Tofu soup and time

It was past three o'clock when I came out of the Korean supermarket.

The sunlight was still bright, but with a touch of slant characteristic of evening. The parking lot was bathed in golden light, and the air carried the scents of barbecue sauce and fallen leaves.

Ethan casually asked, "Want to grab a bite to eat together? It's near the school. Then we can go back to the office and organize our notes."

Pan Qiu was stunned for a moment. In that instant, time seemed to slow down as the sunlight shone on it.

She ate lunch, then went back to the office to organize data. It sounded reasonable, but inside she felt like she had a fluffy little cat inside her, the wind slowly swirling around her chest, making the cat's fur sway.

She spoke softly, "How about that tofu soup restaurant? It's Korean food—perfect for today's atmosphere."

Ethan looked at her, a smile in his eyes.

She smiled and added, as if explaining, "I've been there a few times. It's not a big place, but it's very cozy. It feels like home."

With a hint of indulgence, he said, "Then let's have the tofu soup restaurant."

The car drove onto the main road.

Ethan gripped the steering wheel with one hand and lightly tapped the center console screen with the other. Music started playing, the intro featuring the sound of waves gently lapping against the shore.

Pan Qiu glanced at the song title on the screen subconsciously: "Best Part".

The woman's voice started first, as light as a breeze—meaning, "You are like a cup of coffee needed in the morning, and like a ray of sunshine on a rainy day."

She leaned against the car window, sunlight falling on the back of her hand. Hearing that line, a gentle tenderness rose in her heart—the words were so beautiful. She remembered the smell of coffee in his office, and the way his eyes squinted slightly when the sunlight shone on him.

Another sentence came, roughly meaning, "If life is a movie, you are the most touching scene."

Indeed, Ethan seems to be that "best" part, like a rainbow.

The male voice continued, roughly saying, "You are like a pool of water in the desert, and also like a painkiller when you have a headache."

This sentence reminded her of the way he drank water, and also of his slightly reddened eyes late at night.

She glanced at him; he was just focused on driving.

At the end, a male and female voice exchanged words, repeatedly conveying the message, "If you like it, just say it."

Panqiu looked out the window and didn't turn her head back.

Ethan kept his eyes on the road ahead, focused on driving.

But that phrase, "Say it," echoed in the carriage, as if forcing them to say something...

The car finally entered the vicinity of the school.

This is the liveliest time of Saturday afternoon—students, couples, and groups of friends, their laughter mingling with the smell of cooking oil, drifting in the wind on the street corner.

Ethan slowly circled around several blocks before finding an empty spot.

They walked side by side toward the tofu soup stall. After a few steps, Ethan spoke first, his tone still indifferent: "Do you come here often?"

Pan Qiu nodded: "Sometimes, with my roommate. The boss is a very nice person—he calls everyone 'kid'."

Ethan chuckled softly and replied gently, "Sounds nice. I'd like someone to call me 'kid' too. It's been so long since anyone called me that."

Pan Qiu burst out laughing and blurted out, "You don't look like someone who would be called that."

Ethan glanced at her sideways and smiled slightly: "I'll take that as a compliment."

The wind blew across the street, and they stopped at the same time at the red light.

The crowd surged, and their side-by-side shadows were reflected in the restaurant windows across the street.

It was not even five o'clock yet, and the little tofu soup shop on the street corner had already lit up with soft yellow lights, and steam was rising from the windows.

Panqiu pushed open the door and glanced back.

Ethan was reaching out to shield her from the wind chimes on the door, preventing them from clanging.

As soon as she entered, the warm air enveloped her.

The shop was neither too crowded nor too quiet, mostly consisting of couples sitting very close to each other.

The tables are small and the chairs are close together, much like an izakaya on a street corner in Seoul: some people are talking quietly face to face, their heads almost touching; others are sitting shoulder to shoulder, sharing food intimately.

The entire space was bathed in a soft orange light, and the air was filled with the aroma of tofu soup and chili sauce.

Several faded posters were pasted on the wall, all featuring Korean drama actors smiling and holding bowls.

A Korean love song was playing from the speaker; the melody was gentle, and the female voice hummed as if it were swirling in the wind.

Pan Qiu suddenly breathed a sigh of relief. Since she couldn't understand the lyrics, she wasn't afraid of being struck by any ambiguous lines anymore.

