Su Xinghui slowly, extremely slowly withdrew her hand that was frozen in mid-air.
She curled up and buried her face deep in her cold knees.
His shoulders began to shake violently and uncontrollably. There was no sound, only an extremely suppressed, silent trembling, like a leaf completely wilted and curled up by frost in the cold wind.
Outside the window, the cold wind of late autumn in London whimpered and seemed to grow even louder. It penetrated the thick glass and brought a chill that penetrated into the bone marrow.
The days flow forward silently like the muddy water of the Thames, carrying with them the cold winter rain and the occasional stingy gray sunshine.
The corridors of the Royal College of Art's School of Design are still bustling with activity, and the air is filled with the smell of turpentine, burnt laser-cut panels and the scent of young ambition.
However, Su Xinghui, who once shone like a little sun in the model club's activity room, was quietly wiped out by an invisible hand and disappeared without a trace.
Su Xinghui's apartment became unusually tidy, even empty. Those brightly colored model boxes, scattered parts, and snack packaging were as if they had never existed.
The huge display cabinet was completely emptied, and the glass door was tightly closed, reflecting the unchanging lead-gray sky outside the window. It was like a huge, cold tombstone, commemorating the happiness that once belonged to another Su Xinghui and was displayed here.
She quit the modeling club. No explanation, no goodbyes. She simply posted a brief message in the club's online group chat: "I'm withdrawing from the club due to personal reasons. Best wishes."
Then, she neatly blocked the group messages. Lucy and Tom's messages of concern fell on deaf ears. She was like a drop of water, silently evaporating from the Royal Academy of Arts' vast social network.
Su Xinghui, who appeared in the classroom and studio, seemed like a different person.
She was still beautiful, and her features even appeared clearer and sharper because of the concentration that came from deliberately suppressing all outward emotions.
Her long hair is always neatly tied behind her head, revealing her smooth forehead and clean-cut jaw.
The color tones of the clothes became extremely simple - black, white, gray, occasionally dark blue or dark green, with neat cuts and no unnecessary decorations or patterns.
She walked quickly, with a clear purpose in mind, her eyes fixed straight ahead, rarely making eye contact with anyone around her. Even when she spoke, her voice was low, her speech slow, and her words concise and precise, almost cold.
The eyes that were once always filled with stars and had a sly smile on their faces are now filled with a deep pool of silence.
When he looks at people, his gaze is direct and open, yet it always seems as if there is an invisible, solid layer of glass between them. He rarely experiences major emotional fluctuations, as if all his joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness have been drained away.
When the professor talked about a brilliant idea in class and the students around him excitedly discussed and praised it, she just nodded slightly, her fingertips quickly recording on the notebook, without any extra expression on her face.
It seems that those artistic sparks that can ignite others are just objective existences that need calm analysis in her eyes.
She stopped attending any unnecessary social events. College parties, weekend dinners, and spontaneous coffee gatherings with classmates after class—invitations and verbal invitations were sent to her.
She declined all of them in the simplest way: "Sorry, I have homework." "Thank you, I won't go." "I don't have time."
His tone was calm and without any ripples, and his rejection was clean and clear, leaving no room for maneuver. Gradually, no one bothered to bother him anymore.
She has made herself into an isolated island, an island that operates with precision, efficiency, and silence.
She moves precisely between the classroom, the library, her independent studio (she applied to move to a more remote single-person studio), and her apartment. Under the cold, pale light of the studio, she often stands there for more than ten hours.
The massive drawing board was covered with mecha designs of such intricate construction that they made one's scalp tingle. The only background noise was the scrape of pencils across paper, the clacking of keyboards, and the low, steady hum of a 3D printer.
When I was hungry, I would take a bite of a cold sandwich; when I was thirsty, I would take a sip of black coffee; when I was extremely sleepy, I would wrap myself in a thin blanket and curl up on the cot in the corner for a while.
In her design drafts, the lines became extremely cold and hard, the structure pursued extreme rationality and functionality, and was full of cold mechanical beauty. The decorative elements that were once full of personal interest and a bit of romantic fantasy disappeared completely.
She no longer pursues "cool" or "stunning", but rather an impeccable "correctness" that is as precise as a Swiss watch.
She seemed to have compressed all her passion, all her desire to express herself, and all the light that had once radiated outward, and then poured it all into those cold lines and structures.
It seemed that only in this area, which was absolutely under her control and absolutely "correct", could she find a moment of respite and security.
Contact with Ye Fanshuang had also become a formulaic, cold "correctness." The frequency of video calls dropped sharply. Even when they did connect, Su Xinghui was always sitting at her desk, with the bare white wall of the apartment in the background.
Her smile disappeared. Even if she moved the corners of her mouth occasionally, it was like completing a prescribed action. It was short and cold, and could not reach the depths of her quiet eyes.
She no longer chattered about the details of her life, showed off any new "toys," or complained about professors and classmates. Conversations became extremely brief.
"How are you doing recently?" Ye Fanshuang's cold voice came from the other side of the screen, and the background was usually a study room late at night.
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