The farthest distance

When I came out of Tofu House, the streetlights were all on.

As we walked out of the last intersection of the commercial street, the noise suddenly disappeared behind us, leaving only the sound of the wind, the shadows of the trees, and their footsteps.

Ahead was the outline of the department building, and the lights on several floors were off, except for a faint light in the lobby on the first floor.

“It looks like it’s just us tonight,” Ethan said softly.

He pushed open the office door, the motion-sensor light turned on, and he turned back to give her a slight nod: "You go first."

They quickly got to work.

Ethan moved his laptop to the center of the conference table, the screen's light reflecting off his profile. Pan Qiu sat beside him, a notebook and several printed pages of observation notes spread out beside her.

“Let’s start with the observation notes,” Ethan said, tidying up her stack of handwritten pages.

He typed slowly, glancing up to signal her to read the next line after each input. The sound of pages turning was exceptionally clear in the quiet room. Her voice was soft, yet rhythmic—

"Sample 1: An elderly couple at shelf number three. When the clerk approached, she switched to English."

As Ethan typed, he repeated the key points: "When the clerk gets close... okay."

He habitually looked up to check. Their eyes met briefly before returning to the paper and the screen, respectively.

The second, the third… the rhythm gradually picked up. The paper was passed between the two, occasionally they would both reach for the same page. That extremely light touch, always accompanied by the rustling sound of the paper, left no trace, yet made their hearts skip a beat.

"Are we about to enter the coding segment?" he asked.

"Mm." She nodded.

Ethan opened the form. The light from the screen fell on the edges of their faces, their shadows overlapping slightly on the black border of the monitor.

“This shouldn’t be called ‘language use,’ it should be called ‘interactive transformation,’” she suggested.

Ethan smiled slightly: "Good idea. You already have the mind of a qualitative researcher."

He spoke with a hint of pride. He gently turned the screen towards her, their shoulders almost touching. In that instant, the air seemed to refract light, and she could smell the clean scent of coffee emanating from him.

She continued reading: "Next: Shelf number five, two college students. One said 'gimchi,' and immediately corrected him to 'kimchi'..."

Ethan chuckled softly: "Self-monitoring on the spot. I like that detail."

The laughter wasn't loud, but it sounded exceptionally close in the empty room.

They sorted through them one by one.

Sometimes Ethan would reach out and take her pen—

"Let me mark this."

His fingers brushed against her fingertips, lightly yet truly. The pen twirled in his hand, then he handed it back. The moment was so brief it was almost imperceptible, yet both heard each other's breath.

By the last few pages, they had already compiled a few lines of preliminary themes.

Ethan concludes: "Familiar cultural contexts enhance fluency."

Pan Qiu added softly, "It could also be a sense of emotional security. It's safer to switch to that kind of environment."

Ethan paused for two seconds, then looked up at her. The light shone directly on the side of her face, and her eyes were focused and bright.

“You’re right,” he said softly.

After a while, he exhaled and said, "Let's take a break."

He got up and went to the water dispenser to pour two glasses of water. Pan Qiu was still looking down at her notes, her fingertips lightly tracing patterns on the paper, as if she were going through her thoughts.

"Here you go." He handed one of the cups over.

She reached out to take it, and the water droplets slid off the side of the cup, splashing a few drops onto the table and onto the back of his hand.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!"

They both reached for tissues at the same time, their hands briefly touching in mid-air. It was a light touch, yet it seemed to pause time slightly.

Ethan smiled and said gently, "It's alright, don't worry."

He took out a tissue and wiped the water off the back of her hand. The friction was subtle and gentle, and she could still feel the warmth of his fingertips through the tissue.

"I'll hand it to you next time," he said softly.

She nodded: "Mm."

Those two words echoed in my mind—"Next time."

After a brief pause, they returned to their seats. The water in their glasses was still gently swirling as they both looked down at their desks, the sounds of typing and turning pages filling the room once more.

They summarized today's coding sheet into a small outline: definitions, examples, next steps in the sampling strategy, and the interview outline framework.

Ethan saved the file to a shared folder and sent her a short email with a memo and this week's milestones.

It was nearly ten o'clock when I packed up my things and left the office.

The motion-sensor lights in the corridor turned on one after another, and then went out one by one behind them.

The air outside carried the coolness of the night, and the wind blew through the shadows of the buildings, quietly passing by them.

They walked side by side on the path leading to the dormitory area.

They had walked that road together countless times—after evening classes, after meetings, and during those long, quiet nights.

But tonight is different.

There was no conversation, no laughter, and even the footsteps were lighter than usual.

Panqiu carried the printed manuscript, her steps slow. She could hear the rhythm of her own breathing, and also his occasional soft sighs—not from fatigue, but more like he was organizing something.

The wind rustled the leaves, and the streetlights cast long shadows one by one.

Their shadows overlapped on the ground, then were gently separated by the wind.

When they reached her building, they both stopped at the same time.

There is nothing to say, and nothing that can be said.

That silence, ironically, gave Panqiu a strange sense of balance.

She suddenly wished this moment could last longer, wondering when she would be able to travel with someone like this again.

"Goodnight," Ethan said softly.

"Good night," she replied.

The sounds were very soft, as if they had been carefully concealed by the wind.

He smiled slightly, turned and left. The sound of his footsteps faded away at the end of the road.

Panqiu stood there, watching him walk away.

She didn't know why—

The sound of the wind, the lights, even the smell of the air tonight.

All of this made her feel that something was slowly changing.

Perhaps it's just that the seasons have reached a new turning point.

Perhaps, it's something else entirely.

She took a soft breath; the night was cool and still. She turned and walked into the building.

The moment the door closed behind me,

A fleeting thought crossed her mind:

Perhaps, some nights are just like this.

It was as quiet as a dream that couldn't be held onto.