The gap between dawn and dusk

The unspoken confession in the train carriage on that rainy night was like a boulder thrown into a calm lake, its ripples spreading outwards and completely altering the atmosphere between Lin Wanxing and Jiang Chen. A tacit, subtle tension quietly permeated the air, replacing the previously clearly defined employer-employee or friend relationship.

The mornings were different. Lin Wanxing opened the apartment door, and hanging on the doorknob were not only warm soy milk and her favorite custard buns, but also a small, unnamed, but fragrant white flower covered in morning dew.

She picked up the flower, feeling a cool, damp sensation on her fingertips. Bringing it closer to her nose, a delicate fragrance filled her senses, and a smile unconsciously crept onto her lips. This tender care, so carefully cherished and transcending any agreement, flowed like a warm current across the long-frozen lake of her heart.

Jiang Chen's time in the office took on a new hue. He spent significantly more time there now. Sometimes he would sit in the old armchair by the window, quietly reading programming books in the afternoon sunlight, or using his old tablet with a slightly cracked screen to handle his own affairs.

When the screen lit up, the funny photo of the two of them with their heads touching, which she had forcibly set as wallpaper, stood out against the plain background of the program interface, and was even a little glaring.

Lin Wanxing occasionally looked up from her intricate annotations of ancient books, her gaze piercing through the gaps in the stacks to catch a glimpse of his profile as he gazed at the screen, slightly lost in thought. The soft autumn sunlight outlined his straight nose and often tightly pursed lips, his expression revealing a focus she couldn't fully decipher, along with a lingering melancholy.

She found herself unconsciously noticing his presence in the room; his steady breathing and the soft rustling of pages turning became a reassuring part of the background noise during her work.

Evening walks have become an unspoken tradition. The autumn colors are so intense that they seem to linger; large swaths of plane tree leaves turn golden yellow, then resolutely detach from the branches, swirling in the wind, eventually carpeting the ground with a thick layer of soft fabric.

They walked side by side on the fallen leaves, their footsteps making a crisp, rustling sound, like the season providing accompaniment to this tranquil moment. He remained mostly silent, but his body language spoke volumes. He would subtly walk on the side closest to the traffic, forming an invisible barrier with his body; when she hunched her shoulders in a sudden, chilly autumn gust, he would naturally lower the umbrella, which was already firmly tilted towards her, allowing the rain to soak his other shoulder.

Lin Wanxing greedily absorbed this omnipresent thoughtfulness and warmth. She began to habitually think of him first whenever she encountered any trivial matter—from a printer jam to needing to look up an obscure online database.

On his birthday, she even carefully selected a lighter, thinner, and better-performing laptop for him, and stubbornly, with a hint of possessiveness and a desire for confirmation, personally set their photo as her lock screen wallpaper. Seeing his slightly stiff but not rejecting expression, and even a glimmer of light in his eyes, she felt a bittersweet feeling well up inside her, as if she had finally grabbed onto a piece of driftwood in a turbulent river.

However, this sweetness is like a sharp blade wrapped in thin gauze; the warmer it is, the clearer the hidden pain becomes. Whenever she is alone in the quiet of the night, the guilt that was temporarily suppressed by busyness and dependence during the day will sprout like vines growing in the darkness, breaking through the soil and frantically entwining her heart.

Shen Yu's gentle and tolerant smile, the memories of their shared moments at the coffee shop table, sketching their future home with bright floor-to-ceiling windows and walls lined with bookshelves, the journeys they never shared, the dreams they never fulfilled… every detail felt like a cold needle, precisely piercing the warmth she craved during the day. She felt like a shameful thief, stealing a tenderness that wasn't rightfully hers, betraying a past etched into her very bones, ingrained in her very being. This intense sense of being torn apart meant that even when Jiang Chen showered her with meticulous care during the day, a barely perceptible strain and hesitation lurked beneath her smile, as if she were wearing a delicate yet heavy mask.

Jiang Chen was incredibly perceptive; he clearly sensed her fluctuating emotions, like the ebb and flow of the tide. Sometimes she would stare blankly at the breakfast he had prepared, her gaze vacantly passing through the food and looking into the unknown distance. Other times, during walks together, she would be quietly conversing about a topic one moment, only to suddenly fall into a long silence the next, as if completely isolated by an invisible, cold barrier. When he tried to get closer naturally by discussing a problem, her body would stiffen almost imperceptibly for a moment, then quickly return to normal, but that moment of estrangement felt like a blade cutting through his senses.

The distance that the rainy night had brought them closer seemed to be quietly pushed back by an even stronger force stemming from the past. He could feel a shadow, omnipresent as the air itself, heavily looming between them—a presence he could neither penetrate nor replace, no matter how hard he tried. The unfinished star puzzle, still scattered on the coffee table, untouched, was like an eternal, silent scar, reminding him daily of that insurmountable past.

That afternoon, the warm autumn sun cast dappled light through the blinds onto the dark wooden floor, seemingly trying to dispel an invisible pressure in the room. Jiang Chen handed Lin Wanxing a freshly compiled, well-organized draft of a literature review. She took it, gave a perfunctory thank you, but her gaze drifted aimlessly to the vast, blue sky outside the window. Her fingers unconsciously and repeatedly traced the edges of the paper, and a lingering weariness and melancholy hung between her brows—a gloom that no amount of sunlight could penetrate.

