A Song of Ice and Fire

As December arrives, the colors of winter quietly paint the campus.

The leaves on the branches have mostly fallen, the lawn has lost its green, and the wind has become dry and cold. As compensation for the season, almost overnight, the quiet little houses along the street have been decorated and made lively: strings of colorful lights hang from the eaves, LED light strips are wrapped around the tree trunks, and plastic snowmen, Santa Claus, reindeer, and candy canes are stuck in the lawn.

One of them was particularly extravagant, with its front yard resembling a light sculpture exhibition. Seven or eight giant inflatable figures were crammed onto the snow, including a singing Santa Claus, a polar bear spinning around with a gift box, and a three-meter-tall glowing Christmas tree with a star on top that blinked every few seconds.

The homeowner even put up a small blackboard by the lawn that read "Day 12—Santa'sing soon!" There was also a fence of fake snow around it. Panqiu stood across the street watching, and couldn't help but think: if they added two more plastic chairs, they could even sell tickets!

She and Zhiwei lived not far from the school, a ten-minute walk. That day, she was walking home alone, carrying the milk she had just bought. The lampposts on both sides of the street were already decorated with green wreaths, and the banners on the utility poles read "Happy Holidays".

The air was filled with the sweet scent of gingerbread and cinnamon. She stopped and looked at a small lamp in a window of a house. Suddenly, she felt as if she had missed the whole season.

She did miss it.

The entire semester felt like being swept along in a rapid current by an invisible hand. From the very first day, she hardly ever truly stood on the shore to appreciate the scenery. She had to record every class and listen to it repeatedly afterward. The teachers spoke too fast, used too much jargon, and would occasionally crack a joke that would make the whole class burst into laughter, while she could only look down and underline those unfamiliar phrases. She rushed through classes during the day and stayed up late researching, her eyes aching, her face pale. Sometimes, she was even startled by her reflection in the mirror.

Zhiwei was in an even worse situation than her. The computer science projects were so demanding that it was hard to breathe, and often the light in her room was still on in the middle of the night, like the last luminous light in the whole little house. The light shone through the cracks in the door and the corner of the stairs, a faint patch, like a battlefield that no one dared to disturb.

Their lives were like a fully drawn bow, almost snapping, and they missed the entire holiday season in their tension.

On Halloween night, children dressed in strange costumes ran up and down outside the window, occasionally letting out a "Trick or treat," like a distant fairy tale, irrelevant to them.

On Thanksgiving, the aroma of roast turkey and pumpkin pie wafted from the neighbors' house. Several families sat around the table, their figures peeking through the curtains. The warm, smoky atmosphere seemed to permeate even the glass. Meanwhile, they were stuck on their laptops, formatting and checking citations, finding even ordering takeout a luxury.

The school organized many holiday activities, but they didn't go to any of them. It wasn't that they didn't want to, but they simply didn't have the time. Panqiu often ate a cold sandwich—just two slices of white bread with a cheddar slice in between, too lazy to even heat it up—while listening to music and laughter coming from downstairs.

She felt neither aggrieved nor jealous; it was as if she were sitting outside a movie theater listening to people watching a film, her voice coming through intermittently: the excitement belonged to them, but she had nothing.

But she wasn't blank either. She was just very quiet, very full, like being pressed into a thick textbook by the whole world, starting from the first page and having to persevere all the way to the end... until the moment she handed in the last final exam, when her taut nerves snapped like an old rubber band.

The night before the final exam, she finished the last paragraph of her paper, too lazy to even check the punctuation, and clicked "Submit." For a moment, she sat there stunned for half a minute, her mind blank, overwhelmed by exhaustion. She didn't even remember how she got back to bed.

She woke up at 9:30 the next day.

Sunlight streamed in at an angle through the blinds. She stared blankly at the ceiling, still caught in the sprint of the previous night—a voice inside her urging, "I should be preparing my paper," "Isn't there a quiz I haven't submitted yet?"—but nothing. She paused for a full ten seconds before suddenly realizing: It's alright. Really, it's alright.

She rolled over, burying her face in the pillow, a blissful, almost absurd sense of relaxation washing over her—no guilt, no deadlines, no anxiety about washing dishes and thinking about reports at the same time. She could stay in bed, eat whatever breakfast she wanted, or do nothing at all.

So for the next few days, it felt as if I had mistakenly entered another parallel universe.

They woke up to bright sunshine, the fresh light after the snow was like a clean wash, and the air was as clean as a freshly dried towel, breathing it felt like stepping out of a library. They didn't have to rush, check emails, or rehearse presentations.

Life has returned to its almost forgotten rhythm: waking up naturally, leisurely going downstairs to order a hot cocoa, and taking a casual stroll on the quiet streets of this foreign land; when too lazy to cook lunch, I go to a newly discovered Thai restaurant and order a bowl of Tom Yum soup. The sour, spicy, and hot aroma hits me, and after finishing a bowl, I feel completely revitalized.

Afternoon sunlight streamed into the living room. Because the entire semester had been like a rollercoaster ride, they had barely had time to decorate the living room. To this day, only a pale blue curtain hangs in the living room—a trace of the will to live that Pan Qiu had preserved for herself amidst the heavy academic pressure at the beginning of the semester.

A beige carpet covered the floor, its water-like pattern rippling gently in the sunlight. Apart from that, the space was empty. They had considered adding some furniture, but ultimately decided to leave it as it was.

Perhaps it is precisely this "absence" that gives the space the possibility of breathing. You can stretch here after dinner, lie side by side in the sun on weekends, and occasionally dab your tea while stretching your feet into the sunlight and daydreaming.

