Suspension Bridge Effect
The cabin smelled damp, still clinging to the air after the rain. Outside, the runway was illuminated by lights, appearing as a gleaming silver line in the night. She fastened her seatbelt, suddenly feeling her heart begin to race slightly—like being pushed to the edge of a precarious bridge. The plane taxied, turned, accelerated. Just as the nose lifted off the ground, the feeling of weightlessness was more intense than on any previous flight. In that instant, Pan Qiu suddenly realized: she was flying towards a world she thought she would never see again, towards someone—someone she finally understood.
She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and the plane gently rose. Only one sentence kept repeating in her ears:
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there.
The plane soared higher and higher, the clouds spreading out beneath her feet into a soft white sea. She suddenly realized: the so-called "field beyond right and wrong" might just be—the place where two people once bound by boundaries could finally meet. She didn't know what Ethan was thinking when he wrote that line of poetry, she only knew that now, at this moment, she was flying towards that place.
In November, the air in Frankfurt was as cold as freshly washed glass. When Panqiu dragged her luggage out of the jet lag bridge, she felt none of the jet lag that usually accompanies jet lag; instead, she experienced a strange clarity, as if all her senses had been secretly amplified. The crowds, the glaring reflections on the ground, the rattling of the luggage wheels—all were incredibly real, yet her consciousness felt as if half of it had been gently detached. She knew this feeling; in psychology, there's a specific term for it: anticipatory arousal.
From Frankfurt Airport to Koblenz, she boarded the ICE train. The slight jolt as it started moving made her heart skip a beat. The scenery outside the window unfolded—low-lying houses, fields dampened by autumn rain, the Rhine River flowing like a slumber in the distance, and occasionally, glimpses of trees half-baked. Pan Qiu leaned against the window, almost able to hear her own heartbeat. It wasn't from travel fatigue, nor from the upcoming conference, but rather that feeling described countless times in psychology—anticipation and tension intertwined like a delicate string within her, ready to be gently plucked by the next gust of wind.
By the time she arrived at the conference hotel, it was completely dark. Late autumn in Koblenz had a unique coolness, like a river breeze gently blowing through the streets. She dragged her luggage into the lobby, where the lights scattered soft patches of light on the marble floor. While checking in, she could barely hear her own deliberately slowed breathing.
The room wasn't large, and from the window, half of the Rhine River could be seen, its surface shimmering faintly with silver light in the night. She sat on the edge of the bed, intending to organize her meeting materials, but the next second she collapsed onto the soft mattress. Weariness washed over her like a gentle tide, and beneath that weariness lay a restless excitement. Not the kind of excitement that makes your heart race, but a deep unease that comes with approaching the truth, like standing before a deep valley, a gust of wind causing your heart to gently tilt forward.
Pan Qiu closed her eyes, her breathing gradually calming down. The last image that flashed through her consciousness was the ending of Rumi's poem: "...I'll meet you there." She didn't know when she fell asleep, only that that night she had a very light, very bright, and indistinct dream.
———
The next morning, she woke up earlier than her alarm clock. The sky was not yet fully bright, and the air carried the damp chill unique to a late autumn morning. She washed up, changed, and put on the formal attire she had prepared. From the moment she buttoned the first button, her chest felt uneasy, as if every breath was a secret reminder to her: today, she might see him.
On her way to the venue, her pace unconsciously slowed. The wind outside the hotel rustled the shadows of the trees; most of the leaves on the street had already fallen, leaving only the branches swaying gently in the breeze, which only amplified the turmoil in her heart. The entrance to the venue was bustling with people; scholars from all over the world chatted in small groups, their name tags shimmering under the lights. Pan Qiu fastened her name tag, took a deep breath, but her gaze still uncontrollably searched through the crowd.
She had told herself time and again to remain professional and calm, but her body betrayed her before her reason could. She suddenly remembered—the last time she felt this agitated was in Bergamo. Now, as the morning breeze of Koblenz brushed her face, that feeling resurfaced—like entering another story whose direction she couldn't predict.
The lights in the conference hall slowly dimmed, and the screen lit up. The conference chair addressed the audience in English with a German accent, his words being smoothly translated into Chinese by a simultaneous interpreter. The gist of his message was: "Welcome to Koblenz. Before we officially begin, I hope you will take some time to enjoy the city."
The screen switched to an aerial view of the city—the Rhine River meandered like a silver spine, and ancient castles stood in the mist. The chairman casually introduced Koblenz's geography, culture, and wine history. Until the next slide appeared: a long suspension bridge, suspended over a valley where greenery and mist intertwined.
The chairman smiled and pointed to the photo, saying, "This is the Guerreley Bridge, probably one of the most famous attractions near this conference." The bridge on the screen spanned the valley, shrouded in mist, like a road leading to the clouds.
The chairman's tone became relaxed, with a touch of the psychologist's characteristic joking: "Some tourists have reported experiencing noticeable physiological arousal while walking on the bridge—a rapid heartbeat, sweaty palms...you know, that's exactly the kind of thing we psychologists love to overinterpret."
A burst of good-natured laughter rang out from the audience.
The chairman paused for a moment, then added meaningfully, "Of course, we still can't be sure whether this racing heartbeat is due to the height of the bridge itself, or because of—the person walking next to them."
The laughter suddenly grew louder, and someone clapped softly, clearly understanding the "suspension bridge effect" joke. The chairman nodded and said, "So, if you have the opportunity to walk across this bridge, feel free to collect your own data. But please remember—the context is important, and the people you walk with are equally important."
