Unfinished conversation
The wind outside the window was a bit cool, brushing against the sycamore tree downstairs from Panqiu's residence, rustling the sparse branches and leaves.
Only a lamp on her desk was lit in the room, its soft orange glow enveloping her little world. She nestled in her chair, a thin blanket draped over her shoulders, a freshly brewed cup of oolong tea beside her, its steam rising gently.
A soft, whispering piano piece was playing on her computer, part of her recent playlist, titled "Silent Concentration." It had no lyrics, its rhythm leisurely, like a gentle river, keeping her alert even after a long day.
She is grading course assignments for PSY 610.
This course is a required foundational course for graduate students. Assignments require designing an intervention plan based on a teaching case—including problem identification, theoretical framework, intervention methods, and assessment indicators. Most students were able to meet the basic requirements, but she paid particular attention to how the students expressed their thoughts: some directly used templates, while others tried to break down the concepts and write them out again. Although they stumbled, they were sincere.
She had already graded more than ten papers, and the next one had just loaded, displaying the name: Daniel Myers.
She remembered him. He'd come by during her last office visit; a typical extroverted American student, he liked to laugh and gesture when he spoke, quickly warming up the atmosphere. Before leaving, he'd joked, "I hope my writing went well this time."
Panqiu took a sip of tea and began to read.
The opening was standard, and the formatting of the APA manual was fine. She gave a few encouraging comments and was about to continue reading the intervention design section when her gaze suddenly stopped.
There was a sentence that seemed familiar to her.
She squinted and scrolled up, reading it once, then again, a hint of doubt rising in her mind. The feel of the language, the structure, the word choice—it was all too familiar.
She immediately opened the system's grading records and quickly scanned the list of completed assignments until a name caught her eye—Emily Cooper.
She pulled up the assignment and opened the secondary screen. Then she compared it section by section.
Sure enough—it wasn't an illusion.
The two assignments contain highly similar content on intervention strategies, with consistent paragraph order and slightly modified language, but the core expressions are almost identical.
Daniel wrote:
"This intervention aims to help individuals reshape their cognition and behavior through structured feedback and step-by-step guidance, thereby reducing the pressure caused by unrealistic self-expectations."
Emily wrote:
"The core strategy of this intervention is to use structured guidance and feedback mechanisms to adjust individuals' unreasonable self-expectations, thereby promoting more adaptive cognitive change."
Panqiu tapped the touchpad lightly with her fingers and continued scrolling forward.
Even the case descriptions used a similar structure, with both focusing on the theme of "parental pressure and perfectionism," and even citing the same journal article, albeit with slight adjustments to the page order.
She put down her teacup, sat up straight, and carefully checked the submission times—Emily's assignment was submitted at 10:42 p.m. on Tuesday, while Daniel's was submitted at 1:13 a.m. on Wednesday.
Her heart sank slightly. It wasn't a "discussion," but a blatant copy with minor modifications.
She didn't make a decision immediately. As a teaching assistant, she had to remain calm.
She marked the relevant paragraphs with screenshots and saved a comparison copy in a local backup document.
Then, she opened her email, began drafting a statement, and calmly requested a meeting, her tone devoid of accusation:
Topic: Discussion about the PSY 610 course assignment
Dear Daniel and Emily,
I'd like to briefly talk to you about the recently submitted course assignments.
My office hours are from 2 PM to 4 PM tomorrow. Would it be convenient for you to come?
Please let me know if this time is not suitable.
Best wishes,
Qiu
After sending the email, she let out a soft breath and closed her laptop.
There was a faint sound of wind outside the window, like someone lightly brushing the window frame with their fingertips.
She drew back the curtains and looked at the familiar sidewalk in the night—almost all the sycamore leaves had fallen, and a thick layer of withered yellow covered the gaps between the bricks.
Occasionally, someone would pass by, their footsteps crunching on the fallen leaves, making a crisp "tap" sound that was especially clear in the night.
She stood there for a while, then returned to her desk and finished the last sip of her tea. The slightly cool bitterness was just like the feeling in her heart at that moment—not anger, nor disappointment, but a clear-headedness under the weight of reality.
