"People say the probability of plugging in a USB the wrong way isn't 50%, but 100%."

"People say the probability of plugging in a USB the wrong way isn’t 50%, but 100%."

Back in the days before smartphones were everywhere, I often buried myself in the self-study room. I wasn’t particularly smart and always had to spend several times more effort than others writing, reviewing, and revising. At that time, I dreaded being disturbed, especially by *him*. My nemesis.

How would I describe him? He loved playing soccer, was popular, full of energy, and always had new ideas. With his quick wit, he could rank among the top of the class without even studying, but he was also a constant troublemaker—someone the teachers both loved and hated. I could never understand why someone like him, seemingly born under a lucky star, would bother coming to the self-study room. He often sat diagonally across from me, occasionally leaning over to whisper, "Hey, what part are you studying now?" I didn’t dare answer—I couldn’t remember a single word I was trying to cram. His very presence was the biggest obstacle to my studying.

At that time, it was common for classmates to store past exam papers on USB drives and exchange them with students from other schools—one for one, a fair trade. Once, while trying to print out some exam papers, I struggled in front of the library computer, unable to insert my USB correctly no matter how many times I tried. Just as I was about to ask the staff for help, he suddenly appeared behind me, grabbed the USB, and plugged it in with one smooth motion. Before I could react, he leaned close to my ear and said in a low voice, "Remember, the blank side faces up. Push it all the way in, and it’ll work."

That was probably the closest we’d ever been.

After saying this, he quickly left. I, on the other hand, was frozen in place, unable to move for a long time. It wasn’t until someone lined up behind me that I snapped out of it and hurried to print my documents.

Wait... this isn’t my USB. Inside was a folder full of exam papers, so many that scrolling through seemed endless. My god, was this the result of all his hard work behind the scenes? At the top of the drive was a folder titled "Future." I instinctively clicked on it and found a single file—a university application form that students were required to fill out. Scrolling to the bottom, I saw his dream school: "The Chinese University of Hong Kong, Department of Journalism." The reason he gave for his choice? A single, seemingly unrelated word.

It was my name—both familiar and strange at the same time.