Informant
Pan Qiu was typing a draft of the interview plan on the keyboard, biting her lip as she tried to concentrate and pull her thoughts back. She knew that only by focusing on the task at hand could she slightly dispel the weariness in her body and the vague restlessness in her heart.
She hadn't slept well all night, her mind replaying that disgusting conversation in her half-awake state. Ethan hadn't replied to her email yet. It was almost noon, and she knew he must be busy, maybe hadn't seen it yet, but she couldn't help thinking—had he seen it? What would he think?
Just as she couldn't help but glance at her email, a deep but familiar voice rang out from outside the cubicle:
Hi, Qiu, are you free?
She turned toward the cubicle entrance. Ethan was standing outside her cubicle, one arm casually resting on the edge of the partition, the other in his pocket. His gaze lingered on her face for a moment, as if checking on her. His tone was as gentle as ever, but with a hint of barely concealed concern.
“Hmm,” she said softly, trying to make her tone sound calm. She stood up, closed her laptop, and followed Ethan to the office at the far end of the third floor.
The corridor was quiet, the carpeted floor slightly springy. She followed his broad, slender back, each step feeling like she was moving closer to a more secure place.
The two sat down at the gray round table without conscious effort, in their familiar spots.
Ethan didn't speak immediately. He looked at her silently for a few seconds, then leaned forward slightly, his voice a little lower than usual, but also gentler:
"How are you?"
Pan Qiu nodded and replied softly, "I'm fine."
He seemed to be confirming that her gaze had calmed down before continuing:
"I read your email last night, thank you for writing so clearly."
He paused for a moment, his tone so soft as if he were afraid of disturbing something.
"I heard there was a minor conflict yesterday."
Pan Qiu was about to compose his words when he subtly raised his hand, making an almost imperceptible "pause" gesture.
"You don't need to repeat it again."
"From now on, you no longer need to handle this matter. I've taken over."
Ethan spoke calmly and confidently, as if drawing a clear line for her and shielding her from the storm to come.
Pan Qiu nodded gently. Her gaze lowered, somewhat hesitant and wavering—not because she felt she had done anything wrong, but because she was unsure whether she had handled the situation appropriately. Had she overstepped the bounds of a teaching assistant?
She didn't speak, but these thoughts swirled in her mind.
Ethan looked at her, as if he had caught that slight change in her expression, and his voice softened, his tone more gentle than before: "You did the right thing—fair, calm, and principled. I'm proud of you."
As he spoke, his gaze remained steadily fixed on her face, without hesitation or reservation. He then added in a low voice:
"I just want to make sure—you don't carry the weight of all your emotions on your own."
In that instant, Panqiu suddenly had a strange feeling—as if she were a leaf suspended in mid-air, caught by a gentle breeze.
Her nose tingled slightly, and her eyes welled up with tears, but she simply lowered her head gently and whispered, "Thank you."
Ethan didn't answer immediately, but just looked at her quietly, his voice softer than usual: "You don't need to say anything."
Panqiu returned from Ethan's office and sat back in her cubicle. She didn't start working immediately, but sat quietly for a while. Then she turned her computer back on and focused her attention on preparing for the interview research.
Her work flowed surprisingly smoothly. She could feel her focus gradually returning, like a shadow floating on the water sinking back into the water. It was a subtle yet reassuring sense of return.
Perhaps she was being too sensitive, but she gradually noticed a subtle change in the atmosphere around her. She was receiving snacks more often, such as cookies or energy bars, as if someone was casually handing her one every now and then.
While waiting for coffee in the break room or in the printing room, she often finds herself unwittingly drawn into various lighthearted conversations.
Some people talked about the unpredictable weather, others mentioned that the food truck downstairs had changed its menu, and still others asked her about her winter break plans. These light, airy topics were thrown at her one by one, resulting in a few more conversations than usual and leaving subtle ripples in her heart.
She even noticed that Ryan, who usually didn't talk much and sat in another cubicle, suddenly said behind her in the printing room one day, "It might rain this afternoon, the wind is from the east."
She didn't react for a moment and glanced at him. Ryan calmly walked away with the printed materials. When she realized that the uninvited weather forecast was indeed addressed to her, she was somewhat flattered.
"Was he talking to me just now?" she asked herself softly.
She suddenly remembered that when Daniel left that day, someone leaned out from across the street and asked, "Is everything alright?"
She was completely overwhelmed by her emotions at the time, but looking back—it seemed to be Ryan?
Did this change "really" happen, or did her sensitivity amplify certain signs? There's a psychological term called "illusory pattern perception"—the human brain is naturally inclined to seek clues in ambiguous or uncertain environments, even if those clues are merely coincidental. After emotional fluctuations, people especially crave external affirmation and acceptance, making them more likely to notice small acts of kindness that would otherwise go unnoticed.
But she also felt that those glances, those casual conversations, and even that extra second of pause from someone didn't seem like an illusion.
Perhaps this is more like a form of "marginal maintenance"—when someone is likely to be isolated or offended, the group will show support in a low-key, non-aligned way.
Not having a clear stance does not mean having no stance at all.
True kindness often happens quietly.
She didn't dwell on it, but simply smiled gently, remembering this tender thoughtfulness. No one publicly voiced their support, nor did anyone make a public statement, but she knew that someone was there silently.