Laughter spread through the venue like gentle ripples.
Pan Qiu, who had been tidying up her conference bag, paused for a moment when she heard the phrase "heart racing." She looked up at the bridge on the screen—slender, graceful, and steadily suspended above the deep valley. It was as if even the pixels in the slideshow were trembling gently in the wind.
A sudden, gentle tightening occurred deep within my chest—a strange, rapid heartbeat, followed by a sudden stillness.
Her mind drifted back to that night at the welcome party during her first year of doctoral studies. The night was cool and still. She and Ethan had their first real conversation. They stood on the rooftop of the department building, holding wine glasses, and chatted casually for a few minutes—about their majors, interests, research directions… Neither of them expected the conversation to eventually veer towards the “suspension bridge effect.” Ethan’s tone was very soft at the time, without any hint of anything.
She remembered that moment when the wind blew from afar, and the night seemed to be gently lit up by something.
Now—years later—she sits in a conference hall in Germany, listening to the chairman reiterate the same theory. That boomerang, casually thrown years ago, has traversed their life paths, overcoming misunderstandings, silences, missed opportunities, and distance, and now, with an almost fateful force, returns to her hand.
—It's fate.
That's what she was thinking.
She suddenly realized: this city, this bridge, this meeting, these overlapping clues—none of them were coincidences. As if an invisible wind was blowing across the bridge, her body was still sitting upright in the chair, but her heartbeat... had already stepped onto that swaying bridge.
When Pan Qiu pushed open the door to the breakout room, there were still a few minutes before the presentation began. The projection screen in the front row was lit, and a Korean girl was bending over to adjust the microphone. Her slender fingers flew across the keyboard, her movements clean and efficient, and her profile appeared focused and serene under the light.
Pan Qiu sat down in the third row. She had just put her bag down when her gaze involuntarily fell on the girl. The feeling of familiarity came suddenly and subtly—like suddenly spotting the shadow of a "long-lost friend" in a crowd, except that this "friend" was someone she had never actually known.
Pan Qiu let out a soft sigh and smiled bitterly to herself: she knew exactly where this feeling came from. It wasn't because they had actually met, nor because they had had private conversations, but rather—that "familiarity" carried a deep, hidden emotion that no one else knew.
She had read the girl's thesis; she was familiar with her research topic, writing style, and even her expression habits. What she was even more familiar with was her Korean accent with a slight upward inflection at the end—she had heard that tone too many times with Ethan during fieldwork.
She watched silently for a long time. But the girl on stage knew nothing about her. Panqiu watched quietly from below, a subtle, indescribable feeling welling up inside her—until the speaker displayed the last slide, and that line appeared:
Advisor: Prof. Ethan Ellery.
Yes, she knew Ethan's students all too well. Before leaving, she had repeatedly reviewed the conference agenda; she had visited Ethan's lab website; she had read the students' names, papers, and research projects; she knew who Ethan was currently mentoring, what he was doing, and in which direction he was focusing his research—information she had never admitted to "caring" about, yet it had settled quietly in her heart like pebbles.
She became familiar with the Korean accent because the first place she visited with Ethan during their fieldwork was a Korean supermarket.
As the Korean girl on stage discussed the model's boundary conditions, cultural variables, and sample size, Pan Qiu suddenly heard the sound of her own heartbeat. It wasn't surprise, nor jealousy, but a gentle, lingering bittersweet feeling—she felt as if she were looking at a familiar shadow in the distance, and that shadow reflected someone else she truly longed to see.
The report ended, and the entire audience applauded. Pan Qiu also clapped, her palms slightly warm.
She was packing her bag, preparing to quietly leave through the side door. Just then—the Korean girl who had been busy at the podium suddenly glanced in her direction. The look was brief, but it carried a hint of hesitation and confirmation. Then, she walked over quickly and quietly.
"Um... excuse me." The girl's tone was polite, but a little reserved.
Pan Qiu looked up: "Hmm?"
The girl seemed to be organizing her thoughts before asking softly, "Excuse me...did you previously attend Mariden University?"
Pan Qiu's heart skipped a beat: "...Yes."
The Korean girl seemed relieved: "I knew it. I feel like I've seen you somewhere before."
She paused for a moment, then explained seriously, "It's in Professor Ellery's field archives. It's some photos and records he left behind when he did fieldwork."
Pan Qiu was stunned.
The girl continued, her tone serious and earnest, without a hint of gossip: "Professor Ellery mentioned that the project was very important to him. He said that the team at that time... could be considered one of the starting points for his later research on multilingual emotions."
Panqiu's fingertips slowly tightened.
Those photos—those moments she thought had long been forgotten by time—were quietly preserved in some unknown folder; he took them to a new project, used them for teaching and research, and another student, a complete stranger, opened them, zoomed in, and zoomed in again late one night. And she never knew.
The Korean girl gave a polite and gentle smile and said, "It's really nice to see you here."
Pan Qiu's throat tightened slightly, and she could only nod in response: "...I'm also very happy to see you."
The girl nodded to her, then hurriedly returned to the front to pack up her computer and lecture notes. The conversations in the breakout room resumed, drifting sparsely in the air.
Pan Qiu stood amidst the sounds, feeling as if a piece of her chest had been gently hollowed out by the wind. She knew very well that she had come to hear more than just a report.
She came to hear about Ethan's world and the traces he left there.
And at this moment, that trace responded to her for the first time—not through Ethan himself, but through another person, a student who stood in his latest research, in the next stage of his life's journey.
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