Around winter
Lin Yue has been exceptionally busy this semester.
In his final semester of his CS master's program, the coursework was already packed, and he also had to interview for internships and job hunting. He was constantly switching between programming projects and preparing for technical interviews, his mind like a processor that never dared to stop. He was used to memorizing algorithms in front of a whiteboard, making interview plans in Notion (a planner-like software), and using a timer to practice LeetCode (a coding challenge platform) under timed conditions.
He even ate mostly fast food—rotating between different places. They were all places he could finish quickly within half an hour, then immediately return to the library or lab. He'd practiced ordering incredibly fast, almost never looking at the menu, relying on speed and muscle memory to get everything done. Sometimes it was a chicken bowl from Chipotle with tons of guacamole, sometimes a spicy chicken burger from Chick-fil-A with a cloyingly sweet lemonade; when he was really hungry, he'd rush into Burger King, devour a meal in one go, and study for interviews while eating; when rushing to meet deadlines, he'd simply carry a Subway back to the department building, sometimes even eating it while walking.
There were too many things to do: studies, projects, interviews, resume revisions, group meetings, deadlines, and endless job postings and practice problems. He hadn't let go of his feelings for her.
He cherished that affection. But when life crashed down on him like a tide, he could only bury it deep inside, avoiding touching it, avoiding even imagining it. From beginning to end, she never reciprocated his feelings passionately. She was gentle to everyone, but never gave him even the slightest special response. That gentleness was too even, like clear water—clean, yet directed towards no one.
Furthermore, he was uncertain about the future. Visa, job, immigration status… every step felt like walking on thin air. He couldn't promise anything, nor did he want to drag her into his uncertainty. So he stopped contacting her proactively, only asking questions when Zhiwei occasionally mentioned her.
Just a few days ago, Zhiwei mentioned that Panqiu had encountered some trouble recently and seemed to be quite upset.
At that moment, his heart skipped a beat. He couldn't quite describe the emotion, only a pang of sadness and regret. As a friend, as someone who had at least tried to get close to her—he had done nothing during her most difficult time. He didn't even know what she had been through.
That evening, after receiving the group report from CS530, he walked out of the lab and suddenly opened the chat box with Zhiwei.
"Is she still in the department?" he sent a message.
Zhiwei quickly replied, "She should still be here. She hasn't come back yet."
Without much thought, he walked around the computer building and waited downstairs at the psychology department building.
The November night already carried a hint of winter. He leaned against a roadside flowerbed, the song he'd been listening to on repeat playing in his headphones—
"I had all of you, then most of you, and now none of you."
He tried to get close to her, but he never truly had her.
"Take me back to the night we met."
He lowered his head and whispered a reply.
It's not that I'm hoping for a new beginning, I just want to go back to that evening before everything was said, so that at least I can continue to look forward to it.
The wind whistled past his ears, like an unfinished chorus, swirling intermittently in the air. He was a little cold, his hands in his hoodie pockets, but his eyes kept glancing towards the building entrance.
He remembered how she cried from the spiciness at Flamingo on her birthday. She tried to stay calm, hissed softly, and stubbornly finished the whole chicken wing.
That scene is still vivid in his mind, and he can't help but smile every time he recalls it.
He lowered his head and chuckled. Then he looked up.
The moonlight was bright, spilling like water onto the sidewalk in front of the teaching building. She finally came out.
Panqiu walked out of the building with her bag on her back. Her steps were slow, as if she had just finished a period of deep and focused work. Her expression was slightly tired but quiet.
He was about to raise his hand to greet her when he suddenly noticed—there was another person walking behind her.
It was a man, in his early thirties, tall and well-built, dressed in inconspicuous yet clean clothes. The streetlight shone on his face, illuminating his nose and jawline clearly, as if sculpted—clean, calm, and composed. He stood beside her, speaking slowly and deliberately, his eyes filled with a gentle focus. He didn't recognize the man, but he could tell at a glance that he wasn't a student.
Pan Qiu—her gaze stunned him.
In the way she looked up at him, there was a trust and tenderness that Lin Yue had never received before. And there was also a certain—indescribable glimmer of light.