She sat back down in her chair, gently placed her teacup on the cushion, thought for a moment, then opened a notepad and listed a few things she wanted to say the next day.
She doesn't like dealing with confrontational situations; she always feels like she's stepping on a fragile ice floe.
But she also knew that as a teaching assistant, she couldn't avoid this kind of thing.
Nobody wants to be involved in "academic dishonesty," but if it happens, it has to be resolved.
She simply couldn't bring herself to turn a blind eye when she had clearly discovered something.
She secretly devised a plan for herself—first, listen to what the two students have to say; if they both admit it, then this assignment will be zeroed out and it won't happen again; if they do it again, then she'll have to report it to Ethan and the college.
It was neither indulgence nor harsh criticism, but rather the gentlest and most reasonable way she could handle the situation within her capabilities.
She hoped things could stop here. But she also knew that wishes don't always turn out the way she envisioned.
Emily arrived shortly after the start of the second day's office hours.
She stood outside the six-person cubicle, gently knocked on the partition twice, and asked softly, "May I come in?"
Pan Qiu looked up and paused, startled. She recognized the name—Emily Cooper. Her assignments were always neatly submitted, earning above-average marks. Her writing style was rigorous, she was taciturn, and she had never appeared in her office hours records.
She even checked her previous assignment timeline—she never submitted them late, always submitting them a few hours before the deadline; her notes were neat, with almost no grammatical errors, and she even used the APA format correctly.
“Of course, come in.” Pan Qiu pulled out a chair, pushed the rating sheet and notebook aside, and nodded to her. “Would you like to sit down?”
Emily quietly said thank you and sat down in the chair opposite her.
She was wearing a light blue knitted cardigan, jeans, and a slightly worn backpack that looked like it had been used for many years. Her hair was a little messy, as if she had been out in the wind for a long time.
She held a notebook, seemingly wanting to speak, but paused. In the end, Panqiu spoke first.
“I’d like to ask about your last assignment,” she said gently. “I noticed that your work is unusually similar to another student’s assignment—especially in structure and some word choice.”
She tried to keep her tone free of any preconceived notions, "So I'd like to hear your thoughts first."
After listening, Emily lowered her head and nodded, saying softly, "I roughly know what's going on."
Panqiu didn't say anything, she just watched her quietly.
"Daniel... He messaged me the night before the deadline, saying he was stuck and just wanted to see how I wrote the structure. I didn't think much of it and sent him the file. I never expected him to copy it."
She looked up at Panqiu and said, "I really didn't expect it to turn out like this."
Pan Qiu nodded gently.
She believed Emily was telling the truth and could imagine the scene—it was late at night, and Daniel messaged her saying he was stuck and just wanted to "take a look"; out of kindness, Emily casually sent the file.
"Thank you for telling me so honestly," Panqiu said gently. "I believe you didn't do it intentionally."
She paused, then added, "But unfortunately, once the assignment is sent out, it's no longer under your control. The college's policy is to treat both parties equally responsible—unless we can clearly demonstrate that there are other circumstances."
Emily lowered her head and didn't say anything.
Pan Qiu lowered her voice slightly, trying to keep her tone non-judgmental: "I still need to talk to Daniel. I won't draw any conclusions at the moment. Thank you for coming to explain today."
She looked at Emily and nodded gently.
A sense of unease settled over her. After a moment's hesitation, she added softly, "If he admits it too... I'll suggest that both of them get zero on this assignment. Consider it a warning, and don't let it happen again."
Emily looked up at her, her eyes briefly reddening, but she quickly lowered her head and nodded gently.
Panqiu didn't say much, but simply took a tissue from the drawer and gently pushed it over.
After Emily left, she waited until after 5 p.m., but Daniel still did not respond when she packed her things to leave.
In the email she sent on Wednesday, she even included links to her office hours and online meetings, but he has neither replied to the email nor appeared in the past two days.
Pan Qiu felt uneasy. This silence didn't seem like the silence of someone who had been wronged; it was more like a lingering hesitation driven by ulterior motives.
She reminded herself not to overthink it.
She walked down the street, the wind blowing the fallen leaves into a thick layer, making a crunching sound as she stepped on them.
She suddenly felt a strange chill—not cold, but the intuition that "things aren't over yet."
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