Outside the besieged city
On my first day of waking up, bright summer sunlight streamed through the curtains.
Pan Qiu slowly sat up, her gaze lingering on the room—the desk, the bookshelf, the light-colored curtains, the matching bedding—everything was spotless and so tidy that it seemed as if time had stood still.
The room was exactly the same as before she left: the bookshelves still held her high school reference books and a few well-worn novels, and a small music box sat in the corner of the desk, its opening and closing marks still visible, as if waiting to be touched again.
She had a fleeting illusion—as if her year of studying abroad was just a long dream, and she had returned to the summer before she left.
But the suitcase leaned quietly against the wall, a reminder that it had all really happened.
The email notification on her phone also drew her thoughts back to the other side of the ocean.
She opened the drawer of her desk, where old notebooks were neatly stacked, their pages filled with handwriting from when she was preparing for exams.
On top of this familiar old object, there is now a thick book—a book recommended by Ethan.
She turned the pages of the book, and the sunlight fell perfectly on the paper, revealing her neat handwriting and her newly written annotations.
At that moment, she felt as if she were living in two timelines at the same time: one was the old room that had never changed, and the other was a brand new daily life that had been extended into the distance.
Early in the morning, as Panqiu went downstairs, the stalls at the street corner were already steaming with heat.
The aroma of soy milk wafted into my nostrils on the breeze, fried dough sticks tumbled in the iron pan, and pancake batter sizzled on the griddle.
She sat down at the plastic table with a basket of steamed buns in her hand, surrounded by the sounds of vendors and regulars exchanging pleasantries, the air filled with the aroma of cooking.
This morning was completely different from the breakfasts she had when she was studying abroad.
The mornings there are quieter and more monotonous: a glass of milk, a bowl of blueberry cereal, a boiled egg, or a coffee and croissant bought hastily on the way.
When she first arrived, she even enjoyed the rhythm. It was her own morning, clean and simple, without the noise and fumes of the street corner, like a wall separating her from the outside world.
Within the walls, it felt as if it belonged only to oneself.
But as time went on, this tranquility became too desolate.
Now, sitting in front of the stall again, hearing the clinking of pots and pans, and seeing steam rising from the steamer, she suddenly felt a long-lost sense of familiarity.
That's not nostalgia, but rather being reminded by this everyday atmosphere:
It turns out that beyond the walls, there is also its own liveliness and warmth.
She lowered her head and took a bite of the xiaolongbao, the steam rising to her eyes.
She recalled Qian Zhongshu's "Fortress Besieged"—people inside the city want to get out, and people outside want to get in.
I am reminded of the white rose and red rose in Eileen Chang's writing.
She smiled slightly, as if she suddenly understood:
In fact, people's hearts are always filled with such choices and wavering, always feeling that the other side is the only complete one.
This realization may be a gift from the growth I've experienced over the past year.
Such a comparison is not necessarily regrettable.
Just like soy milk and fried dough sticks in the morning and croissants from overseas, each can nourish life.
She will be staying in the country for three whole months during the summer vacation.
Only a week or two has passed, but she seems to have already found a new, stable rhythm.
Her parents are still busy during the day, and she is mostly alone at home.
She often read in her room, and the thick book Ethan recommended was covered in annotations.
Occasionally, I'll follow my interests and read some new research papers.
Most of the time, she sits quietly alone at her desk.
It was as if this room had become another "laboratory".
Panqiu still writes an email to Ethan every week, as a way of reporting her reading and thoughts to him.
Most of the time, she would write down her new questions and ideas in more detail, as if it were a continuation of classroom discussions.
Ethan's replies, however, often took a day or two to arrive, and were always brief and efficient.
List three or two points in a bullet-point format, and sign at the end with that familiar abbreviation—"EE".
This communication model is completely different from the weekly face-to-face meetings during the semester.
There were no pauses or eye contact during the conversation, nor the freedom to ask follow-up questions or elaborate on the topic at any time.
The words and sentences maintain clear boundaries.
It was as if reminding her: it's summer vacation, and we're all living our own lives on the other side of the world.
The barriers of time and space slowed down their communication.
That subtle sense of intimacy slowly settles down in this rhythm, like a slow-motion switch being turned on.
She occasionally gets together with old classmates, but she's never been the type of person who's very comfortable in social situations.
The most common are college roommates who work in Shanghai, or a few close high school classmates.
During the gathering, someone casually mentioned the current situation of her high school deskmate—
"Is it time to graduate?" "Are you going abroad too?"
Pan Qiu just smiled, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
That vague feeling of attraction had long since faded into the past, and she understood that some relationships didn't need to be questioned anymore.
Some people joked with her, "You've always been indifferent, as if you don't care about anything."
Someone else chimed in, "But you're good-looking. So-and-so keeps asking about you."
Pan Qiu simply shook her head, smiled faintly, and did not respond to these words.
On weekends, she usually eats with relatives.
Interestingly, the topic of conversation at the dinner table seemed to have subtly shifted.
Some people began to openly or secretly worry about her marriage prospects.
Some people jokingly mentioned things like, "If I find a foreign boyfriend, how will I overcome the cultural differences in the future?" and "What will I do after I return to my home country?"
Pan Qiu found it both funny and exasperating, and while giving a perfunctory reply, she secretly thought...
These concerns and anxieties seem to outweigh her own.
In this atmosphere, one morning, a WeChat notification sound rang.
Lin Yue sent a message:
"I heard you also went back to China for summer vacation? I'm interning at a tech company in Shanghai."
Could you be my guide this weekend?
Panqiu stared at the screen, and without hesitation, replied, "Okay."
We agreed to meet at a small coffee shop near Panqiu's house at 11 a.m. on Saturday.
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