This week went by quickly.
The energy she'd built up over the weekend allowed her to reach the second floor a little after nine. She'd always been a "morning person," accustomed to waking up early. It made her feel like time was laid out neatly, enough for her to handle everything calmly and unhurriedly.
However, most doctoral students are night owls, and the floor was still quiet at this hour. Only a few computers were warming up in a corner, and the air was filled with the slightly chilly smell of heating in the early morning. She was probably one of the first people to arrive.
She walked into her cubicle, her gaze unexpectedly landing on the desk—
Five capital letters written in red marker:
SNITCH (informant).
The red color was glaring, the writing was too forceful, and the strokes were deeply pressed into the wooden surface, like cuts.
Her breath caught in her throat for a moment. In that instant, it felt as if she had been struck by a sudden, sharp slap—loud, cold, and unavoidable.
She stood frozen in place. Her heartbeat seemed to slow down, then suddenly slammed back down. It wasn't pain, but a dull, heavy dizziness.
She wasn't sure what her first reaction was: anger? fear? humiliation? resentment? or regret?
Before she could even process the emotions, she heard a familiar and steady voice behind her:
"Don't move it, leave it as it is. Come to my office."
It's Ethan.
She turned her head abruptly, and there he was, standing outside the partition, his tone calm yet undeniably firm. It was like a pre-prepared command, leaving no room for her to object or say anything more.
Her mind was a complete blank. She simply nodded and, as if pulled by gravity, took a step and followed Ethan upstairs.
The third-floor corridor faces south, and sunlight streams through the blinds, landing right in front of Ethan's office.
He gently pushed the door open, gesturing for her to go in first, then said a few words before turning and leaving.
The door slammed shut, and the world suddenly felt smaller.
The room was unusually quiet. She stood in front of the familiar light gray round table for a long while before slowly sitting down.
The clock on the wall ticked; it was 9:17 a.m. in mid-November.
Her gaze fell on the succulent plant on Ethan's desk. He had taken good care of it; its color was vibrant, its leaves firm, and the label still read: "Please don't die."
She stared blankly at the sentence, suddenly feeling as if it were a silent commentary—a silent annotation on her current situation, and also as a small hope reminding her: don't be weak.
She should have been angry and ashamed—but at this moment she was surprisingly calm. Even a strange, inexplicable lightness swept through her.
She sat quietly, the sunlight slowly spreading across the back of her hands, warm as if she hadn't just experienced an insult. Only random, fleeting thoughts swirled in her mind. There's a term in psychology called "stress insensitivity," which is probably what this state is like—the reaction is temporarily paused, the emotion is still on its way, yet to arrive.
The handwriting of those five letters looked familiar.
Is it Daniel? It can't be Emma, can it? Impossible—it must be Daniel. Did he really do such a thing?
She had no answer, she just sat there, letting the feeling of dizziness and emptiness slowly dissipate.
Just as her mind went blank, Ethan pushed open the door and walked in.
His movements were as gentle as ever; he even deliberately slowed the force when closing the door, as if afraid of disturbing her newly calmed emotions. His gaze lingered on her face for a second, then he gently sat down, leaning slightly forward with his elbows resting on his knees.
“The logistics department will clean it up as soon as possible,” Ethan said calmly. “I have reported this as a ‘sexual harassment incident,’ and security will also review the surveillance footage.”
His words were concise and powerful, but they made Pan Qiu realize instantly that this was no longer just "her business"—the school had intervened.
Panqiu nodded, her throat dry, and remained silent.
Ethan looked at her, his tone softening slightly: "You don't need to 'get better' right away. That's a very bad thing to do; it's designed to shake you. But you're not alone."
She didn't speak, but simply exhaled softly, as if she had just realized that she had been holding her breath.
Ethan paused for a moment, then continued, “You did everything right—reported the incident, stepped back in time, and remained honest.”
He spoke calmly, yet his words carried more weight than any comforting words.
He paused, lowering his voice even further: "Leave the rest to me. If you have any concerns—whether about safety, emotions, or just need a break—my door is always open for you. You don't have to face this alone."
He didn't offer excessive comfort or tell her "you have to be strong," but rather used a calm and steady approach to let her know that she wasn't alone. It was a solid sense of protection, not dramatic, but real and tangible.
Pan Qiu finally whispered, "I never expected it to develop to this point."
Ethan nodded, his voice very soft: "I know."
A brief silence fell over the room. It wasn't an awkward silence, but rather like a soft blanket gently falling on her shoulders.
He got up, walked to the tea dispenser, poured a cup of hot water, put in a chamomile tea bag, and handed it to her, saying softly, "Chamomile."
He paused for a moment, his tone sounding like a casual suggestion, yet carrying an undeniable gentle firmness:
"Don't stay here any longer today. Go to the library, or go home, it's up to you. Give yourself a break."
Pan Qiu nodded. She really didn't want to watch the string of red letters being erased in front of everyone, nor did she want to hear any "Did you see that?" or "What happened?" lingering in the air.
She said softly, "Okay."
The voice was soft, but the tone was one of complete disarming.
She added, "I'm going home."
Ethan looked at her, nodded, and spoke in a low but firm tone:
"I send you."
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