Lin Yue stood still, without saying a word. He simply watched them walk past him not far away.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do / Haunted by the ghost of you..."
The music in his headphones continued to play softly, like a whisper in the night. He just smiled quietly, as if he had finally seen something clearly and let go of something.
The calendar has turned to the first page of winter break.
This semester ended rather abruptly, as if time itself was rushing to meet a deadline. The day the heavy snow stopped, the streets hadn't been cleared yet, and the ice was so thin it looked like glass that would shatter at the slightest touch. The campus suddenly became deserted. There were no students chatting in the hallways, half the lights in the library were off, and even the inboxes were filled with mechanically forwarded notification emails.
At this time last year, she had just survived all the finals of her first semester. She and Zhiwei were huddled in the living room of their small apartment, watching "Game of Thrones." Outside, the streets were covered in snow, while inside, there was hot herbal tea, steaming braised pork, and Christmas gifts brought by everyone, along with laughter. Life seemed to have suddenly been put on pause. A group of newly arrived international students took a short break after their anxieties, finding warmth in each other. Even after a tense semester, they could finally breathe a sigh of relief and have a "decent vacation."
But a year has passed, and this winter is not at all the kind of "take a breather" kind of winter.
There were no classes, no TA work, no parties, only her and the blank document in front of her computer. She was writing her first paper—about the bilingual switching mechanism in inner speech, trying to piece together notes, mind maps, interviews, and experimental materials from the past few months into a "decent first draft".
Zhiwei went to visit her boyfriend in another state, leaving her alone at home. She mostly stayed curled up on the beanbag chair in the living room, wrapped in a blanket, biting her pen while staring at the screen and listening to the dripping of the coffee machine. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been away—this vacation had been busier than any other week. Aside from occasionally getting up to stretch and soak up some sunlight, she spent almost the entire day stuck in one place, writing, deleting, and questioning her existence.
That afternoon, she got stuck on an analysis.
She wanted to explain the automatic switching mechanism between Chinese and English under pressure, to capture the difference in linguistic nuance where "Chinese expresses stronger emotions, while English is used more calmly when talking to oneself." But the more she wrote, the more chaotic it became, and the more she thought about it, the more unsolvable it seemed. She took off her glasses, closed her eyes, and her mind was like a tangled mess of threads, knotted and soaking in water.
She decided to get up and make a cup of coffee.
She walked into the kitchen and casually pressed the button on the SMEG mini coffee machine. It was the one Lin Yue had given her; its glacier blue body gleamed softly in the sunlight streaming through the window. It had almost become a habit, a way for her to give her brain a rest.
The machine gave a soft hum, and then began to drip water.
She stood to one side, her hand resting on the counter, listening to the sound, one drop after another—like raindrops falling into an empty cup, like a clock that refused to stop reminding her: time was flowing, the coffee was falling, but her thoughts were still stuck in place.
She suddenly remembered Lin Yue.
We haven't been in touch for a while. She's never been a particularly proactive person. Even though she was a little tempted on her birthday, life quickly pushed her forward.
She looked down at the coffee slowly rising in her cup and suddenly remembered another gift—the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
That green alien, that phrase "Don't panic," and that answer that made you want to both laugh and sigh:
42.
In the book, the supercomputer "Deep Thought" was created to answer a grand question: "What is the ultimate answer to life, the universe, and everything?"
It took it seven and a half million years of deep thought to finally come up with the answer: 42.
That's it, forty and two.
But no one knows what the "ultimate question" is, not even "Deep Thought" itself. It simply says: "I have already given the answer; you need to figure out the question first."
When she first read this passage, she only thought it was absurd, dryly humorous, clever, and mischievous. But now, sitting in the quiet living room on a winter's day, staring blankly at a half-finished paper, she suddenly understood that almost fatalistic sense of absurdity.
She was stuck on a logical impasse, her reasoning always leading to the same dead end. She tried to figure out "how to write it logically," but her thoughts kept circling back like a tongue twister. The coffee machine beeped and dripped, like a silent mockery. But suddenly, she felt that the inexplicable "42" was an unexpected comfort.
