Seemingly useless, but capable of saving lives.
Ethan casually folded the paper in his hand to one side and placed his hands folded on the table.
His tone was calm and natural, as if he were seriously engaging in a real conversation rather than fulfilling some kind of teaching task: "You're ready, so let's begin."
Pan Qiu nodded slightly and gripped the recorder tightly. The interview began.
She gently pressed the button on the recorder, and the red light illuminated. "Um...Ms. Ellery—" she paused slightly, then added, "May I call you Ethan?"
“Of course.” He smiled and nodded slightly. “I think we don’t need the title ‘professor’ anymore.”
She smiled and let out a soft sigh. Her fingers gripped the prepared interview outline slightly. Although she had practiced several times beforehand, she still felt her voice was a little soft when she actually asked the questions.
"Well... Ethan, I'd like to ask a rather mundane question first."
She glanced at him, then quickly looked down again:
Why did you choose to study psychology?
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the maple tree outside the window for a few seconds, as if waiting for a sentence in his mind to slowly take shape.
“Because,” he said, “it may seem useless, but it can save people.”
Pan Qiu was taken aback; she hadn't expected such an answer. She had anticipated some grand term: curiosity, human behavior, trauma…
She hadn't expected it to be such a statement, both a joke and a proverb. Her first instinct was to ask—what did "seems useless" mean? And who needed to be "saved"? But she held back, not immediately interrupting, simply nodding gently, encouraging him to continue with her silence.
“People don’t always take psychology seriously,” he continued, speaking slowly. “It can’t cure cancer, it can’t build rockets, it doesn’t offer any tangible promises. But sometimes, it can help someone get through the day, help them make better choices. Not dramatically, but quietly.”
He paused slightly, then chuckled softly, "Sorry, that seems a bit too philosophical."
Pan Qiu shook her head: "No, I think... it's actually quite touching."
She looked up, rearranged the wording of the second question in her mind, and slowly uttered it: "Was there a specific moment that gave you this feeling? Like... a turning point that made you realize that psychology can really save people?"
Ethan looked at her, his gaze seeming to subtly shift for a moment, as if recalling a scene from long ago. Then he said, "Yes."
He gently rubbed the side of the cup with his thumb, as if slowly organizing his thoughts: "In high school, there was a boy in my class named Jamie."
He spoke calmly as he said this, but it didn't sound like he was recounting a casual old story.
Pan Qiu unconsciously slowed her breathing and her gaze became more focused.
"He was quiet. The kind of quiet that wouldn't attract attention, not even the kind of 'good student' silence."
Ethan ran his finger lightly along the rim of his mug, as if unconsciously setting the rhythm for his words.
“He sat in the last row of the classroom. He rarely spoke and never handed in his homework. Nobody really noticed him—until he stopped coming to school altogether.”
Pan Qiu didn't say anything, but she could feel her shoulders unconsciously tensing up slightly.
"A week later, we found out... he committed suicide."
When he said this, his voice wasn't low, but it was as if a layer of warmth had been drawn from the air.
"I remember I was just standing in the hallway, looking at his empty desk. I didn't even know his last name."
Ethan gazed at the maple leaves outside the window, swaying slowly in the wind: "I've been thinking: maybe if someone had asked him how he was doing lately, or if he felt safe to confide in someone... maybe things would be different."
"That was the first time I realized how jarring silence can be."
He didn't emphasize his words when he said them. But those words were like the culmination of a whole memory, like a pebble slowly sinking into a lake of the heart, lingering for a long time.
Pan Qiu neither wrote anything nor used the recording pen.
She simply sat quietly without speaking, yet she could sense the heavy, long-standing regret that had settled within him from his slightly tense jaw and knuckles.
Ethan was silent for a moment, then his tone softened: "Many years have passed, and I still dream about him. Not often, but the dreams are always pretty much the same."
"In my dreams, he never speaks. He just stands there. Sometimes in front of the lockers, sometimes sitting in the stands. He's always silent."
“I want to help people like him. But I also want to understand why I keep dreaming about someone I don’t actually know.”
"I think that's why I chose psychology. To answer questions that don't have standard answers."
This time, Pan Qiu nodded gently: "I think I can understand."
She took a slight breath and spoke hesitantly, "I also have someone... it's him, I always dream about him. We haven't been in touch for many years. There's nothing special in the dreams, just fragmented pieces. But he's always there."
After she finished speaking, she smiled and lowered her eyes with a hint of embarrassment: "I'm sorry, I didn't actually intend to mention these things."
Ethan gently shook his head: "There's no need to apologize. Memories are sometimes like that—quiet, yet stubborn."
He held the cup and pondered for a moment, as if he had finally entered his familiar analytical realm: "I've been thinking about why I keep dreaming about Jamie."
He said his tone was no longer heavy, but rather a gentle self-reflection:
"I think the human brain has its own way of directing attention to 'unfinished things'."
"Perhaps it's precisely because I'm not familiar with him that I keep dreaming about him. Because this matter has no ending, there's no complete narrative that can help me let go."
"In my dream, his silence was like the sum of all the things I didn't have time to ask or say."
He paused, watching the maple tree outside the window sway gently in the breeze: "Perhaps that's why I feel guilty towards someone I barely know. Because the human brain doesn't like blank spaces."
Pan Qiu listened intently, and only nodded gently when he stopped: "I understand. It does make sense. It's that 'silence itself' that has become so loud that it can't be ignored."
She raised her eyes and described her dream from a different perspective: "My situation is a little different... The person in my dream was a close friend from my childhood."
“We just drifted apart. I keep dreaming about him—not the dramatic kind. Just… he’s walking next to me, or sitting in the same room, without saying a word.”
She paused, then added softly, "And in my dreams, I'm always very clear that we no longer speak to each other in reality."
Ethan looked at her, not rushing to respond, but leaving her space to let her emotions settle naturally.
After a few seconds, he spoke softly: "It sounds like that's also something that's not over yet... just in a different way."
He didn't rush to analyze anything, but simply nodded and continued in a gentle voice, "Dreams may be a kind of prelude to emotions—some theories suggest that."
"It's not just about memory, it's about 'giving meaning.' It's like the brain is giving you a chance to revisit something—gently, without any cost."
He looked at her, his tone so soft it was as if he were asking a question that didn't need an answer: "Perhaps in your dreams, you can get close to that friend... without having to figure out where things went wrong in the first place."
Panqiu's fingers brushed over the recorder, but she didn't press pause.
"Hmm," she said softly, "Everything in dreams... is simpler."
She looked up at Ethan, her gaze calm.
Ethan nodded, as if silently agreeing with her feelings. After a moment, he chuckled softly: "You know... if this were a clinical meeting, I'd probably say that we're being a little too 'self-disclosure' right now."
Pan Qiu smiled too, her smile carrying a hint of relief after letting go.
"Well, it's mutual, I guess. And... I think it's quite helpful."
The atmosphere relaxed slightly for a moment. Maple leaves swayed gently outside the window, and sunlight streamed obliquely through the blinds, leaving a faint, transparent border between the table and the teacup.
Panqiu unfolded the interview outline she had just hastily piled up, looked up at him, and said, "Shall we move on to the next question?"
Ethan nodded: "Okay, let's continue."
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