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“Come, come, let me introduce you—”
Guo Yue brought the three freshmen down from the stage to meet Xiao Zhi as he approached.
“This is our playwright, Xiao Zhi from the graduate program in the College of Literature—you all probably know him, right?” He turned to introduce him with a tone of pride. “This guy is hard to get on board. Thanks to our roommate connection, I begged him for an entire semester before he agreed.”
Who in the school wouldn’t know Senior Xiao? Forget about being mentioned by various campus media—he was on the confession wall at least three or four times a week. Yushan and Stone nodded enthusiastically, slightly excited, snapping two more photos.
“These three juniors are from the Youth League,” Guo Yue then introduced them to Xiao Zhi. “They’ll be following the entire process to gather footage. Teacher Sun wants to make a short documentary—the title is... uh...”
He paused, unable to recall.
Yushan and Stone didn’t expect him to remember and quickly reintroduced themselves. Yin Mengxi followed suit. Xiao Zhi nodded at Stone and Yushan, and when it came to her, he did the same but added, “I know.”
The comment caught her off guard, leaving her throat dry. Guo Yue, however, exclaimed, “Eh? You two know each other?”
Yin Mengxi’s heart skipped again, secretly hoping for his response. But he didn’t answer directly, instead looking at her and asking, “Are you interviewing today?”
She didn’t expect him to bypass Guo and address her directly, instinctively feeling flustered. Fortunately, she managed to reply coherently: “It depends on the seniors’ convenience—we’re just getting familiar with the situation today and will start specific tasks later.”
He hummed in acknowledgment, though it was unclear if he agreed. After a moment, he turned to Guo Yue. His handsome side profile, under the dim lights of the audience seats, appeared particularly profound—a natural beauty.
“Have they read the script?” he asked his roommate.
“Oh, not yet,” Guo Yue slapped his forehead. “Wait a moment—I’ll go get them for you.”
With that, he shuffled off in his slippers and returned shortly with several large notebooks, handing one to each of them. Smiling, he said, “I forced Teacher Xiao to write this over winter break. You can sit anywhere and read through it—it’s absolutely top-notch.”
He gave a vigorous thumbs-up.
The script was titled Embers . As a tribute piece, its subject matter had to revolve around the university’s founding history, making it somewhat of a semi-assigned topic. It couldn’t be overly artistic and had to remain relatively straightforward.
…Yet it was still very good.
Their university’s first president, He Jiwen, was a scholar of Chinese literature. The script began in 1912, depicting his intellectual awakening and his break from his feudal family, selling ancestral properties to establish a modern school. Unfortunately, due to supporting the revolution, he was long monitored by the Beiyang government, which restricted his educational activities. During the May Fourth Movement, he risked his life to protect his students and met Ye Wan, the daughter of a prominent industrialist who had returned from studying in America. Together, the couple persevered in running the school, achieving remarkable success and nurturing many renowned talents. Later, during the 1950s university restructuring, their institution merged with strong disciplines from multiple universities nationwide, eventually rising to become one of China’s top institutions.
The meticulous historical research was evident throughout the script. Whoever wrote it must have spent considerable time studying materials, resulting in a beautifully written, coherent narrative—both dignified and vivid. No wonder people from the university office said the principal and secretary liked the drama club’s script. With so many excellent aspects, who wouldn’t?
When reading the scene where President He and his wife Ye Wan parted during the war, Yushan teared up, pulling out tissues to dab her eyes while whispering, “Oh my god, is this what the College of Literature calls talent? Terrifying…”
Stone, on the other hand, wasn’t as moved. Although seated with them in the back row reading the script, his eyes kept sneaking glances at the actors on stage. At this moment, he commented, “Yeah, yeah, impressive—when do we start taking pictures? We haven’t even prepared an interview outline yet. Starting without preparation isn’t appropriate, right?”
“Why not interview? Let’s do it!” Yushan disagreed. “It’s Xiao Senior—any casual chat with him is valuable.”
Seeking support, she immediately turned to Yin Mengxi: “Xixi, don’t you agree?”
Yin Mengxi: “...”
—Of course, she didn’t want to interview him.
Honestly, she was still in disbelief, hardly believing that person had reappeared before her. Who could understand? Over the past two months since the end of the last semester, she had silently endured countless pangs of unrequited love. It was like the emperor’s new clothes, invisible to everyone else. She had sewn it together with golden and silver threads, yet no one knew. Thus, she had to pretend nothing had happened, maintaining a calm facade.
—Like now, sitting with her teammates in the corner of the back row, watching him and his friends oversee the actors’ rehearsal on stage. The short distance between them felt insurmountable, a chasm she couldn’t cross, nor could she let others know she once harbored such a laughable ambition.
“Let’s not interview today—we’re not fully prepared,” she said as naturally as possible, masking her inner evasion. “We’ll review the script, draft an interview outline, and after Jiayi reviews and revises it, we’ll proceed.”
This was indeed the most reasonable approach. Stone readily agreed, eagerly holding his camera, seemingly itching to rush onto the stage. Yushan was reluctant, still wanting to push for the interview. Unexpectedly, just as she was about to speak, she saw Guo Yue stand up and walk toward them. Leaning on the back of the front-row seat, he smiled and asked, “Who among you has time? Could you go on stage and help out? Physical training requires pairs, and one actor is absent today—just cooperate; it’s easy.”