Perhaps not everything can be made logically clear. Perhaps the world is just a mess, and sometimes it's not that you haven't tried, but rather that "the problem hasn't been clearly defined yet."
She stared at the pale brown liquid in the glass, feeling a wisp of steam rise to her nose. She suddenly recalled Lin Yue's expression when he talked about this book—a serious face with a smile playing on his lips. He had said, "This book is full of counterintuitive thinking. If you ever get stuck writing a paper, take a look at it; it might just spark a flash of inspiration."
She couldn't help but laugh.
Then I picked up my phone and tapped on his profile picture.
A message was sent:
"The coffee machine works great. It's just that I was so stuck today that I almost poured the whole pot into my computer."
A few minutes later, Lin Yue replied, his tone as light and cheerful as ever:
"Your computer is really lucky."
Then he sent another message:
"How about we go out for some fresh air together?"
She checked the time—3:30 PM, sunlight streaming perfectly through the gaps in the curtains. The living room was quiet; Zhiwei wasn't there. She had been alone all holiday.
She replied:
"Okay, see you in ten minutes, little fox?"
Lin Yue replied "okay" almost instantly.
She shut down her computer and glanced down at the white hoodie she was wearing—wrinkled and with a coffee stain on the front. She went into her bedroom and changed into a gray-blue knit sweater, loose at the neckline and wide sleeves, making her look like she was wrapped in a cloud. In the bathroom, she washed her face with cold water, re-tied her hair into a bun, and loosened a few strands to cover her forehead. Her face in the mirror was a little pale, with slight blue under her eyes, but she didn't dwell on it. She put on her coat and went out.
When she arrived at the little fox, Lin Yue was already there.
The moment she pushed open the door, a faint aroma of coffee beans wafted in, mingling with the scent of heating and wooden tables and chairs, making her unconsciously slow her pace. She spotted him immediately—by the window, with half-drawn blinds behind him, the slanting sunlight streaming in through the gaps, shading his profile with interplay of light and shadow.
He wore a dark blue hoodie and gray casual pants, a simple yet surprisingly clean and sharp look. That slightly relaxed American sporty style, on him, exuded a minimalist quality—understated yet sophisticated. The hoodie casually draped over his neck, making him look like he'd just finished a winter jog.
He was looking down at his phone, his brow bone clearly defined, his eyelashes casting a soft shadow beneath his eyes. His features were clean and serene, the kind that wasn't immediately striking, but grew more pleasing the longer you looked at him. His brows were naturally arched, his nose bridge smooth, and a hint of relaxation played at the corners of his mouth.
She suddenly remembered that summer in the Shanghai café. He had arrived early too, sat by the window, wearing a clean white shirt, like the male lead in some art film. Sunlight streamed in through the glass window; she still remembers that scene.
It was the height of summer then, now it's early winter. The city has transformed from bustling Shanghai into an American college town. The leaves have all fallen, and the temperature has dropped by twenty degrees, but some scenes can still be vividly recalled.
He arrived first as always and sat by the window waiting for her.
As she walked over, she smiled to herself.
It's a small joy amidst the change of circumstances. Even though we've barely seen each other this semester, even though we're both caught up in the torrent of our own lives, a single message can still bring us together to sit down and have a cup of coffee.
It felt like only a few days had passed, and not much silence had followed.
She walked towards him, and before she could speak, he looked up, nodded at her, and gave her a clean smile: "You've come."
"Hmm." She took off her coat and said with a smile, "Don't you live farther than me? How come you got here first?"
As he pulled out a chair for her, he shrugged: "Maybe... she has long legs?"
She laughed out loud, and as she sat down, she lowered her head and said softly, "That's true."
Lin Yue changed the subject first, her tone a little lighter than usual: "A while ago... I heard from Zhiwei that you encountered some tricky problems."
She paused for a moment, then nodded: "Yes, everything's alright now."
He looked at her, his expression calm, but it didn't seem like casual small talk; it was more like a genuine confirmation: "Are you really alright?"
"Really." She smiled and said softly, "Thank you."
