CTJM - 3

Chapter 3: Welcoming New Beginnings

It took over an hour to drive back to the station from University A.

Most media organizations are located downtown, quite a distance from the tranquil university district. Driving back felt like gradually descending from the clouds to solid ground—a feeling that was hard to describe as either good or bad.

Their office building was newly constructed a few years ago, standing over twenty stories tall and looking impressive and modern at first glance. Due to several highly popular programs produced by their station in recent years, the building had become a new landmark in City A, symbolizing fashion and innovation.

—Yet, this couldn’t mask the quietness of the Humanities Documentary Channel.

They rarely had any projects throughout the year. Most of the tasks assigned to them were mandatory obligations. Their broadcasts attracted no audience, naturally bringing in no sponsors. Without generating revenue for the station, how could they expect to be taken seriously? While other departments were bustling with reality shows and TV dramas, they could only watch enviously, collecting a fixed monthly salary of six or seven thousand yuan—barely enough to survive in a big city like City A.

Even their office space was subpar—they were relegated to the fifth floor, where the view was narrow, and most of the studios lacked windows. Stepping out of the elevator into the corridor, the atmosphere was lifeless. Colleagues in cubicles passed the time with casual mobile games—Candy Crush, Landlord Battles, Solitaire Minesweeper, or Freecell. The games they played depended entirely on their age group.

The person sitting the farthest inside, engrossed in financial news on his phone, was Luo Hua, the head of the documentary channel. The University A project had originally been under his purview, but after Yin Mengxi transferred from the program center earlier in the year, he handed over the entire responsibility to her. Officially, it was said that he was busy with other tasks—how amusing. What could possibly keep their channel’s staff so occupied?

Sure enough, there he was again, staring at his phone screen filled with red and green stock market updates. His half-flowered eyes strained to see the small text, his brows furrowed deeply. When Yin Mengxi and her team returned, he didn’t even lift his eyelids, acting as though he hadn’t noticed them at all.

“Teacher Yin,” the most enthusiastic among them was undoubtedly Yao Anqi, the young newcomer. She had been glowing with excitement ever since returning from University A. “I’ll draft another version of the script. I can have it ready for you by the day after tomorrow, and then you can give me feedback for revisions!”

She seemed full of energy, perhaps encouraged by successfully securing a new interviewee. Such enthusiasm was something Yin Mengxi had once possessed herself, but now everything felt increasingly different.

“Alright, go ahead and revise it,” she replied indifferently. “No need to rush—it can be done by the weekend.”

Yao Anqi nodded repeatedly, clutching her folder tightly before rushing back to her cubicle. Yin Mengxi watched her leave silently, then returned to her own desk to tidy up a few things. She turned on her computer and scrolled through it, but there was no work to do. The hectic pace of life at the program center felt like a relic of a past life; now, only emptiness and boredom accompanied her.

Emptiness?

That was a dangerous thing—it easily triggered an overflow of thoughts. If she had been busier at this moment, perhaps she wouldn’t have had the chance to dwell on the person she had unexpectedly encountered today—or at least not in such detail.

She thought about the first time she met him—it was also in the old campus of University A.

Back then, she was a freshman who had just crossed the narrow bridge of the college entrance exam from a small southern city to City A. The dazzling prosperity of the metropolis overwhelmed her. From the moment she stepped out of the train station, she felt out of place, convinced that she didn’t belong here.

She didn’t even know how to take the subway because her hometown lacked such advanced public transportation. The only mode of transport she knew was the bus, but without a local transit card for City A, she ended up taking a taxi to school. The fare came to 83 yuan—enough to cover three or four days’ worth of meals.

When she finally reached the school gate, her fear only grew stronger. The people around her came from all over the country, but most were locals from City A, speaking dialects she barely understood. That language, though ordinary, seemed to symbolize an unattainable superiority in the ears of someone insecure like her, making her hesitant to approach anyone.

Taking a deep breath, she masked her inner turmoil with feigned indifference and dragged her gray suitcase into the unfamiliar campus with a blank expression. It was orientation day, bustling with activity. In the central lawn of the campus, various departments had set up booths to distribute welcome materials and take commemorative photos for the new students.

Her hometown was so small that she was the only one from her city to attend University A. Even looking back three or four years, no seniors from her hometown had made it here. She was utterly alone, left to navigate this towering institution on her own—a daunting task, given the sheer size of the university. As one of the top comprehensive universities in the country, University A offered countless majors and programs. Amidst the sea of people on the lawn, she couldn’t find the booth for the School of Journalism.

...And yet, at that moment, she suddenly saw him.

Over there, amidst the crowd, he sat quietly behind a long table. September in City A was still scorching, and the glaring sunlight was almost unbearable. Yet his features were like those of a lush, verdant valley—every movement of his eyebrows exuded a refreshing breeze.