The curtain behind the kitchen was lifted, and the owner appeared—an elderly Korean man with gray hair.

He was wearing a floral apron, and his smile was as gentle as I remembered.

This time, instead of calling her "child," he asked in slightly accented English, "Two of you? Would you like to sit by the window?"

Ethan nodded.

The old man led them to a seat by the window, where two narrow stools were placed side by side, separated only by a table about the size of an iron pot.

Outside the window, the streetlights were gradually brightening, and their reflections were faintly visible on the glass.

Ethan gently pulled out a chair for her to sit down first.

Steam rose from the pot on the next table, creating a hazy mist that filtered the light, turning it into a filter between them.

They all ordered the signature tofu soup.

The earthenware pot was quickly served, still bubbling; the broth was a bright red, and the aroma of sesame oil and garlic filled the air.

Ethan and Panqiu smiled in unison, each scooping up a spoonful and carefully blowing on it to cool it. Steam rose from the rim of the bowls, creating a soft mist between them.

She felt that he was sitting quietly across from her in this environment, within reach—like some kind of "part of life" that she had never had but was inexplicably familiar with.

Ethan suddenly got up, went to the counter, grabbed two bottles of ice water, and handed them to her in a natural and silent manner.

Pan Qiu took it without saying anything, as if afraid of breaking the tacit understanding—there was only silence between the two.

She suddenly felt like saying something: "This place is always...warm. It's like it never really gets dark here, yet it's always night."

Ethan looked up and smiled slightly: "That's called 'time weightlessness'."

When you feel like time has been paused—you're acutely aware of everything, yet nothing seems to be moving forward—this is, strictly speaking, a psychological phenomenon known as 'time flattening.'

He paused, then added softly, "Actually, it's a good feeling. Your brain stops counting minutes and starts to feel the 'present moment'."

She blinked and whispered, "Like now?"

Ethan's gaze was focused, and his voice was so low it was almost inaudible: "Yes. Just like now."

At that moment, time seemed to truly stand still.

She had a strange feeling: the world was still turning, the pot was still steaming, and there were still voices on the street, but everything had receded into the distance, leaving only him and those quiet eyes that could hold the entire sunset.

Panqiu remained silent for a moment.

He continued, "This reminds me of many years ago. I was in college and went to Tokyo on exchange during the summer."

His voice lowered, as if recalling a scene shrouded in time:

"In July, it was sweltering and the sound of cicadas filled the air. I remember walking on a small street near Ueno, the air was filled with the steam from ramen and the exhaust fumes from cars, and the people around me were talking very fast, and I couldn't understand a word they said."

He chuckled softly, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice:

"But somehow, that made everything quiet. It was like being suspended for a moment. I could tell the angle of the light on the vending machine, and I could taste the air before the rain fell."

He paused, his gaze returning to her, his tone almost softly gentle:

"Perhaps, when you stop rushing to 'understand,' time will have less control over you."

Pan Qiu smiled and gently followed his train of thought:

"Like now? The Korean lyrics are so relaxing. I don't understand a word, but I just find them catchy."

Ethan smiled, his gaze softening: "This is very useful. Sometimes, being able to understand is dangerous."

The two remained silent for a moment. The air seemed to pause slightly, as if they both simultaneously remembered the song playing in the car—the repeated phrase "say it out loud."

Pan Qiu lowered her head and drank the water earnestly.

Ethan smiled faintly.

He looked up again and changed the subject: "I've never been to South Korea or China. Maybe I will in the future."

Pan Qiu thought for a moment, then smiled slightly and said, "You'll probably like it. If you go to Shanghai, I can give you a list—places to walk around, things to eat, or just... see people."

Ethan looked up at her and repeated softly, "Shanghai...maybe someday—I want to see where my students' stories begin."

He said this in a gentle tone.

But the question, "Where do students' stories begin?" still stirred something within Pan Qiu.

She suddenly imagined him standing at the gate of her university—wearing that shirt, his eyes slightly squinted, bathed in familiar yet unfamiliar sunlight, exuding a quiet aura that didn't belong there.

Pan Qiu smiled, touched by his tone that suggested he really would keep his promise.

The wind outside blew the wind chimes by the door, making them tinkle once.

The old man was collecting payments behind the counter, while the soup on the stove was still bubbling.