Just like gentle
The backstage lighting was dim, as if the brightness had been deliberately lowered, subtly drawing people into a quiet and tense atmosphere unique to those about to go on stage.
Pan Qiu held the doctoral gown she had ordered in advance, standing in front of the temporarily partitioned changing area, her fingertips slightly cold.
The doctoral gown was heavier than she had imagined.
When unfolded, the black silk cloth hangs in the air in a steady line, so serene that it seems to absorb all the surrounding noise.
The sleeves were wide, with three dark blue velvet horizontal stripes over them, a unique feature of the doctoral gown. The thick fabric seemed to be marking a solemn end to her long and arduous research career.
She slowly draped the robe over her shoulders.
The fabric draped down her body, and its slight weight gave her a sudden, unreal feeling—as if the clothes weren't worn by her, but rather the identity of "Doctor" itself had fallen upon her.
The reflection in the mirror looked somewhat unfamiliar: the hem of her robe concealed her past dishevelment, confusion, and anxiety, leaving only a solemn calm that made it almost impossible to breathe.
Next came the hood. The long, hood-like velvet ribbon, dark blue inside and golden brown outside, was folded and hung obediently on her arm. It symbolized her academic affiliation and academic lineage, and was the most crucial symbol in the entire doctoral ceremony.
Pan Qiuyi draped it around her neck—the color was temporarily folded inward, like a future yet to be fully revealed. The hood had a strong presence. The fabric clung to her back, constantly sliding down under gravity, tugging at her unstable emotions, reminding her again and again—this was not a dream.
She was really about to walk down that stage aisle.
Finally, there was the graduation cap. She picked up the octagonal doctoral cap (tam), its fabric soft and feeling like old-fashioned velvet.
The hat's folds left a slight curve, and the golden tassels dangled to one side, swaying gently—like a long-suppressed joy finally surfacing. Pan Qiu took a deep breath and pressed the hat onto her head.
The image in the mirror was finally complete: a black robe, tassels, a hood, and a pair of calm yet gleaming eyes.
She finally made it here.
This was not an easy path; it was a journey filled with countless nights of staying up late, anxiety, revisions, rewriting, doubts, and perseverance.
The moment the doctoral robe fell onto my shoulders—it was like a belated, definitive affirmation: "You did it."
The noise from backstage was layered around me—the excited chatter of students, the hurried footsteps of staff, and the whispered checks of the lists by professors.
All the sounds surged forward like a tide, pushing her in a direction she had long awaited.
Panqiu looked down at the dark blue velvet ribbon hanging down her chest.
She knew she was ready—to walk down that long aisle and receive her formal, solemn academic coronation.
Pan Qiu stood in the backstage queue, still not completely shaken off the solemnity.
However, just a few minutes later, she felt a gentle tug on her back—her hood had slipped down again.
The piece of velvet seemed to have its own temper, repeatedly drooping down her shoulder line, stubborn and unforgiving, like a little boy who refused to sit still, pulling her collar backward all the way.
Panqiu sighed silently and lifted it up again. But after only ten seconds, it stubbornly slid down a little.
She looked down at the restless ribbon, feeling both helpless and amused, as if reality had suddenly slapped her on the forehead.
She chuckled softly—perhaps no matter how weighty the title or how arduous the journey, life will always arrange these little awkward interludes to remind you: no matter what impressive title you wear, you are still you.
Just as she was pressing on the hood's shoulder strap for the third time, helplessly trying to secure it, a very soft, steady voice suddenly came from behind her, so soft it sounded like the natural vibration of air: "It keeps slipping because the cord isn't fixed."
Pan Qiu suddenly froze.
In that instant, a long-dormant reflex deep within her body was suddenly activated.
It was as if the voice had pierced through all the noise and the crowd, landing precisely on her shoulder and back.
The world felt like it had been sucked out of the air for a second.
The surroundings were still noisy, the lights were still dim, some people were laughing, some were adjusting their graduation caps... but all she could hear was the echo of that one sentence.
She turned her head.
Ethan stood there. He didn't deliberately approach, nor did he deliberately keep his distance; he simply stood in the natural interval between people, as if he had always been there, only to be seen by her at this moment.
His academic gown was impeccably tailored, the velvet texture on the cuffs appearing as deep as night under the lamplight. Professional, calm, composed, without a trace of superfluous emotion. It was as if he had never been absent this past year.
