Histone acetylation. DNA methylation. Jotting down the last few words on the draft paper, I took a long breath, picked up the bulky-as-brick exercise books from the overlapping cluster of papers, and sent them back to where they belonged on the wooden bookshelf dimly glistening under the dreary lamp that lighted up a small corner of the night, a night before the British Biology Olympiad competition that I, along with thousands of other students, had anticipated for such a long time.

Raising up my eyes, the innermost edge of the shelf inadvertently swept across the corner of my eye. What burst into my view was a notebook, A4-size in the softest gray, with a stiff cover made of textured cloth framed by hand. It is the biology notebook with which I used to take notes in biology classes.

Stunned for a few seconds, my mind drifted back to a year ago, when I entered the bridging program and began to learn the content of high school in advance.

Not knowing whether it was the mystery of life hidden between the lines of childhood storybooks or the magnificence of nature I witnessed in the most pristine rainforests, I have long possessed an interest, an affinity toward life science. I still remember the excitement and delight when I clicked the mouse carefully and looked at the name “Biology for Bridging Program" floating in my class schedule.

However, the course immediately proved for itself that the pressure of learning such an advanced biology course should never be overlooked. In spite of listening attentively during the class and taking notes down continuously, repetitive memorization and supplementary exercises were undoubtedly necessary for anyone attempting to earn an ‘A' or above. To make it even worse, it is easy for the overwhelming workload to coincide with the intensive examination of other subjects. 

When the initial curiosity and attentiveness driven by half-passion and half-novelty gradually dissipated, which, coincidently, was also the time when we stepped into the content of the biology Olympiads—the part with increased difficulty—the toughness of taking such an advanced biology course eventually emerged. After several setbacks in test scores, the slight tilting in ‘y’s and the sleek arcs in ‘a’s on my notes were no longer as cheerful as before. 

Setting the initial impetuosity and overconfidence aside, I forced myself to be more practical and focused while spending more effort figuring out questions in coursework. What stays consistent is my light gray notebook, sitting by my side and companying me for every second during dozens of hours-long lessons, numerous failed experiments, and an overwhelming amount of homework. At the same time, it is also compromised to the ruthlessness of time. The more ink it absorbed, the softer the once-smooth-and-firm cover became. Rings of time engraved imperceptible wrinkles on the pages, slowly grinding the acute angles of the corners away. Long-term accumulation finally paid off, and what could be more delightful than achieving excellent results — in respect of both scores and enrichment of knowledge — and in the subject, you were particularly enthusiastic about for a 9th-grade student? After all, what remained unchanged was my faithful friend.

I sat down and read the notebook line by line, word by word as if I was having a realistic and meaningful conversation with myself in the past.  Thumbing through the chemical formulas written down with nerve when previewing biochemistry, the complicated, inexplicable mechanisms of photosynthesis hastily jotted down from the PowerPoint, the ecology concepts written in dark navy blue stained with sweat, and the illustrated process of cell division with delicate pictures drawing next to each phase, I can't help but recollect pieces of the Olympiad-oriented classes I took on Sunday mornings for two semesters, the recessive memorization of notes during lunch breaks, and online courses played for so many times that I almost lost count of it.

Although time has flashed away, every word, every graph, and notation that the notebook greeted me with reminds me of the passion that I started out with, the sweat and tears I have gained along the way, and most importantly, the willingness of embracing uncertainty.

To me, it is always more than just a notebook -- it's a memorable piece of souvenir in the irreversible, ever-flowing river of time, a fragment of memory delicately packaged, preserved, and delivered to the future 17-year-old girl who is likely to be overwhelmed by the uncertainty encountered on the path of learning with an invisible note of encouragement, of assurance, of trust.

As an amateur in Biology Olympiad, there is no doubt that it is not so worthy for me to invest too much time and effort in learning the course. But since I have decided to set foot in this field, since I have already filled the leisure time of my 9th grade with memorization of countless biological concepts, since I have come such a long way, a journey of sweat and tears, with a gray notebook, lying safely in my schoolbag and silently absorbing the dark blue ink bit by bit, accompanied me, there is no better choice but wholeheartedly embracing the valuable, irreplaceable learning experience mixed with anxiety, satisfaction, and pleasure, with gratitude and relief.

Again, the cliche saying seems to be true. When I strive for the highly uncertain, luck-depended goal of attaining a medal in the competition, I have already acquired something way more precious in return. 

Whether or not my name will be printed in the dull black font on the winner list, those treasured moments that I spent with this old notebook will never fade away. The 200 pages of creamy printing paper recording bits and pieces of my memories have already become a part of me, a proof of my existence, a flash of highlights braided in my life as a student.

Putting my pen down, I rubbed my eyes filled with sourness and looked at the clock suspending on a dusky-white background. It was nearly midnight. After I laid down on my bed, the hazy eyesight and sleepiness did not blur the familiar appearance of my old pal, a corner where I can always seek comfort and let my dream rest.