Interview
At 11 p.m., Pan Qiu was still sitting at her desk.
The streetlights outside the window had become sparse, and only the cold white light from the screen illuminated her face, making her appear very serene.
Her desk wasn't large, and directly opposite it was the painting she'd brought back from the flea market. She'd gotten into a habit—when she was thinking, she'd stare at the tree in the painting, lost in thought, before looking down and continuing with what she was doing.
Now, she is browsing the personal homepages of the college professors in her browser.
The pages came one after another, most of them like copied and pasted templates: research direction, teaching experience, email, orderly, concise, without any unnecessary self-expression.
Until she clicked on Ethan Ellery's page. The page was almost rudimentary, its research areas being "constructing emotions" and "nonverbal communication," but at the end, a sentence was quietly added:
Registered pastor and wedding officiant in Maryland.
She stared at the words for a few seconds, her mind seemingly going blank for a few seconds... What did this mean? Was he also a part-time wedding officiant?
She reflexively opened a search engine and looked it up, then directly inserted the sentence—to confirm that it was neither a metaphor nor a translation error.
Several somewhat crude website pages popped up, introducing how to "apply for a wedding emcee qualification certificate online" and "legally witness the marriage of newlyweds".
Her mind drifted back to the cocktail party that followed the welcome party that day—they stood in a corner of the rooftop, holding drinks, and talking about the difference between “constructing emotions” and “emotional regulation.”
He mentioned how bodily responses are reinterpreted. She instinctively brought up the suspension bridge experiment as an example, to which he smiled and said it was a "perfect example."
She remembered him saying, "Don't make important decisions when your adrenaline is pumping." She also remembered his slow, deliberate, and meticulous tone.
She looked back at the words and a metaphor suddenly came to mind—like thinking you'd walked into a lab building, only to find a wedding march playing inside.
Or it could be like when you open a PDF of a paper, and a message pops up on the last page: "Thank you for reading this far. Would you like to come to my wedding?"
Who would hide an Easter egg at the end of an academic file?
She suppressed a laugh, rested her fingers on the edge of the notebook, and silently added a note in her mind—this teacher is quite interesting.
She was selecting interviewees for a core course she was taking in the first semester—"Practical Fundamentals of Applied Psychology".
The course is fast-paced and covers basic interviewing skills, assessment methods, and how to write a well-structured report that avoids over-interpretation.
This course has a traditional assignment every year: choose a professor in the department and conduct a half-hour interview on the topic of "a moment that changed the course of your life." The topic is open, the questions are self-selected, the interview should be recorded and archived, and a summary should be written after the interview.
Most people would choose a teacher who is easy to schedule an appointment with and easy to talk to. Some people might even contact their future advisors in advance to establish some contact. Pan Qiu didn't plan to make a decision too quickly, but now she already knew who she wanted to contact. It might not be the most convenient one, nor the most famous one.
It was the person who surprised her a little. She liked this unconventional gentleness.
She leaned back in her chair for two minutes, her eyes still fixed on that line of text. Then, almost on a whim, she pulled the chair closer, sat up straight, and opened her email. She tried to keep her tone polite and clear, but she rewrote the beginning and end twice, repeatedly checking if she was being overly cautious with words like "Hello" and "Thank you for taking the time."
After typing the last period, she stared at the "send" button for three seconds before clicking it.
The moment she sent the email, she realized her heart was beating a little fast. It was probably because she had made the decision late at night, and it was the first time she had proactively contacted her teacher via email—especially one who could legally help people get married.
She had expected a reply the following morning. To her surprise, her inbox lit up in less than ten minutes.
Reply: Interview request.
It started with a simple greeting, followed by confirming the time and place, and a sentence: "I'm really looking forward to meeting you."
She stared at those five words for a while, and then the corners of her mouth curled up a little more.
That's how it was settled.
Pan Qiu knocked gently twice on the door. The door wasn't locked, and it was ajar. Just as she was about to knock again, the door opened from the inside.
"Hi—please come in."
Ethan stood in the doorway, holding a freshly printed document. He stepped aside to make room for him and added with a smile, "You're here early. That's a good sign."
Ethan's office was at the far end of the third floor, in a small, south-facing room.
Outside the window stands a maple tree at its peak bloom, its leaves tinged with golden yellow and dark red. Sunlight filters through the dappled shadows of the leaves and the blinds, casting soft light onto the light gray carpet inside.
The air was filled with a subtle blend of coffee, tea, cinnamon, and autumn sunshine, gentle and tranquil.
The room wasn't large, but it was furnished in a way that was both practical and had a homey feel—against the wall was a dark wood desk with a laptop connected to a large curved screen on it. A slightly wrinkled yellow sticky note was pasted on one corner of the screen: "Data won't tell you the answer. Learn to listen."
Next to the desk was an entire wall of books, containing classic works on everything from psychological assessment and developmental psychology to nonverbal communication and cultural psychology. A few literary novels were tucked haphazardly next to a stack of academic books on the bottom shelf against the wall.
In the corner by the window, there was a pot of lush evergreen and a pot of plump little succulents. A small white label was pasted on the side of the latter pot.
“Let’s sit over there.” Ethan pointed to the reception area on the other side of the room—a light gray round table with two chairs, placed diagonally opposite each other, not facing each other directly, which maintained a sense of distance that was neither too formal nor too frivolous.
He walked to the mini-fridge in the corner and said, "What would you like to drink? Coffee, tea, or water? Nothing special, but I have all three."
Her gaze followed him to the small refrigerator—neatly arranged on it were transparent glass jars filled with coffee beans, a grinder, filter paper, tea bags, and paper cups.
The kettle was steaming. The entire tea and coffee set had clearly been used and carefully arranged over a long period of time, carrying a gentle sense of ritual from repeated daily routines.
"Water is fine," she replied, her voice carrying a touch of habitual politeness.
He deftly poured her a glass of water and handed it to her.
She sat down by the window and hung her bag on the back of the chair. The water in the paper cup rippled gently in the sunlight, shimmering with a subtle glow.
Her gaze swept over the succulent by the window again. She didn't know the variety, but its leaves were plump and shiny. A small label next to it read: "Please don't die."
Pan Qiu couldn't tell whether the sign was a genuine prayer or the table owner's dry humor.
Ethan noticed her gaze and smiled. "That was a gift from a student. I think the message was for me, not for the plant."
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com