alliance
Zhiwei leaned against the small round table by the kitchen, eating oatmeal with milk while browsing the densely packed code changes on her computer screen. She hadn't planned to go out today.
Most CS graduate classes are scheduled after 3 PM, some even starting at 6:30 PM. She's used to coding at night and sleeping in during the day, usually going to the department for lunch or later. 10 AM is still considered "early morning" for her.
As she tapped the rim of her cereal bowl with her spoon, she glanced sideways at the section of logic that needed restructuring, hesitating whether to delete and rewrite it entirely, when she heard the soft clatter of keys outside the door. She paused instinctively.
Who could it be? Panqiu usually doesn't come back at this time.
The door opened. She peeked out and, sure enough, it was Panqiu.
Pan Qiu was wearing a dark gray trench coat, with her backpack hanging over her shoulder, and she was unusually quiet.
She quietly put down her bag, took off her coat, and changed her shoes. All her movements were light, slow, and steady, appearing almost "too calm," as if she were trying to make everything seem normal.
My intuition about Zhiwei is wrong.
She called out softly, "Hey, why are you back at this hour?"
Pan Qiu simply kept her head down, tidying up her trench coat, as if she hadn't heard anything, or perhaps she didn't know how to respond.
Zhiwei's heart clenched. She stepped out of the kitchen, took a step closer, and asked cautiously, her voice tinged with uncertainty, "Are you... alright?"
The other person still didn't speak. But her shoulders seemed to twitch almost imperceptibly.
Zhiwei held her breath and waited another second—she heard it.
A faint gasp escaped from deep within her throat, barely audible, yet it did not escape Zhiwei's ears.
She paused for a moment, then quickly stepped forward, gently took Panqiu's arm, and asked again carefully and tenderly, "What happened?"
This time, she finally saw Panqiu raise her face—her eyes were red, as if she was trying hard not to cry out, but tears had already welled up in her eyes.
Zhiwei was startled, and various thoughts flashed through her mind, but she couldn't say a word.
She and Panqiu have known each other for almost four years. Throughout their time together, Panqiu has always been a confident, composed, reserved, and elegant person—she speaks with tact and doesn't show her emotions. Even when she's busy or tired, she always responds with a smile. She has never seen Panqiu lose control even slightly.
But at this moment, Panqiu lowered her head, as if she had suddenly deflated. Tears fell silently, one by one, which was heartbreaking.
Zhiwei didn't know what to do for a moment, and didn't dare to ask any more questions. She just instinctively took a step closer and gently hugged her.
She moved very gently, carefully reaching out to pat her back softly, as if afraid of startling a newly injured fawn.
She didn't know what to say at that moment, and didn't dare to ask any more questions, so she could only let her finish crying first.
After a long while, Pan Qiu slowly spoke, her voice low and somewhat hoarse: "When I went back to the office this morning... I saw something written in red pen on the desk. It was written very large and very heavily."
She paused for a moment, then added, "It's an 'informer'."
Zhiwei paused her patting hand. She didn't speak, but continued to gently hold her, waiting for her to continue.
Pan Qiu continued, her tone almost too calm: "It's because... I dealt with something not very honorable before. It happened in a class where I was a teaching assistant. A student broke the rules... and I reported the situation."
Zhiwei didn't press further, but simply nodded. She could tell that Panqiu was trying her best to present the situation in a "neutral" way.
“That’s what I was supposed to do. But I didn’t expect… such a strong response. I suddenly felt like I wasn’t following the rules, but rather… being put on the target.”
Her voice was so soft it seemed to just barely cross her throat: "I didn't do anything wrong."
Zhiwei felt a lump in her throat. She carefully tightened the arm around her and said gently, "Of course you didn't."
Zhiwei's voice was lower and slower than usual: "That reaction is the other person's problem. He can't face the fact that he did something wrong, so he vents all his anger on you."
She added earnestly, "It's not because you did something wrong, it's because he can't shoulder the responsibility."
Looking at Panqiu's gradually calming expression, she said softly, "Besides, you're not alone. You don't know how many people actually know in their hearts that what you did was right, they just haven't said anything."
The two of them sat like that, kneeling on the living room carpet. The sunlight from the window streamed in quietly, falling on the water-patterned carpet beside them.
Those scattered patterns are just like this surging emotion, finally dispersing in circles.
This was a silent outpouring of emotions. There were no accusations, no denunciations, and no words of righteous indignation.
She was simply exhausted, aggrieved, and caught off guard. Her emotions surged like water, overwhelming her, swirling and roaring within her, before finally receding quietly.
When everything calmed down, she suddenly realized that after those fleeting emotions, the truth and bottom line in her heart became clearer—she had done what she had to do; she had not hurt anyone; and she had not deviated from her principles.
That hesitation and grievance did not come from inner denial, but from external clashes.
She has no regrets. That's enough.
Panqiu received Ethan's email around 3 PM.
It was a brief but clear notification:
"Your desk has been cleaned up. The logistics team took care of it early this morning."
You can come back when you're ready, no rush. —E.
The email contained no extra words of comfort or emotional language, yet she sensed Ethan's unique gentleness in the line "Don't worry."
Looking at those words, she suddenly felt an urge to go back immediately.
Without thinking twice, she grabbed her laptop and headed straight back to her department.
When she knocked on the door, Ethan was sitting at his desk writing something.
He looked up, momentarily surprised, as if he hadn't expected her to come back today, but that surprise was quickly replaced by an overwhelming sense of relief.
"Hi," he put down his pen, his tone gentle, "I really didn't expect you to be back so soon. You could have rested for a few more days."
