Pun was probably the closest person I had at school.
I eventually noticed something about Pun: she fell over a lot. Every few days she’d show up with plasters on her hands or legs, or a swollen bruise on her forehead. I wondered whether she had some kind of coordination problem, but didn’t dare ask directly. Her walk looked perfectly normal, and yet she’d go down without warning. Once, while we were talking and walking, she suddenly pitched straight forward — I had no time to react at all and she was already flat on the ground. Luckily it was open space. When I tried to suggest she see a doctor, Pun said: “It won’t help. Doctors can’t fix it.”
The way I wrote her name — 瀕 — was entirely instinctive, by the way. From the first time she said it, I decided it was that character, and never checked with her. It didn’t seem necessary. Even if it wasn’t her real name, that was what she was to me, and that was enough. One particular incident felt like confirmation of my instinct. I’d failed a test and been kept in for detention, so I was late leaving school. It was already dusk on the walk home. Along the riverside stretch, I spotted Pun standing at the very bottom of the stone steps that led down to the water — one more step and she’d be in. I didn’t dare call out to her for fear of startling her, but I also couldn’t bring myself to step onto those narrow stairs. I just stood at the top, helplessly watching that slight figure at the bottom. She turned toward me, silhouetted against the glittering water, and reached out her hand — but the contrast of light made it impossible to see her face. Her mouth seemed to be moving, but I couldn’t hear anything. I was frozen. I stood there, unable to move, and watched her fall backwards into the river, face turned up to the sky. Only then did I hear my own voice: “Pun!”
I can’t remember what happened next. The river wasn’t deep or fast; she wouldn’t have drowned easily. Maybe she climbed out herself, or maybe someone passing by pulled her out. Either way, after that Pun started avoiding me. The more she avoided me, the more I wanted to find her, to explain — but explain what, exactly? Apologise? Confess? I wanted to tell her: “Pun, it doesn’t matter that you fell! I’m here! I’ll catch you! You can get back up!” But did I have the right to say any of that?
During break, I overcame my shyness and fear, went up to the third floor, and walked to 3C. Noisy third-years were pouring out of the classroom. I grabbed one of the girls and asked where Pun was. She looked like she didn’t understand. I clenched my fist, drenched in sweat, and asked again. She turned and said something loudly to the others, and a whole lot of people burst out laughing. The crowd swept out and knocked me to the floor. A boy who was last to leave kindly helped me up and said: “There’s no one called Pun in this class.”
Pun had lied to me. She wasn’t in 3C. Then which class was she in? I couldn’t go room to room. I waited at the school gate after school but didn’t see her, so I went back inside to search. After a long time, in the most secluded corner of the school, I saw Pun come out of the PE equipment storeroom. I was just about to go after her when P Sir — who taught PE and Maths — came out the same door behind her. I froze. I turned around, and caught a glimpse of Pun going up a stairwell on the other side.
I had a feeling she’d gone to the rooftop, and sure enough, that’s where I found her. Again, at a distance, I looked at Pun’s back — but this time she was sitting on the concrete parapet at the edge. Again, I couldn’t move. I dragged my trembling legs toward her. In a weak voice I said: “Pun, please don’t — don’t move — don’t fall. Pun, please turn around, look at me. Pun, please, take my hand.” But this time Pun didn’t turn around. Her figure suddenly vanished before my eyes. I lunged forward, stupidly thinking I could catch her in the air — and overbalanced, half my body going over the parapet. Before I went over, a pair of arms grabbed my waist and pulled me back. I found myself in someone’s arms; I looked up and saw it was P Sir. I screamed, broke free, and ran for the stairs. On the first step, I missed my footing and tumbled forward.
I spent a week in hospital, then recovered at home for the whole summer. In September, when school started again, I was now in Year Three. I walked into the 3C classroom, avoided everyone’s eyes, and sat in the corner. The new form teacher came in. It was P Sir. He called the register one by one, and at the very end, he looked at me, smiled warmly, and said: “Pun, welcome back.”
SF’s Strange Ordinary was originally published in Chinese in ebook format in 2025. Following it’s serialization in English translation, an English ebook version will be published. If you want to buy the Chinese version (USD 7.99), please click the link below:
Translated from the Chinese original with Claude
Picture generated with Midjourney