Parting is like wine
The mouse clicked the "Submit" button crisply, signaling the end of more than a month of revisions to the paper.
Both submissions were confirmed by Ethan with the final "You can submit." The wording was identical, and the tone was calm, as if everything was repeating itself.
But on these two occasions, Pan Qiu's state of mind was completely different.
The first submission felt like the sweetness of falling in love—finally someone saw her efforts and helped her organize her thoughts. "You can submit" was like a promise, turning her doubts into a sense of accomplishment, and she even joked that it was a chemical reaction from cortisol to dopamine.
The second submission felt like a reconciliation after an argument: the lightness and satisfaction were gone, replaced by alienation, resentment, exhaustion, and a stubborn sense of "it must be done." It was like a couple who had argued and reconciled, but it never felt as natural and sweet as the first time.
Pan Qiu let out a soft breath, stretched, and decided not to think about her thesis anymore.
Just then, a new email notification popped up in the lower right corner of the screen.
Her heart skipped a beat—could it be a system error? She quickly opened it and found it was an email from her TA course instructor.
Hi, Qiu:
I just want to say that you've done an excellent job this semester.
Your dedication and seriousness are evident to all – you are one of the best teaching assistants I have ever mentored.
Enjoy your summer vacation; you deserve a break.
Pan Qiu stared at those few lines of text, as if she had received an unexpected little gift. There was no grand ceremony, but it brought a sense of satisfaction that was neither too big nor too small.
Without much hesitation, she typed out a brief reply:
"Thank you, this is very important to me."
These six words were her most sincere expression. She might not have felt this way normally. This small act of kindness and affirmation meant a great deal to her at this moment.
Zhiwei has been gone for over a week.
On the day I took her to the airport, she truly felt the melancholy of "outside the long pavilion, by the ancient road." Neither of them were sentimental people; their farewell was just a light hug, both understanding that all good things must come to an end. Yet, the sorrow of parting lingered in their hearts, never truly dissipating.
Unexpectedly, parting is like wine, only with a stronger aftereffect.
Back in the dorm, looking at Zhiwei's empty room, I felt a sense of emptiness in my heart; during meals, the seat opposite me was empty, the silence almost glaring.
Especially at this moment, with the paper just submitted, there was no one to joke around with or share with. She couldn't help but recall the last time she submitted it, when the two of them were chatting and laughing, and each of them bought an LV bag in a great hurry—things were different now.
She even felt abandoned. She thought, is this what heartbreak is like? That feeling of being utterly defeated.
Because of feedback on her paper, her planned research had to be delayed. She had hoped to focus on her experiments during the summer break, but now she realized she had overestimated herself.
She had an urge to run away—perhaps to escape the loneliness after Zhiwei left, perhaps to escape the frustration brought by the peer review comments, or perhaps to escape the image that made her both envious and guilty, yet which she just couldn't shake off.
She silently prepared a mental summary for herself:
Self-depletion → Cognitive dissonance → Avoidance coping strategies.
Human mental resources are limited, like batteries. For the past month or so, she has been under immense pressure to revise her thesis while also juggling courses and teaching assistant work as the semester draws to a close, barely managing to keep herself under such a heavy workload. The most draining thing for her was the intense self-doubt and denial that she might "fall in love with her supervisor"—especially the thought that "he might have a wife and children," which repeatedly struck at her most vulnerable spot.
She clearly felt her battery level approaching a critical point, falling into a typical cognitive dissonance: while telling herself "I should use the summer vacation to advance my research," she became increasingly aware that loneliness and frustration were suffocating her.
Two forces were pulling her, almost suffocating her.
At this point, a person will naturally resort to an avoidance coping mechanism—not out of laziness, but out of instinct. If they continue to push themselves, a breakdown is not far off.
She knew she had to stop and rest. Otherwise, she really felt she was going to have mental problems.
The last meeting was over a month ago. They had just finalized a plan for revising the paper, but the atmosphere was strangely awkward for some reason. Both of them were trying to maintain a facade of calm, but they both seemed stiff.
This time, she felt a little apprehensive when she pushed open the door to Ethan's office.
Ethan was already seated at one end of the round table. He didn't look up to greet her as usual, nor did he gaze at her with that gentle yet focused look; instead, he merely nodded slightly. The deliberate seriousness and distance he maintained made Panqiu's heart tighten.
Although he is usually calm and composed, he always leaves room for gentleness, even in the calmest analysis and discussion. But today, he seemed to have put away all his gentleness, leaving only the cold, impeccable demeanor of a mentor.
Pan Qiu suddenly felt that he probably saw through something, which was why he deliberately drew this line. Perhaps that was why he had allowed them to not have a regular meeting for more than a month.
—Could it be that in his mind, she has become an unprofessional and undisciplined student? He is probably utterly disappointed in himself.
Panqiu sat down on the chair, her palms sweaty. After hesitating for a moment, she finally spoke:
“Dr. Ellery, I’m thinking… I might want to take a break this summer. I don’t feel ready to start new research right away.”
She spoke slowly, as if afraid of accidentally breaking something. Her tone was cautious, and tinged with apology.
Ethan was silent for a few seconds, leaning forward slightly as if there were words stuck in his throat, but he didn't say them. He then slowly leaned back in his chair.
In his eyes, she seemed to see that familiar tenderness and concern again; the next second, it was covered by his restraint, leaving only calmness and distance.
Finally, he simply nodded, his voice low and steady: "If this is what you need, then take a rest."
Pan Qiu's heart sank slightly. She was used to his focused and gentle gaze, but now she felt that his gaze had been taken away as well.
Unbeknownst to her, Ethan also hesitated for a moment. He almost said something else—that he could see her state, that taking a break wasn't shameful, and that everything he saw that day was a misunderstanding.
But when the words were about to come out, he changed them to calmer wording.
He had a vague feeling that he had "seen through" her thoughts, and this frightened him. Any extra tenderness, even a word of comfort, could plunge them both into a deeper predicament.
That evening, Panqiu sat alone in front of her computer screen, browsing flight options for her summer vacation home. Several flight options popped up on the page. Her gaze lingered on the line that read—"Transit in San Francisco."
As her fingertip hovered over the mouse, Zhiwei's voice suddenly rang out—"You—you finally admit it! My God! Lin Yue has seen right through you!"
Pan Qiu's heart tightened slightly, as if she could see Zhiwei covering her mouth with bright eyes again.
Lin Yue is located in the Bay Area.
After a few seconds of hesitation, she booked the flight.
Then I opened WeChat, paused for a long time in my chat with Lin Yue, and finally typed a short sentence:
"I'm going back to China next week, with a layover in San Francisco. Can we meet?"
Shortly after the message was sent, a notification appeared on the other end.
Lin Yue's reply was quick, but it consisted of only one word:
"good."
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