Perhaps she was momentarily spellbound, for she found herself dragging her suitcase straight toward him. A nearby student frowned and pulled her aside, saying, “Excuse me, you need to queue.”

Ah.

Right.

There was a line.

She apologized to the student and joined the queue, waiting anxiously minute by minute. After about twenty minutes, she finally reached the front. Only then did she come to her senses and think to check if this was the School of Journalism booth.

To her surprise, it was exactly the right place. Beside the booth stood a tree, and hanging on it was a sign that read “School of Journalism.” A wave of relief washed over her, followed by an inexplicable joy. Subconsciously, she felt it was a strange twist of fate, perhaps signaling a promising beginning.

When it was finally her turn, the handsome boy was bent over, labeling something. After a few seconds, he looked up, took a large document folder from one of the other students handling orientation duties, and then raised his eyes to meet hers directly.

“Hello,” he spoke his first words to her. “Welcome to University A.”

Ah...

Such an ordinary sentence, one he must have said countless times already. Yet her heart raced as though it weren’t a routine greeting.

...He was truly handsome.

And he had a widow’s peak.

She drifted off into absurd daydreams, forcing him to call out “classmate” twice more to snap her back to reality. Embarrassed, her face flushed red, and her heart began pounding even faster.

“Please hand over your admission letter,” he said with a smile. “After registration, you can collect your materials from the side.”

She responded with an “Oh,” nodding three times in quick succession before hurriedly rummaging through her bag for the admission letter she had admired repeatedly throughout the summer. As she pulled it out, her peripheral vision caught sight of another boy approaching from behind him—perhaps a friend of his—casually draping an arm over his shoulder.

“Wow, no wonder it’s a humanities department,” the boy whistled. “There are definitely more beauties here than on our side.”

Beauties?

...Was he referring to her?

She rummaged through her things even faster, her ears turning red this time.

But he remained as calm as ever, seemingly oblivious to her fluster. While taking the admission letter from her, he turned to his friend and said, “No new students in microelectronics? Is Secretary Zhao giving you trouble?”

She didn’t pay attention to how his friend responded, only focusing intently on the sound of his voice—low and tinged with a gentle smile. He must be a kind person, right? He wasn’t speaking the intimidating dialect of City A but instead used standard Mandarin. Yet, she was certain he was a local. She didn’t know why, but she felt it deeply.

At that moment, another senior at the booth handed her a large bag, presumably containing the orientation materials. There was also an intricate iron bookmark wrapped with thin ribbons, delicate and elegant, inscribed with the words “School of Liberal Arts, University A.”

“School of Liberal Arts”…?

She froze for a moment, suddenly struck by an ominous feeling. Sure enough, the next second, she heard him call her again, “Classmate.” Her heart raced as she nervously looked at him.

“You’ve come to the wrong place,” he said with a helpless smile. “This is the School of Liberal Arts booth. The School of Journalism is next door.”

As he spoke, he pointed to the side. She turned her head and saw another long table behind the tree with the “School of Journalism” sign—it was where her department’s booth was located.

“Ah… I…”

“S-sorry…”

Her face flushed bright red, blood rushing to her cheeks. All she could do was bow repeatedly in apology—why bow? It made her look like an unsophisticated middle schooler from a small town, the kind of person who would easily be laughed at.

Sure enough, he smiled again. His handsome features were like a cool mountain spring, washing away everyone’s unease and anxiety.

“It’s alright, go over there,” he said politely. “Congratulations on joining University A.”

She had heard the word “congratulations” countless times that summer—from relatives, neighbors, teachers, and classmates back home. Everyone congratulated her, but somehow his words felt the most special, ones she would remember clearly for many years.

“Thank you…”

She replied awkwardly, placing the liberal arts materials back on their table while retrieving her admission letter from him. She should have returned the bookmark too, but for some reason, she hesitated at that moment, clutching it in her palm where no one could see.

He didn’t notice, already moving on to register the next student in line. He greeted them warmly, just as he had greeted her, saying, “Welcome to University A,” always polite and composed.

—In truth, even back then, you should have realized he held no special feelings for you.

He was simply… equally courteous to everyone.

She closed her eyes, pulling herself out of memories she shouldn’t dwell on. She glanced at the not-so-expansive view outside the office window, trying to steady her mind.

Then she went to the pantry and poured herself a cup of coffee. After drinking it, the lingering bitterness on her lips brought a strange clarity, giving her the strength to seek out Luo Hua in the office.

“Teacher Luo.”

She greeted him politely. When he put down his phone and looked up at her, she got straight to the point.

“…I want to step down from the University A project.”