Inner Language
One day near the end of winter break, my email subject lit up again—it was an email from Ethan. A few short lines confirmed the meeting time: Wednesday of the first week of school, 3 PM.
The moment she pushed open the office door, she paused instinctively—the maple trees outside the window had long since lost their autumn red and yellow hues, their branches showing slender lines in the winter sunlight, and the ground was covered with a thin layer of snow, so bright it was almost blinding.
Inside, however, it was almost exactly the same as it had been a few months ago: the large curved screen was still on the desk against the wall, and the note “Data won’t tell. Please listen.” was still stuck in the same place; the light gray round table, the evergreen plant, the succulent with the “Please don’t die” label, the ceramic cup, and the gentle warmth from the radiator all overlapped with the scene in my memory.
Time flows by outside the window, and this small office seems to be a fixed point.
Ethan looked up from his computer, the light filtering through the blinds illuminating his profile, creating a carefully adjusted interplay of light and shadow. In that instant, she suddenly recalled the "handsome guy" everyone had been teasing at the Christmas party—but sitting across from him now, she realized that such a compliment seemed rather superficial.
The shirt was a muted blue-gray, the cuffs rolled up to the wrists, revealing his well-defined knuckles. His gaze wasn't sharp, yet it seemed to see right through her words.
He smiled and gestured for her to sit down, then asked, "How was your winter break?"
"It's fine." She smiled back, then added half-jokingly, "By the way, did you see the lighthouse?"
He paused for a moment, then chuckled, "Not this time." He then steered the conversation back to the main topic: "What research direction have you been thinking about lately?"
Pan Qiu nodded, talking about what she had gained from reading his papers recently, and a point of interest that was becoming increasingly clear: how the listener's emotional regulation, in turn, affects the speaker's expression in a conversation. She said that in many important conversations, whether the listener can remain calm, whether they can show empathy, and whether they will immediately become defensive almost determines the direction of the conversation—affecting the establishment of trust, the de-escalation of conflict, and even whether it will escalate.
Ethan leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the table, and pressed, "This is a very broad direction. What's your entry point?"
Pan Qiu thought for a moment and said, "A conversation contains both explicitly spoken content and non-verbal elements—facial expressions, gestures, and the rhythm of breathing. In addition, there is a more hidden layer: things beneath the surface, things that are not spoken. Sometimes, what is said is not really heard; but what is not said is 'heard' in some way. I want to know how these subtle dynamics affect the flow and quality of a conversation."
When she said, "Even if you don't say it aloud, it might still be heard," Ethan leaned back in his chair and watched her quietly. Sunlight fell on his eyelashes, casting dappled shadows. She should have been focused on her own thoughts, but she suddenly realized that the subtle nods and changes in expression he used when listening to people made her forget time—like turning the pages of a book under a lamp, patient and resolute.
Ethan smiled knowingly: "What you're talking about is actually closely related to a concept—internal language. It's the 'narration' that's always in our minds during our interactions."
Pan Qiu tilted her head and laughed, "For example, when I'm picking tomatoes at the supermarket, I'll mentally say in my mom's voice, 'Don't pick the ones that are too ripe,' even though she's not there?"
He laughed, "Yes, that's the most ordinary kind. But in a more intense conversation, it can have a big impact."
He changed the example and said slowly:
"Imagine two people breaking up. One person says, 'I think we should end this.' What happens next doesn't just depend on the words themselves—it depends to a large extent on the inner monologue of the person hearing them."
If that unspoken message was, "You said you would love me forever," but pride prevented you from saying it aloud, this emotion would likely seep through your expression or tone—coldness and distance. The other person could sense it, and might then retract their statement, stop exploring further, and quickly end the conversation.
But if the inner voice says, "I knew you'd say that eventually," his facial tension will be much less, even showing a calm acceptance. The other person may feel safer as a result, speak more gently, be more willing to explain, and even offer comfort.
The same opening remarks, but the unspoken thoughts of the listener, can shape the speaker's response—and this can lead to a completely different ending to the conversation.
Pan Qiu listened quietly, as if someone was gently painting in the depths of her mind: at first, there were just a few blurry lines, outlining a direction that interested her; as his explanation unfolded little by little, those lines were patiently shaded and detailed, and the outline gradually became clear.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, giving her a moment to process what he was going to say, and then continued:
"Of course, that's just one example. There are many ways in which internal languages can appear."
Sometimes, it's the part you could have said but chose not to—perhaps to protect yourself, or perhaps to protect the relationship.
Sometimes, it's a self-talk that you do only with yourself—helping you calm down, make judgments, or plan your next steps.
Regardless of the form, it's always there, subtly rewriting your feelings and reactions, often more powerful than any spoken word.
The instant he stopped speaking, Panqiu felt as if a blank space in her heart had been suddenly filled—not with technical terms, but with something she had been trying to grasp but had always missed. She lowered her head, stringing the clues together in her mind into a clear line, then looked up and whispered:
"Therefore, the surface dialogue is just the tip of the iceberg. More emotions and meanings are hidden beneath the surface, in that inner language."
Ethan gave him that "I knew you'd come this far" smile, put down his pen, and said in his usual gentle tone, "Write a one-page memo before next week—clearly state your current thoughts and how you intend to turn them into research questions."
Pan Qiu nodded, closed her notebook, and stood up to leave. Pushing open the building door, a cold wind immediately enveloped her. As she walked down the steps, she silently repeated the word "inner language" to herself.
She suddenly remembered the gossip at the Christmas party about Ethan being the most handsome guy in the department, and how he was "like a ray of light." At the time, she just laughed it off, thinking it was an exaggeration. Now she knew it wasn't about his appearance.
It's a feeling that if you take a step closer to him, you can see further—a desire that makes you willing to explore and move forward under his light.
She realized that what attracted her was not the intense heartbeat, but the quiet, inward-looking power that guided her to reach further into the distance.
There are many kinds of attraction in the world: some are intense, like fireworks, making you hold your breath for a moment; some are quiet, like an undercurrent, silently carrying you forward.
Lin Yue once made her heart flutter in an instant, like fireworks; but today, Ethan gave her the light of a distant lighthouse—not rushing, not dazzling, but making one only want to follow that light and continue to ask questions.
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