gap

Time seemed to be pushed forward by an invisible hand, and in the blink of an eye, my first winter vacation in college ended satisfactorily.

Zhou Yu and I boarded the train to Beijing again. On the platform, my mother held Zhou Yu's hand and chattered, wishing she could cram all the warmth of the family into his suitcase.

"Xiao Yu, you need to drink more water and eat more fruit to work in Beijing. Look, your chin is getting sharper again..." "Auntie, I know. Don't worry." Zhou Yu smiled and responded patiently, lowering his head slightly to listen. The ginkgo leaf necklace I gave her around her neck gleamed in the platform lights, like a small, warm promise.

I stood aside, watching this scene, feeling both warm and bittersweet. The warmth was that my mother had long considered him a member of the family, and the bittersweetness was that, back in Beijing, we would have to start that "long-distance relationship" that spanned half the city again.

---

Back in Beijing, everything seemed to be back on track, but some things were different.

The academic pressure increased noticeably during the second semester of my sophomore year. My specialized courses were no longer just basic exercises; they began to delve into deeper creative concepts and complex techniques. The studio became where I spent the most time, often spending entire days there, suffused with the indelible smell of turpentine and paint. Professors' expectations grew increasingly demanding, and peer pressure was intense. Everyone was desperately searching for their own unique style. The intertwined pain and joy of creation kept me both addicted and exhausted.

Zhou Yu's behavior was even worse. The Finance Department courses were becoming exponentially more difficult, and he began frequently referring to terms I had no idea what they were—econometrics, portfolio theory, corporate finance. His backpack was growing heavier, crammed with brick-like original textbooks and thick case studies.

We still maintained our agreement of calling each other every day and meeting every two weeks, but the content of our calls had subtly changed.

In the past, I would excitedly tell him about the wonderful gray I mixed today, or what the professor said that inspired me. He would listen with a smile, and even if he didn't understand, he would ask "and then?"

Now, when I excitedly talk about a new idea of ​​mine, there is often a long silence or an uncontrollable yawn on the other end of the phone.

"...Yeah, that sounds great." His voice was clearly tired, even absent-minded. "Sorry, Chenzhi, I've been staring at the computer screen all day today, and my eyes are a little blurry. I just had an argument with the team about the data source of the model..."

My desire to share was like a balloon punctured by a needle, deflated in an instant.

"It's okay, just rest early if you're tired." I tried to make my voice sound normal.

"Well, okay. You too, don't paint too late." He said hurriedly and hung up the phone.

Listening to the busy tone on my phone, I looked at the half-finished painting on the easel and suddenly felt that the colors had faded a lot.

---

Meeting each other became difficult. Either the time was not right or the mood was not right.

We agreed to go see an exhibition I was really looking forward to, and I bought the tickets a week in advance. But when we met, there was a thick dark spot under his eyes, and he seemed to be floating even when he walked.

"I was busy analyzing a case last night and barely slept." He rubbed his temples, looking apologetic.

Throughout the exhibition, he seemed a bit distracted, constantly checking his phone and responding to messages. When I tried to explain the story behind a painting, he instinctively responded, "The valuation process for this piece must be complicated, right?"

I choked, all the words stuck in my throat. At that moment, I felt like there was a thick, transparent wall between us. I could see him, and he could see me, but we were living on two completely different frequencies.

He quickly realized that he had spoken out of turn and apologized quickly: "I'm sorry, Chenzhi, I...I've been thinking about all this lately, it's a conditioned reflex."

I shook my head and said it was okay, but the excited anticipation had long since vanished.

---

The most intense conflict occurred on a Friday night.

We finally managed to find time and planned to go to the ancient town in the suburbs on Saturday to relax and explore. I even made a detailed plan.

It was almost eleven in the evening, and I was packing my things for tomorrow, when he called. My heart sank, and I had a bad feeling.

really.

"Chenzhi..." His voice was filled with hoarse fatigue and heavy guilt, "I'm sorry, tomorrow... I can't go."

I held the phone in my hand, not saying anything, my heart sinking.

"Our team made it to the national finals of the business competition and will have the final defense on Sunday morning. The instructor suddenly notified us that we should practice extra tonight and tomorrow morning because our opponents are too strong, and we..." His explanation was pale and familiar.

As I listened, the grievances, disappointments, and anger of not being taken seriously that had been suppressed for so long suddenly rushed up.

"Zhou Yu," I interrupted him, my voice so cold it felt unfamiliar to me. "In your schedule, where exactly do I rank? Can any 'important matter' be cut in line at any time, while the things we agreed on can always be postponed indefinitely or even canceled?"

The other end of the phone was instantly quiet, with only the sound of his heavy breathing.

"Zhang Chenzhi!" His voice suddenly rose, sharp with the sting of pain. "Can you please stop being so willful? I'm not going there for fun! What am I working so hard for? Do you think everyone is like you, living an idealistic life, just focused on romance? I have no way out! I must seize every opportunity!"

"Willful? Idealistic?" I was so angry that I was shaking all over. "Yes, I am idealistic! I am romantic! Then go find someone who is not willful, not idealistic, and who can analyze data and look at reports with you!"

As soon as I said it, I regretted it. There was a long, dead silence on the other end of the line. Then, a busy tone sounded, signaling the call was hung up.

That night, I didn't sleep. He looked at his phone, expecting it to ring again, but he was also afraid. But it remained silent.