Pan Qiu's throat tightened, but she couldn't utter a single word.
Ethan's gaze lingered on her for only half a second—not too long, not too short, just right, as casual as a polite confirmation.
Then, he gently raised his hand and pointed to her heaving hood, his tone as calm as if explaining a simple physical phenomenon: "May I..."
In short.
Not deep, not light, not near, not far. Yet it felt like an extremely subtle force was steadily pushing out from the chest—no sound, but enough to make one lose their footing.
Pan Qiu nodded almost subconsciously.
She didn't even have time to think: "So he really came."
At that moment, the only thing she could feel was her heart pounding uncontrollably and without warning.
Like a tidal wave, yet forced to hide quietly beneath the fabric of the ceremonial robe.
But he remained calm and composed, as if nothing had happened.
He returned. Not via email, not through silence, not through that abstract presence across the ocean, but as a real person, standing behind her—appearing just when she thought she would have to handle everything alone. In that instant, it felt like something had gently bumped into her chest. Not the excitement of a racing heart, but a deeper, softer, more unsettling feeling—a long-suppressed grievance suddenly being comfortably contained.
He didn't disappear. He didn't forget. He returned at the most important moment of her life.
The moment she realized this, her eyes welled up uncontrollably, as if a valve had been quietly opened, and emotions surged from the deepest recesses of her being. She didn't sob, nor did she tremble as she gasped for breath; tears simply welled up suddenly, quietly and stubbornly, accumulating more and more.
Ethan had already turned slightly to the side and gently reached out to touch the hood behind her shoulder. His movements were so quiet that they were almost unnoticed, yet every step was meticulous and decisive—as steady and natural as if he had tidied up a student countless times before.
He first gently lifted the restless ribbon from behind her, his fingertips steadily supporting the fabric, his movements so light as if afraid of disturbing something. Then, he found the small tassel on the front of the hood, lowered his eyes, and pinched it with the tip of his other finger, neatly fastening it to the fabric loop next to the zipper of her robe. A tiny movement, almost silent, instantly stilled the entire fabric, stopping it from sliding and acting unruly. He gently patted the fabric one last time, as if to confirm that it had finally obediently stopped.
Then he took a half step back, his tone calm yet chillingly steady: "...There you go."
This seemingly ordinary sentence was enough to finally bring tears to Panqiu's eyes and make them fall.
She lowered her head, giving that moment of vulnerability a hiding place.
But she knew Ethan had seen it. Because he paused for half a second, as if silently sorting out her grievances and emotions as well.
Then, he said softly, his voice as steady as light beneath the deep sea: "Congratulations, Dr. Pan."
At that moment, Panqiu's heart completely shed all pretense and defenses.
The person she thought she might never see again returned to her, in a place she thought she would miss, the affirmation she thought she would never receive.
Pan Qiu lowered her head, trying to steady her breathing, but tears still stubbornly slid down from her eyelashes, landing on the dark blue velvet of her robe—so deep it looked as if they had been dyed into it.
She instinctively reached out to wipe it away, but was gently stopped by a hand that was faster and steady than hers.
Ethan didn't speak. He simply extended his fingertip and gently wiped away the tiny tear stain under her eye with his thumb. The movement was so light, as if he were afraid of breaking something, even the pressure he applied carried a restrained strength, as if he dared not cross a line.
That brief half-second pause was like a tenderness he couldn't hide.
Pan Qiu was stunned—because this person stood in front of her and wiped away the tear that she didn't even have time to catch.
Her eyes instantly welled up with tears again. Not from crying, but from the gentle drowsiness that comes after a knot in her heart has been loosened.
Several doctoral students and their advisors briefly looked up. There was no surprise, no discussion, just an instinctive pause—as if gently touched by this sudden surge of emotion. Some gently stepped aside, giving them some quiet space; others pursed their lips, lowered their heads slightly, as if silently creating an outlet for this unspoken emotion. In a backstage space filled with academic gowns, lights, lists, and the pressure of an impending performance, this moment was devoid of any commotion, yet it felt as if the air had been gently rippled by soft water.
Ethan quickly withdrew his hand, as if nothing had happened. He simply said softly, "You're okay."
Panqiu nodded.
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