The old art room smelled of turpentine, mingled with the damp, fresh scent of watercolor. Easels stood ready; charcoal rasped against paper in fits and starts. It was Friday afternoon, the club's practice session — sunlight slanted through high windows, dust motes drifting like scattered memories.
"This sketching session will be with the photo club," Teacher Zhang clapped her hands, her voice ringing in the empty room. "Theme: 'the other side of campus.' Don't just do flowers and grass — find interesting corners." She adjusted her glasses, scanning the faces below — some blank, some eager. "Su Ziyan, you're paired with Lin Yichen. He photographs, you sketch: same scene, two ways of recording. Turn in a comparative piece next weekend."
Ziyan was bent over her box of gouache, pausing when she heard her name; tins of paint clicked softly. She straightened and glanced toward the back door frame. Lin Yichen stood there with a worn dark-gray camera bag, one hand in his pocket, the other absently rubbing the shoulder strap. He looked caught off guard, eyes flicking nervously toward her before dropping to his shoes, and he gave a barely perceptible nod.
"Oooh—" someone in the corner drawled to stir the pot. Yu Bo had slipped in, fiddling with his DSLR, smirking. "Smart pairing, director!"
Yichen didn't answer, just shifted his bag strap up a bit. Ziyan's ears warmed; she stooped to pick up a cobalt paint tube that nearly fell, fingers gripping it tight.
Behind the building, a weathered red-brick wall climbed with ivy, its surface gleaming where the sun hit. Old desks and deflated basketballs gathered in the corner, thick with dust. Yichen picked his angle, crouched, and set up the tripod; the metal joints clicked in the still air. He adjusted height and tilt with the calm of habit, tightening knobs with practiced steadiness.
Ziyan set up her easel and clipped in fresh sketch paper. She unwrapped a new charcoal, eyes on the wall, fingers rubbing the smooth wood of the stick. Sunlight carved shadows across uneven bricks, tangled leaves and dusty objects — a quiet poem of light and texture.
"From here," Yichen said softly, breaking the hush. "The light division is clearer." He pointed to a small right-hand section of the wall where gnarled vines twisted and their shadows stretched long across peeling plaster, making a strangely compelling structure. The light happened to underline the chaotic order there.
Ziyan followed his gesture. What had seemed like general clutter now focused into a striking patch. "Yeah — there's some backbone here," she murmured, shifting her easel closer and re-setting her view. She raised the board, covering half her figure, held a soft charcoal above the paper and let her gaze travel between subject and page, searching for invisible lines.
Click.
A small shutter sound came from the side, like a twig snapping. Ziyan's hand paused for the briefest moment. She didn't turn but angled her face; out of the corner of her eye she saw Yichen bent over his camera, the black frame masking most of his expression, only the tight line of his jaw visible. Light sifted through his hair and flickered at the easel's edge. She pressed her lips and laid down the first dark, confident arc on the rough paper.
Time stretched between the scratch of charcoal and the occasional faint shutter. Wind rustled the ivy; Ziyan paused now and then, leaning back to squint at her drawing, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. Each time, the delicate shutter could be heard again. She never turned fully to see what he was photographing — the wall, the vines, or perhaps something else.
Most of the time Yichen was a quiet silhouette behind his camera, adjusting settings. He swapped lenses with the barely audible scrape of metal, sometimes crouching by the tripod for long stretches, thumb hovering over the shutter as if waiting for a breath of wind or a cloud to move. Once he'd almost lain on the ground to capture a peculiar glint in a water stain, his sleeve picking up dust.
"Hey, artists! How's it going?" Yu Bo popped up again, bottle in hand, flushed from exercise, invading the two-person bubble. He peered at Ziyan's board.
"Wow!" He was impressed. The worn red wall and twisted ivy were already taking shape in charcoal — decisive lines, layered light and shadow; the discarded furniture in the corner rendered with a few strokes that hinted at abandonment. "Ziyan, you nailed it. You can make this dump feel like something." He handed his half-empty water bottle to Yichen. "Hold this." Then he leaned close and pointed at the paper. "How do you handle the light here? What grade charcoal?"
His body blocked Ziyan's sightline. Her hand froze midstroke, brow tightening.
"You're blocking the light," Yichen said flatly and placed the water bottle on a battered stool.
Realizing, Yu Bo laughed and sidled over. "Sorry—force of habit, wanted to see." He turned to Yichen. "Any good shots? Let me see."
Yichen only lifted his chin toward the camera screen. Yu Bo shoved his face close and flicked through the previews. "Jesus, your shots are wild," he commented, scrolling. "That angle… the light on those ivy leaves — killer… Hey this one! When'd you take this?" He pointed to a frame where Ziyan's profile was caught in mid-focus: she tilted her head, concentrated on her board, sunlight outlining her cheek and neck, a few loose hairs caught by the breeze, the charcoal tip poised on paper; the background a soft blur of mottled red wall.
Ziyan looked up, a question in her eyes.
"Nothing," Yichen said, a beat faster than before. He reached to reclaim the camera, his fingers lingering over Yu Bo's wrist before turning the screen away, making the image vanish. "Just composition practice," he added, voice dry.
"Oh—" Yu Bo elongated the word, grinning, eyes sliding between them. "Practice, huh? Nice, nice. The model photographs well." He emphasized "model" on purpose.
Ziyan didn't reply; warmth crept up from her ears to her cheeks. She tightened her grip on the charcoal, and the tip gouged a tiny, intense black dot into the paper. She hurried to smudge it with her finger, turning it into a small gray bloom, and then set to integrating it with deliberate lines. Her strokes grew more forceful, as if trying to channel the awkwardness into the drawing. The charcoal rasped with more intent.
Yichen lingered at the edge of his viewfinder, then didn't look up. He loosened the tripod head, leveled it, and screwed on a lens hood with careful fingers.
The bell had rung long ago; the campus thinned. Ziyan pushed her bike, backpack heavy and dragging on her shoulders. The ease she'd felt during the sketch had been swept by a cold wind, leaving something sticky and hard to name.
At the bus stop her phone buzzed. She fumbled it out; "Dad" flashed. Her thumb hovered over the green button before she answered.
"Hello, Dad?"
"Yanyan, finished school?" His voice steady as ever through the line.
"Yeah, just out. What's up?"
"This weekend…" He paused. "Your mom signed you up for that summer prep at Qingmei Affiliated High School. The spots are closing. I left the materials on your desk; fill out the form tonight. Especially your portfolio — get that in order."
"Qingmei Affiliated?" Ziyan tightened her grip on the handlebars. "We were going to decide in senior year—"
"Senior year will be too late. Top resources get snapped up. If you don't plan early, how will you compete?" His tone hardened with pressure. "Go to that prep, make an impression on their faculty. That's a path. The real routes are Qingmei, Central Academy, National Academy. Everything else is secondary."
A bus's brakes hissed. "You hear me? Don't delay this."
"…Okay." Her voice dropped.
"All right, get on it."
The call ended. Static remained. Ziyan stood by the curb, phone still warm in her hand. The evening air cut through the warmth left by drawing. The bus-stop light glowed pale, illuminating a small patch of pavement at her feet. She glanced back toward the campus; in the deepening dusk the science building blurred into shadows. The ivy on the wall, the unfinished lines on her board, the light that had rested at her neck — they all now felt a little farther away.
She drew a long breath, the night air filling her lungs. Tucking the phone into her bag, she swung onto the bike and pushed off; the chain clicked,