---

The next afternoon, I received a call from Zhou Yu. His voice was very hoarse and nasal, as if he had been crying or hadn't slept all night.

"Chenzhi, I'm sorry." The first thing he said was an apology. "I shouldn't have said that to you. Your dreams have never been about romance. I know how hard you've worked, I know it better than anyone else... I'm just... I was too tired and under too much pressure, so I spoke without thinking..."

Listening to his fragile voice, my anger instantly dissipated, leaving only heartache.

"I should be the one to apologize," I whispered. "I shouldn't have said such harsh words. Zhou Yu, I... I just miss you so much. I can't stand the feeling of being excluded from your world all the time."

That afternoon, we had a very long phone call. We stopped arguing and, for the first time, we spoke candidly and openly about our stresses, fears, and grievances. I told him about the unease I felt watching him soar in another field while I seemed to be stuck in the same place. He told me that he desperately wanted to hold on to everything because deep down, he always felt a panic of being helpless. He desperately needed to prove himself, and he desperately needed a sense of security that was tangible and could be grasped.

That heated argument and late-night reconciliation was like a tempering process. Though painful, it strengthened and matured our relationship. We were still one painting in the studio, the other grappling with models in the library, still separated by half a city of Beijing. But after that experience, we were even more certain that we were the ones willing and able to weather the storms and grow together.

---

The last two years of college passed quickly in this state that was sometimes sweet, sometimes bumpy, but generally moving forward.

Graduation season is finally here.

My graduation project is a series of oil paintings titled "Paths," exploring the intersection and parallelism of different trajectories. On the day of the exhibition installation, Zhou Yu deliberately turned down an important final interview to come and help me. He stripped off his expensive suit jacket, leaving only a white shirt, and worked with me, moving paintings, adjusting lighting, and applying labels. He worked himself to the bone, without the airs of a financial elite.

Looking at his busy back in the exhibition hall, my heart was filled with indescribable emotion.

On graduation day, the sun shone brightly, just like the September we first met. Dressed in my graduation gown, I searched for him amid the bustling crowd. He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, his hair meticulously combed. He held a large bouquet of my favorite white lisianthus flowers, smiling at me from a distance. At that moment, he exuded a calm and sharp aura unlike that of his student days.

He came over, handed me the flowers, gave me a gentle hug, and whispered in my ear, "Congratulations on your graduation, great painter."

"Congratulations, future financial giant." I replied with a smile.

Taking photos, throwing hats, saying goodbye to classmates... The air was filled with a mixture of nostalgia and longing for the future. I looked at Zhou Yu, who was full of energy and vigor, and knew that our campus romance was completely over.

---

With excellent grades and extensive internship experience, Zhou Yu undoubtedly landed a job at a top investment bank. The starting salary was staggeringly high, but the price he paid was an insanely intense workload.

He quickly rented a luxury apartment in Beijing, very close to his company, while I shared a secluded studio with another painter, which was a good place for both living and painting.

He officially became the so-called "new business elite".

Our pace of life has completely changed into two extremes.

He lived a reversal of schedules, crisscrossing the globe, holding conference calls from dawn to dusk. His topics became mergers and acquisitions, IPOs, valuation models, and capital market trends. His wardrobe was filled with expensive suits and shirts, each one perfectly pressed. He wore a discreet yet pricey mechanical watch on his wrist.

As for me, I spend most of my time in my studio, wearing old, paint-stained clothes, staring blankly at the canvas or scribbling furiously. My world remains composed of paint, canvas, exhibitions, and the meager, uncertain income. My measure of success is a satisfying piece of work, a recognized exhibition, not cold numbers or job titles.

He began taking me to what he called "essential" social events. These were glittering cocktail parties, filled with elegant people, champagne in hand, elegant conversation, and the exchange of business cards and resources. I'd wear the uncomfortably formal suit he'd bought me, force a proper smile, and listen to the business flattery and industry jargon that completely disinterested me.

Zhou Yu moved through the crowd with ease, speaking eloquently and radiantly. I, on the other hand, felt like an outsider who had strayed into the room, and could only quietly stay in a corner or pretend to get snacks to hide my incompatibility.

Sometimes, he would introduce me: "This is Zhang Chenzhi, an artist." The other party would usually nod politely, then quickly turn his attention back to Zhou Yu and continue the business topic that had just been interrupted.

I can feel that we are both trying very hard to integrate into each other's world, but that invisible barrier is clearer and more difficult to cross than when we were in college.

The gifts he gave me became increasingly expensive, from limited-edition fountain pens to art sets co-branded with renowned artists. But what I miss most are the bag of matcha cookies he gave me in high school, and the ginkgo leaf necklace he made for me—it's still around my neck, but against the backdrop of my couture suit, it looks a bit out of place and immature.

I know he loves me, that he treats me well in his own way and that he's working hard to maintain our relationship, but I often feel a deep sense of powerlessness and loss when he calls me late at night from another time zone, exhaustedly greeting me.

The boy who would blush and get flustered when he bumped into me at the end of the corridor, Zhou Yu who would accompany me to draw blackboard newspapers and doze off in the library, seemed to be being gradually replaced by a stranger named "Mr. Zhou" who was becoming more and more successful.

And between us, the brilliant galaxy of youth that was once connected by brushes and words is now flickering in the neon lights of Beijing and the waves of the global capital market, as if it would be scattered by the wind.