Jiang Chen looked at her absent-minded appearance, stood silently for a moment, and finally spoke. His voice was lower than usual, with a hint of cautious probing, as if afraid of disturbing something: "Teacher Lin," he carefully chose his words, his gaze calm yet firm as it fell on her slightly pale face, "you've seemed... a little unhappy lately." He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly, "If... there's anything I can do, or... would you like to talk about it..."

Lin Wanxing seemed to be abruptly awakened from some kind of reverie, and quickly came to her senses. She quickly lowered her head, avoiding his overly clear eyes that seemed to see straight into the secrets of her heart, and pretended to be busy tidying up the books that were already neatly stacked on the table. Her tone was deliberately created with an overly light rhythm, which even seemed a bit abrupt: "No, really no."

She denied it repeatedly, her fingers clenching nervously. "It's probably just... I haven't been sleeping well lately, and the weather's changed, so I get tired easily." She couldn't look him in the eye, couldn't tell him the root of her heavy unhappiness, her inescapable struggle.

Jiang Chen watched her obvious avoidance, watched her fingertips turn slightly white from gripping the book so tightly, and the faint glimmer of hope in his eyes, an attempt to get closer, slowly and completely extinguished. He didn't ask any more questions, not even a sigh escaped his lips, he simply responded with a very soft "Mm." His voice was so low and hoarse that it almost dissipated into the air.

He turned around, silently returned to his seat, picked up his laptop again, and the code symbols on the screen danced coldly, but could no longer enter his mind, only reflecting a desolate silence in his eyes. The once warm sunlight in the office now seemed to weigh a ton, pressing heavily on every corner, making it almost impossible to breathe, clearly outlining the silent, bottomless rift that was spreading between the two of them.

...

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Su Xiao was frantically staring at a project data report on her computer screen. The bidding process had entered its final, heated stage, and this report involved a simple cross-analysis of statistical data on different groups' awareness of a certain emerging health product. The data consultant they were originally working with had suddenly failed to deliver. This seemingly minor problem was now like a grain of sand stuck in a fine gear, enough to bring the entire project to a standstill, yet not worth the drastic measure of urgently hiring a new outsourced contractor.

She irritably rubbed her already disheveled hair, feeling her temples throbbing. Her gaze wandered aimlessly through her WeChat contacts, finally settling on the simple, almost coldly indifferent stethoscope-like profile picture, as if drawn by some unseen force. Since receiving his objective, almost ruthless, description of her cold symptoms, they hadn't had any contact. Their relationship remained a fragile, quiet exchange of nods when they occasionally bumped into each other in the hospital corridor.

After much struggle, the immense pressure of the bidding deadline finally prevailed. She took a deep breath, as if to bolster her courage, then opened the chat window and began typing rapidly, striving to make every word sound purely businesslike, devoid of any personal emotions that might cause misunderstanding:

"Dr. Lu, I apologize for bothering you. I've encountered a simple data problem at work: determining the statistical significance of the difference in awareness of product X between two groups of people from different backgrounds, A and B. The sample size is small. Would it be convenient for you to help me with a basic statistical confirmation? Attached is a simplified data table."

After sending the message, she placed her phone face down on the table as if it were something hot to the touch, yet her heart began to pound uncontrollably. Given his consistently aloof style, the most likely outcome was that it would disappear without a trace, or, worse, she would receive a cold rejection based on "efficiency" and "boundaries."

However, after about half an hour of agonizing waiting, the phone screen unexpectedly lit up.

Lu Ziang replied. No salutations, no emojis, no small talk, straight to the point, precise as a scalpel:

"Received. Data reviewed. For this type of discrete data and your analytical objectives, the chi-square test is more suitable for independence analysis. The calculation process is summarized below:..."

Below is a clearly outlined formula, the process of substituting values, and the final P-value. This is followed by a concise and straightforward conclusion:

"Based on the calculation results, the p-value is greater than 0.05, indicating that the difference in awareness between groups A and B is not statistically significant given the current sample size. Note: This conclusion is strictly based on the data you provided; the small sample size is the main limiting factor, and extrapolation to the general population should be approached with caution."

The logic is rigorous, the expression is precise, and it is a completely standardized data analysis feedback that has been stripped of all emotional coloring. There are no superfluous words that go beyond the scope of the question, not even out of politeness.

Su Xiao looked at the reply; although the content was dry and lifeless, like dehydrated vegetables, it had indeed solved her problem precisely and efficiently. She breathed a sigh of relief and immediately replied:

"Understood, thank you very much, Dr. Lu, you've been a great help."

Almost instantly, a reply came from the other end:

"You're welcome."

The conversation ended abruptly, cleanly and decisively, like cutting a thread after surgery, leaving no unnecessary lingering connections. Su Xiao looked at the extremely concise conversation record, feeling a mix of relief and a faint, empty sense of loss. This seemed to be the most "safe" and "efficient" realm of communication he had defined and upheld—pure, instrumental mutual assistance based on knowledge and logic. She shook her head, trying to shake off this inexplicable emotion and refocus all her energy on the final push of the bidding process.

The sky outside the window, unnoticed by anyone, had quietly transformed from a bright afternoon into a tranquil dusk. Twilight, like diluted ink, slowly enveloped everything, gently swallowing the daytime clamor and brewing deeper undercurrents of emotion.