That day, Zhiwei mysteriously pulled out her laptop: "Let's watch a TV series!"

She clicked on "A Song of Ice and Fire." As she clicked, she said, "Isn't this a perfect description of our semester? The fire is the project and the deadline, and the ice is our current state—frozen and unable to move." After she finished speaking, she laughed and said, "I heard it's very explicit and violent," and then deliberately made a face.

The plot is indeed tight, fantastical, and captivating, and it is also undeniably "very explicit and violent." Whenever certain scenes occur, they cover their faces at each other, sometimes leaving viewers speechless and needing to pause and rewatch.

They stayed up late watching TV that day. Snowflakes were falling outside the window, and the lights inside were as warm as melting caramel. The air was filled with the aroma of tea, laughter, and a sense of anticipation for a holiday.

Zhiwei suddenly said, "Should we... throw a party?"

Pan Qiu stretched, not answering immediately. She looked at the lamp in the corner, its light swirling in layers on the carpet. Suddenly, she felt that it seemed like it was time.

They immediately started making a list. Zhiwei casually stuck a sticky note on the kettle lid as a temporary memo, muttering to herself as she wrote, "Leo and June definitely have to be invited!"

“Yes.” Panqiu nodded. “When we arrived, it was almost three in the morning, and they were still waiting at the airport without uttering a single complaint. They are really loyal.”

Then a few more names were added: Liu Dan, the senior student who showed them the way to the supermarket, and her husband Chen Yan, who held an F2 visa and was a man of few words but reliable in his work.

"That guy from your department... Lin Yue?" Pan Qiu hesitated for a moment. "Why do I always run into him downstairs?"

Zhiwei raised an eyebrow: "Oh, you finally brought him up."

"Does he live nearby?" Panqiu smiled and explained.

"It seems like they live at the end of this street," Zhiwei said, blinking as she added her name to a sticky note.

"Mmm," Panqiu responded softly, without saying anything more.

Finally, they wrote down the name of Xu Qian, a doctoral student in the psychology department. When Pan Qiu first enrolled, her senior always took extra care of her.

"The two of us, plus Leo, June, Sister Dan and her husband, Lin Yue, Senior Sister... that makes eight of us."

"That's enough. There's no room in the living room if there are any more," Zhiwei said.

They almost tacitly avoided all non-Chinese classmates—not out of exclusion, but simply because they wanted to give their ears and tongues a break that night, allowing the part of themselves that had been trying so hard to "adapt" to a temporary respite.

They decided that this party had to be a proper one. Not the kind of "eat and go" gathering, but a truly atmospheric and relaxing holiday night.

What they wanted was that relaxed, warm sense of happiness—like in the movie *Love Actually*, where family and friends, dressed in plaid pajamas, unwrap presents, laugh and joke under the Christmas tree. Mentioning that movie, Panqiu's mind automatically conjured up that familiar melody: "All I want for Christmas… is you…"

She said softly, "Let's do one like this too."

Zhiwei nodded on the spot: "Okay!"

So the theme was decided: a Christmas pajama party. Everyone who comes has to wear pajamas—plaid, velvet, or even a grandma-style sweater, it doesn't matter.

We'll be eating at a potluck, with each person bringing one dish. We don't need anything fancy, just something with a taste of home.

As for gifts, they couldn't be lacking either. They stipulated that each person should prepare a small gift no more than fifteen dollars, which had to be well-wrapped and accompanied by an anonymous card. It could be a blessing or some nonsense written on it, "anything to make sure no one goes back empty-handed," Panqiu said.

"Should we make a guide?" Zhiwei suggested.

They really did divide the work. Zhiwei was in charge of creating the group, sending invitations, and buying basic supplies: disposable tableware, drinks, fruits, and colored paper—a complete "logistics team" setup. Panqiu, on the other hand, belonged to the "atmosphere team," planning everything from the background music playlist to the gift exchange flowchart, and even whether or not to hang fairy lights on the curtains.

Zhiwei originally wanted to put up a small blackboard at the entrance that said "Welcome," but Panqiu decisively rejected it: "Calm down, this is a residence, not a coffee shop."

In the end, they stuck the "flowchart" on the refrigerator door, with a sticky note next to it that read: "Eat, exchange gifts, lie down, don't be nervous, just play around."

Zhiwei named the group "Christmas Eve Draw" and wrote in the notes: "Don't just stand around once you're here."

Those few days felt like they were gently sprinkled with sugar.

I woke up not to rush a deadline, but to buy Christmas hats and kitchen paper towels.

They went to the supermarket together to grab discounted cookies, squatted in a pile of colorful paper from Dollar Tree, laughing so hard they couldn't stand up, and shouted, "We are now American lifestyle vloggers!"

That evening, Zhiwei returned home carrying a large bag of colorful lights and announced as soon as she entered the door, "What we want is—the feeling of everyday life!"

The moment she turned on the switch, the entire living room was enveloped in warm yellow bubble lights, soft and bright, like a bowl of hot soup.

Zhiwei even created a Google Forms survey to find out what dishes people would bring, which was jokingly referred to in the group as "the project manager has gone online." However, the results were amazing: braised pork, cold noodles, shredded potatoes with green peppers, sweet and sour pork ribs, stir-fried beef with yellow peppers, scallion oil noodles, cola chicken wings, hot tofu pudding, red date and white fungus soup... more complete than a takeout menu.

This holiday, they can finally celebrate as easily as everyone else.