Autumn
At 9:30 p.m., the teaching building had already quieted down. The automatic sensor lights in the corridor went out one by one, leaving only the occasional echo of his footsteps.
Ethan, carrying a half-finished cup of black coffee, walked back to his familiar office. He gently closed the door, didn't turn on the light, but only slightly opened the blinds to let in a warm, golden glow from the streetlights.
He sat down at the light gray round table, tapping his fingers lightly on the lid of his cup, and smiled unconsciously. His days were packed with classes, leaving him almost no time to breathe between lessons. He was used to this, using rhythm to mask his thoughts.
But there was a moment today when the pace slowed down—that interview.
Her name is Qiu. A first-year doctoral student. She speaks softly, with a quiet focus.
Shortly after the interview began, he realized that she didn't treat it as a simple classroom assignment.
Her questioning style had a gentle sharpness. Her listening demeanor, even the dense handwriting she quickly jotted down in her notebook, all conveyed a genuine desire to understand the other person.
He had seen too many students conduct interviews simply to complete assignments, and many knew how to package their questions and present themselves effectively. But her earnestness was quiet, neither showing off nor trying to please; it was as if she was willing to truly immerse herself in the depths of a topic with the other person.
She asked him why he chose psychology.
He had assumed he would give a standard, conventional answer, such as, "I've always been interested in the mechanisms behind human behavior, and psychology can help us understand these mechanisms"—which was indeed true. However, such an answer would be given from a professional standpoint, devoid of emotion or personal involvement, sufficiently rational, and therefore safe.
But that day, her eyes were focused, as if she were truly waiting for a weighty answer. He didn't immediately return to the usual path, but instead voiced a more "personal" motivation. The words slipped out: "It seemed useless, but it could save people." The instant he said it, he realized that this wasn't a "standard answer."
He noticed that she paused for a moment, and instead of pressing him for answers, she remained silent for two or three seconds—a silence that was not blank, but rather a response.
Some people will make you let down your guard and speak out about things that wouldn't normally be taught in the classroom.
Today he talked about Jamie. That silent friend from my dreams, of course he remembers! He won't forget, he'll always remember.
She didn't offer any comforting response or try to explain; she simply looked at him quietly. That silence wasn't avoidance, but rather a gesture of presence.
She made him feel that he was being listened to as a complete person.
He suddenly remembered that at the end of the interview, she had also mentioned a dream. It was the most unexpected part of the entire interview.
She didn't deliberately create any emotion; she simply recounted the recurring scene in a calm tone—a childhood friend, a relationship that had gradually faded away. There was no conflict, no dialogue in the dream; the two simply existed quietly in the same space. She even said that in the dream, she was always clear that they were no longer in contact in reality.
The description of the dream evoked a complex sense of familiarity in him. Her dream and Jamie's dream shared a similar quality—both were about "unfinished" emotions, both gently requesting a return.
The difference is that Jamie's dreams contain a persistent sadness, while hers are more like a gentle practice, a way of coexisting with the past.
For a fleeting moment, he thought: perhaps she didn't realize that such a dream indicated she had achieved a certain level of psychological maturity. It wasn't avoidance, but rather allowing the unfinished to remain, without rushing to fix it or forcibly interpreting it. It was an attitude of coexisting with absence.
That kind of posture is rarely seen.
Most people study psychology to "figure it out"; she, however, was trying to "understand" it.
Her dream didn't make him think about theories, but rather about "human beings".
Unconsciously, she achieved an extremely rare balance: acknowledging the loss without being consumed by it.
Ethan leaned back in his chair, his fingertips tapping lightly on the rim of his coffee cup.
Her dream made him realize that "saving people" is sometimes not about taking action, but about listening gently.
There is a type of person who can naturally make you lower your guard.
They may not be talkative or outgoing, but they have a quiet presence that makes people talk about things they wouldn't normally say.
Pan Qiu is probably that kind of person.
Her question—"Have you ever officiated at a student's wedding?"—took him somewhat by surprise at first.
It's not because the issue is too personal, but because it cuts too deep.
She wasn't trying to pry into gossip, but rather exploring how one understands the boundaries between a role and emotions.
This question is probably more effective than any course content in testing a psychology researcher's intuition.
He knew that the person who could raise this question would later achieve depth in their research. It was a kind of observational ability—not rushing to summarize, but steadily touching the key points. For most people, "listening" is a skill; but for a very few, "listening" is an almost innate ethical stance.
She might not quite understand this yet. But he saw it. He even began to imagine that if she wanted to choose him as her doctoral advisor in the future, he would be willing to mentor her.
Another detail that made him remember her was her notes.
She sat quietly, her fingers holding the recorder, occasionally glancing down to jot down a few words in her notebook. Her eyes held a calm, still quality, as if she were quietly analyzing something beneath the surface of a river.
He would occasionally check whether the students were actually listening to the lecture, and would also inadvertently glance at what the students had written in their notebooks.
But her notes were different; they weren't just keywords or headings, but rather written in a style almost like recording the rhythm of a conversation. It was a bit like shorthand, and also like a kind of well-trained immersion.
Ethan has always believed that attitude beats aptitude. Especially in this field, true understanding and empathy require not only talent but also long-term, immersive practice.
The student in front of me clearly carries the seed of that kind of practice.
He looked out the window, his gaze passing through the blinds to the night, where the wind rustled the leaves, their outlines swaying gently in the lamplight.
He never expected that the brief interview would be the only moment in his day, filled with to-do lists, that made time slow down.
Some students remind you why you chose a teaching career. They make you realize that the word "teaching" itself is incomplete.
True teaching is also a process of being understood and responded to.
He looked up, and a sliver of streetlight light shone through the gaps in the blinds, casting a slanted glow on the wall.
He smiled, then reached out and turned on the computer—creating a new folder named Qiu.
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