Pan Qiu smiled slightly, her tone carrying a weariness yet light-hearted certainty: "I want to finish the interview plan. I'll feel better when things are progressing."
Ethan paused for a moment, then nodded.
Her words conveyed a clear message—she no longer wanted to dwell on that issue, but instead chose to focus her energy on what she truly cared about.
The entire "guide-appease-encourage" dialogue process that he had been conceiving that morning was no longer suitable at this moment.
However, he did not feel disappointed; instead, he felt a deep sense of relief.
“Regarding that matter,” Ethan said calmly, “we’ve reviewed the security footage from the hallway. The results are clear. The student who did it has been identified, and the university has issued a restraining order against him—prohibiting him from entering the psychology building and from approaching your work area.”
Pan Qiu was slightly startled: "We can't even enter the building?"
Ethan nodded: "Yes."
She paused for a moment. What did it mean for a psychology student to be unable to enter the department building?
That's practically equivalent to being asked to quit.
She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, she suddenly remembered something: "That girl... won't she be affected? What about her privileges?"
Ethan gently shook his head: "No. She can still complete the course; we've already confirmed with her tutor."
Pan Qiu nodded, saying nothing more, only responding softly.
The conversation then shifted to the project schedule. She briefly reported on the key revisions to the interview plan, and the two confirmed the goals and timeline together.
The language was concise and the rhythm was crisp, a professional collaboration as always.
At the end of the conversation, Panqiu stood up, picked up her laptop, and said, "I will have the updated consent form ready by Thursday."
Ethan nodded: "Okay."
She turned and walked towards the door, her back straight, her steps unhurried, like someone who had just crossed a rainstorm and was now back on the main road.
Ethan watched her retreating figure, a slight smile playing on his lips. It was a genuine, undisguised smile.
As she emerged from Ethan's office, sunlight streamed obliquely into the corridor, casting soft, dappled shadows on the carpet.
She walked slowly and steadily back to the second floor.
Looking down from the corner of the third-floor staircase, you are directly facing the spacious doctoral student office area on the second floor.
She stood on the platform for a second, her gaze sweeping over the area inch by inch: the same office island, the same gray partitions, the same few familiar backs.
The small whiteboard with the college announcements displayed "Week 11," and next to it was a crookedly pasted little cartoon of a student's psychological map. Nothing seemed different from usual.
She subconsciously held her breath.
As she stepped onto the second floor, she realized she was a little nervous—she was afraid of meeting certain kinds of gazes, concerned and curious.
For example, observing subtly or making a fleeting inquiry.
But there was nothing there.
No one gave her a second glance along the way.
Chris, who was passing by the printer and taking a paper, simply nodded and greeted him as usual: "Hi."
She replied softly, "Hi."
She sat back down in her cubicle.
The spot that had been marked "Informant" that morning had been cleaned up completely and was even brighter than before.
She sat down quietly, turned on her computer, and continued preparing for the interview she hadn't finished.
The entire afternoon was unusually calm.
Everything was as if nothing had happened.
Suddenly, a scene from a week ago flashed through her mind. At that time, she had just finished dealing with that conversation in the office, hadn't reported it yet, and before her emotions had settled, she noticed some changes.
Casual chats in the coffee shop, energy bars handed to you in the printing room, sudden conversations about winter break plans, even Ryan's weather forecast.
At that moment, she wasn't sure if it was a subtle form of comfort, so she mentally debated two theories—
"Illusory pattern perception"?
Or is it a "peripheral maintenance mechanism"?
Is she overly sensitive, and in her desire to be understood, is she overinterpreting kindness?
Or was there really an unspoken understanding quietly circulating in the air throughout the building?
She seemed more inclined to believe the latter at the time.
Today, as she stepped back onto the second floor, she was enveloped by an overly restrained silence—
No one gave her a second glance, there was no small talk, and none of the subtle gestures she had made earlier.
There were no cookies, no weather forecast, and no uninvited chatter.
She suddenly felt a little hesitant.
Maybe... she was just overthinking things back then?
She lowered her head and smiled. In any case, she had already moved on from that storm, her emotions were clear, and her mind was sharp—if there was any moment when she could make the most accurate judgments, it was now.
Maybe I was just being overly sensitive before.
Just as she was leaving get off work that day, Julia suddenly spoke up from behind her, saying, "Are you leaving? I'm leaving get off work too."
She paused for a moment, then nodded.
The two walked downstairs side by side and out of the campus. Neither of them mentioned anything about the college. They only talked about the weather, the upcoming Thanksgiving, and their Black Friday shopping lists.
She thought it was just a coincidence.
The next day, it was a different person.
Then, it was another one.
For three consecutive days, she did not leave the campus alone.
Each time it was a different person. Just as she got up, they were also leaving. They walked out of the second floor together, downstairs together, and walked to the intersection in front of the teaching building together. Sometimes they even walked to the entrance of the Little Fox Cafe before waving goodbye.
They didn't mention those two words, and no one said "I support you," but no one let her walk that long path through the autumn leaves from the teaching building alone.
She suddenly understood.
It wasn't just my imagination.
Those acts of kindness did exist and have not been taken back.
It's just quietly changed its form—more secretive and deeper.
They never disappeared; instead, they faded into the background, only to reappear when she needed them most.
Like a silent barrier, it tacitly guards her path, silently building a soft yet firm defensive line for her.
The question that had been lingering in her mind finally found an answer.
Yes, that's the "edge effect".
A silent and tacit protection mechanism, a low-key connection within a group, an alliance that needs no expression.
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