Morning run: Facing yourself
Ethan woke up with a start at night. The room was eerily quiet, save for the low hum of the heating pipes. He stared at the ceiling, the lingering heaviness of the dream still weighing on his chest. It was the same dream again. Hallways, classrooms, pushing open door after door, but he couldn't find that familiar face—Jamie. Sometimes, he couldn't tell if he was looking for Jamie, or someone else entirely.
He gave himself a cold, hard diagnosis: unfinished business, mixed projection.
I turned to look at the digital clock on the bedside table: 6:05. It wasn't dawn yet, but a sliver of gray-blue light was already filtering in through the window. Perfect.
He threw back the covers, got up, and changed into his running shoes. The city riverside jogging track was his usual spot. The breeze there always managed to dispel the shadows of his dreams in the morning coolness. His footsteps and heartbeat were his most reliable rhythm throughout the day. Running was his way of facing himself—only in this way could he face others during the day.
The morning wind was chilly, blowing along the riverbank of the running track. Thump, thump—Ethan's footsteps fell rhythmically, each breath seeming to shake off the shadows of the night. His mind was replaced by another image—St. Patrick's Day. He spotted her in the crowd, her green top, a pair of golden antennae on her head. She saw him, then turned, grabbed her friend, and practically fled.
His footsteps pounded across a patch of gravel, a few short, hurried steps, like a fleeting turmoil in his heart. That day, he was indeed with Sarah. Sarah was his childhood neighbor, and he had even been her wedding officiant. Her son, Leo, was his godson. To outsiders, it was a family of three.
The moment he realized what was happening, his first instinct was to explain and let her know that she didn't need to be bothered by the scene.
His breathing quickened, but he steadied himself and continued running. The wind whipped at his face, carrying a chill. So when he received the review feedback, he immediately printed it out and went to find her. Ostensibly, it was to discuss the feedback, but instinctively, it was an opportunity to defuse the awkwardness. The moment the door closed, he felt the air freeze. Pan Qiu sat opposite him at the round table, her back ramrod straight like a string stretched to its limit. Her eyes darted around, her fingers gripping the pen, her mind elsewhere. He could tell.
He had intended to simply say, "I was with a friend that day—she had her child with her." A single sentence would have explained everything. But the words caught in his throat, and he suddenly stopped.
He heard a familiar voice in his mind questioning him: Why are you in such a hurry to explain?
His footsteps continued steadily on the track. The wind was thrown behind him, and he felt his heart race, sweat trickling down his back. Perhaps... there was a motive he didn't want to admit. Ethan's pace gradually slowed. When he reached the bend in the riverbank, he simply stopped, placed his hands on his knees, his chest heaving, and his breath dissipated in the morning breeze.
Memories flooded back at that moment. —That hysterical voice: "You chose your student." Perhaps she hadn't wronged him, she just saw things more clearly than he had. At that time, another student was struggling academically, and he was worried about her mental state, often finding opportunities to talk to her, telling her she could call anytime. He even invited her to his home for Thanksgiving dinner with his girlfriend.
He had no ulterior motives; his actions stemmed purely from concern. But his girlfriend refused to accept it. At first, she complained about his lack of time with her and his excessive workload; later, she launched into uncontrollable questioning; and finally, she resolutely packed her things and left. Around the same time, the student also dropped out of school.
He was sitting in his empty apartment with his hands in his hair when he realized for the first time that he was neither a good partner nor a good mentor.
Ethan looked up at the horizon, his breathing finally calming. He straightened up and started running again. His footsteps landed on the track, thump, thump, thump, the sound deeper and steadyer than before. He let the rhythm gradually suppress his thoughts, letting the sweat slide down his back as if to expel the past.
Ethan slowed his pace again. The river reflected the gray-blue light of the morning sky, casting a long shadow of him. He thought of Pan Qiu. The TA incident last semester had worried him greatly, so he had specifically asked several doctoral students in the department to keep an eye on her. As for himself, he stayed in the office until very late almost every day. During that time, they often walked back one after the other.
She didn't seem to be defeated; she focused on her thesis throughout the winter break. He even video-chatted with her twice while visiting his parents in Florida. On the other end of the screen, she was intently explaining the details of her research.
His pace quickened again, his heart pounding faster with each step. The wind swept past him, as if forcing him to confront the thought.
He finally understood. His girlfriend's almost hysterical accusation back then—"You chose your students"—wasn't a literal accusation, but rather an implicit concern: would his care for his students cross a certain line?
He had never heard this kind of questioning before. But today, amidst the rushing wind and his own heartbeat, he too began to question himself.
He slowed his pace, his breathing gradually returning to steady. At the end of the track, the sky gradually brightened, the river shimmering with a pale gold. Ethan squinted, his steps unconsciously slowing. That color suddenly reminded him of the St. Patrick's Day parade. She was there amidst the clamor. Under the winter moonlight, she stood quietly before that tree.
These fragments, like shadows illuminated by the morning light, emerge one by one.
She was a student, and he was a teacher. He didn't need anyone to remind him; he knew it better than anyone. Even the purest admiration, the most genuine feelings, were confined by this power imbalance. The difference in power distorted any ambiguity.
He knew very well that this wasn't a romantic story where he could act out a plot at will; it was a thread that could destroy her future at any moment, and his own as well. Even if all of this was just a ripple in his heart, it had to end here. So he knew that all he could do now was to do nothing and say nothing.
A breeze blew by, and he exhaled a long breath. Running was his way of facing himself every day.
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