He didn't ask any further questions, only giving a soft "hmm".
“Don’t just talk about me,” she said, swirling her coffee cup. “How’s your semester going?”
"I've been busy graduating and looking for a job," Lin Yue said casually, but his tone revealed a sense of relief. "This is my last semester of my master's program. I'm graduating and getting out of here."
She paused for a moment, and before she could reply, he continued, "I just signed the offer."
"Oh? Congratulations!" Her tone was sincere, but her smile was a beat slower than before. "Where are you going?"
"bending."
She nodded, took a sip of her coffee, and asked casually, "When do I start?"
He glanced at his phone and said, "My flight is tomorrow. I'll go there first to familiarize myself with the environment, and then officially start work after New Year's Day. I just finished packing my luggage when you messaged me."
Her fingers paused slightly, the rim of the cup pressed against her lips, but she didn't drink any more.
She wasn't surprised by his departure—she always understood that all good things must come to an end. But the small joy of "things have changed, people are still the same" that she had felt just moments before now seemed like a delusion. She had mistakenly thought she would have another chance to sit down and chat about trivial things, but it turned out she was merely walking towards the end of someone else's story, without even having a chance to say "goodbye."
She almost blurted out, "Why didn't you tell me? If I hadn't looked for you today, would I have had to go to the Bay Area to see you next time?"
But she swallowed the words back.
What position did she have? She clearly remembered that summer night in Shanghai, on the cruise ship across the river—he confessed his feelings, and she rejected him. She said, "I don't think you want a girlfriend like me." That wasn't an excuse; she had genuinely thought about it and admitted that she had feelings for him. But those feelings were never enough to sustain a real relationship. She didn't want to force herself to go along with a beginning, nor did she want to drag anyone into an unsolvable future.
She wouldn't hastily change things just because it's "too late." It's just... a little disappointing.
She looked up at him, smiled and nodded: "So you've already packed your luggage? That really is... a coffee before you leave."
It was completely dark before five o'clock.
They emerged from the fox cub. The December night was bitterly cold, and the ground still bore the marks of snow that had fallen a few days earlier, crunching softly as they walked on the sidewalk. The streets were deserted, save for the occasional headlights of passing cars that illuminated the snowdrifts along the roadside.
They walked side by side in silence, the branches of trees on both sides of the street unfolding quietly in the dim light like a black and white line drawing.
As I approached her apartment building, the motion-sensor lights snapped on, casting a soft white glow over the surroundings. The snow seemed even colder under the lights, and the wind whipped through the empty street, making my neck ache.
The two stopped, as if the story had come to a pause.
Lin Yue stopped and looked up at the window where she lived. Then he lowered his head and smiled, as if hiding all his complex emotions in a simple gesture.
He watched her silently standing under the streetlamp. She was wrapped in a dark coat, standing in the shadows in front of the building, her face slightly flushed from the wind, but her eyes were serene. He suddenly realized that this might be the last time he would see her like this—the girl he loved!
He opened his arms steadily, his voice low and almost a whisper: "Come on, give me a hug."
At that moment, time seemed to stand still. The world consisted only of the two of them, standing in a small patch of light in the winter night.
His gaze towards her was clear and open, devoid of regret or bitterness, filled only with the sincerity of parting.
She looked at him too. His back was ramrod straight. He exuded a calm and composed air. She had always thought of him as a big, restless dog that never stopped running around, but before her was clearly an adult about to embark on a journey. She suddenly realized that he was really leaving, entering another world she might never see again.
The wind blew between the two of them.
Without hesitation, she took a step closer, and Lin Yue bent down slightly as well.
Shoulder to shoulder, their bodies maintaining a polite distance. Arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, and they patted each other's backs simultaneously. The gesture was like a confirmation, or perhaps a blessing.
Then, they let go.
Lin Yue didn't say anything more, just nodded to her, turned and walked into the night. His back view was decisive.
Pan Qiu stood there, watching his tall, thin figure walk further and further away until it disappeared into the distance under the streetlights, like a chapter that quietly vanished.
She thought to herself: Perhaps... we'll never see each other again?
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