Stone’s eyes lit up instantly, raising his hand enthusiastically. Guo Yue, knowing exactly what this junior was thinking, quickly extinguished his mischievous spark. “Let’s have a girl go—it’s more convenient since the partner is also a girl.”
Stone: “...”
Seeing him deflated, Yushan stifled a laugh behind her hand and volunteered herself. Guo Yue nodded, glanced at Yin Mengxi, and said, “You’re the leader, right? Perfect. Come to the front row to discuss future plans.”
Thus, Yushan went on stage to assist with physical training, while Stone eagerly took his camera up and down, snapping photos. Yin Mengxi, who wanted to avoid attention the most, ended up being led by Guo Yue to the front row, meeting Xiao Zhi again.
At that moment, he was looking at his phone, his beautiful eyes lowered, exuding an indescribable air of refinement. Hearing footsteps, he looked up, locking eyes with her momentarily before turning off his phone and nodding politely.
Very courteous.
She reciprocated with a slight bow. Before he could react, Guo Yue chuckled and said to her, “No need to be so formal—Teacher Xiao isn’t that pretentious.”
With that, he sat down next to Xiao Zhi and gestured to her: “Sit.”
Feeling a bit awkward, she kept her head half-lowered, her gaze lingering on him. Choosing to sit next to Guo Yue, they were separated by one person.
“I’ve been wondering—do you two know each other?” Guo Yue, talkative as ever, brought up the topic again. “You don’t seem like strangers.”
Yin Mengxi dared not respond, fearing embarrassment. Fortunately, after a moment, Xiao Zhi replied in a calm tone: “We met in Mr. Jia’s class last semester.”
“Oh, you took Mr. Jia’s class?” Guo Yue grinned, turning to Yin Mengxi. “Then you’re practically half a student of Teacher Xiao.”
There was nothing wrong with this statement—she had received an A from him.
“But how do you remember her? There were so many people in the classroom,” Guo Yue teased, turning to Xiao Zhi. “Did you notice her because she’s pretty and got distracted?”
Distracted…
By what? To what?
Because Tang Fei was his official girlfriend, so everyone else was considered a distraction?
A bitter taste rose in her heart, proving that two months were far from enough to forget her unfulfilled first love.
“Don’t joke around,” he suddenly spoke, his tone unusually serious. “Her paper was very well-written.”
His voice carried a hint of solemnity, rare for him.
Was this his way of distancing himself from her?
Guo Yue seemed to sense his seriousness and refrained from joking further, offering a vague apology before turning to Yin Mengxi and changing the subject: “It’s great that you know Teacher Xiao—it’ll make scheduling interviews easier. He won’t attend every rehearsal, just occasionally.”
—Occasionally?
This was good news, meaning she wouldn’t have to see him every time.
Yin Mengxi breathed a silent sigh of relief, nodding formally, about to ask about the best time for the next meeting. However, Guo Yue’s phone suddenly rang. Checking it, he realized it was his advisor. Making a face, he stuck out his tongue at Yin Mengxi and said, “I’ll step out to take this call. You two chat for now.”
With that, without waiting for her reaction, he dashed out of the small theater.
…And the atmosphere immediately fell silent.
Well, not entirely silent—the stage rehearsal continued, with actors laughing and practicing physical movements. Yet, she felt as if the world had suddenly turned into a vacuum, all cheerful noises vanishing, leaving only her rigid heartbeat and his calm, steady breathing beside her.
Mysterious.
“How was your vacation?”
He broke the silence first, his voice soft, not as stern as before.
Her palms instantly grew damp, and she couldn’t resist turning her face to look at him. The handsome young man sat in the interplay of light and shadow, illuminated by the stage lights, creating an abstract beauty.
Beautiful widow’s peak.
Beautiful brows and eyes.
“Pretty good,” she lowered her head, daring only a glance, afraid that more would bring sadness again. “...Just like that.”
He acknowledged softly, still gentle. After a pause, he suddenly asked, “Nothing troubling happened, right?”
The question was strange, and she didn’t quite understand: “...Huh?”
He didn’t answer immediately, touching his nose lightly. Then, turning his face to look at her, his eyes reflected overlapping mountains and rivers, still carrying a gentle breeze.
“I didn’t see you in the library at the end of last semester, and you haven’t been there this semester either,” his voice was soft but somehow not drowned out by the noise on stage. “I hope nothing in your life caused trouble.”
Ah...
“Last semester.”
“This semester.”
—What did he mean?
Had he always known of her existence?
Known that she quietly sat somewhere behind him for an entire semester?
Or... occasionally confirmed whether she was there or not?
She didn’t dare delve deeper, fearing overinterpretation and fueling those unwanted fantasies.
“No troubles...” She looked down at her fingertips, her soft hair falling to cover her profile. “Everything’s fine.”
The laughter on stage continued. Perhaps, in this space, only she harbored an unresolvable sorrow. He didn’t understand, others didn’t understand, and perhaps she didn’t fully understand either. What could he possibly do? Without knowing the cause of her sadness and evasion, his overly brief response left even someone from the College of Literature at a loss. In the end, he simply replied briefly: “That’s good.”
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