The suitcase wheels bumped over the courtyard's pitted cement as Su Ziyan steered it around a puddle that hadn't dried yet. She looked up at the six-story gray dormitory in front of her. September in the north already carried a clean, cool edge; it brushed away the last of the sticky fatigue from the train. The red characters "Meiyuan Third Dormitory" had been weathered by wind and rain. The air smelled unfamiliar: fresh paint, dust, and the blended odor of many people living together. The corridor was dim; most dorm doors stood open, luggage spilling out, and accents crashed together—Shandong loudness, Jiangsu softness, Sichuan crispness—like waves.
"402! Over here!" A head popped out of the doorway: short hair, neat, narrow black glasses. She took Ziyan's heavy art bag in one swift motion. "I'm Meng Qing—your roommate for the next four years, and maybe your nemesis." She smiled a little, half-joking, half-sharp.
Before Ziyan could answer, Meng Qing practically hauled her inside. The room was a typical four-person layout—bunk beds, desks underneath. Meng Qing's desk sat by the door, obsessively neat: thick art-history tomes lined up like soldiers on the left; on the right a flat wooden box lay open, paint tubes organized by hue from cool to warm—so precise it felt almost clinical. Across the window, a different desk overflowed with sketches, uncapped acrylic jars, scattered charcoal sticks and open sketchbooks; one cover bore an exuberant signature: Gu Lei. She wasn't there.
"That's Gu Lei's corner," Meng Qing nodded toward the mess. "Free spirit. Probably still battling in some studio. Your bed's the inward one by the window." Her glance took in Ziyan—calm, appraising.
Just as the new-room awkwardness settled, Ziyan's phone buzzed. "Yichen" flashed across the screen with a video-call icon. Her chest tightened. She swiped to answer.
After a flicker, Lin Yichen's face filled the tiny screen. He was in his familiar bedroom: white walls, a corner with a camera bag and tripod. Light washed over him with a little warmth.
"You made it?" his voice came through a little tinny, a touch distant.
"Yeah—just got to the dorm, unpacking." Ziyan angled the phone to include the room. "This is my roommate, Meng Qing."
Meng Qing glanced toward the screen and gave a short nod; her eyes flicked briefly to the printed landscape photos on Yichen's wall, then she returned to arranging paint tubes.
Yichen paused like he wanted to say more. "Dorm looks okay. How's the weather up north?"
"Better than home—cool and dry," Ziyan said, a small happiness rising.
Before they could linger, a loud voice cut through from Yichen's side: "Linyichen! Stop hiding—opening ceremony's starting! Seats are going!" It was Yu Bo, full of urgency. The video jolted; Yichen mouthed "Got it—I'm coming," and the screen went black.
Silence fell in the dorm room; the phone's black display reflected Ziyan's slight bewilderment. The brief warmth that had crossed hundreds of kilometers was snapped off. Meng Qing popped open a bottle of turpentine with a soft "pop."
The opening ceremony took place in the main lecture hall, filled with new students, paint smell and fresh-paint fumes blending with nervous sweat. Yichen and Yu Bo worked through the crowd and snagged seats near the aisle. Yu Bo flopped down, sweating: "Almost had to sit on the floor! Who were you videoing—Ziyan?"
Yichen answered with a muted sound and watched the auditorium—big red banner, people's backs—feeling pulled between two scenes: the neat paint box behind Ziyan and the noisy ceremony before him. He fumbled to reply once more to a text from Ziyan—"It's noisy here"—and settled on a simple "Mm." It was a slender thread between their two worlds.
Campus life pushed forward in fast motion. College wasn't easier: mornings of dry art history, afternoons locked in studio practice wrestling plasters, still lifes, and anatomy. Ziyan's sketch was critiqued for "flow without structure;" she burned to redo a hip line the teacher called out. Meng Qing worked steadily beside her, precise and unsympathetic but practical.
Back in the dorm, Ziyan found dried clots of paint on her palette she couldn't loosen. She reached into her bag and felt the old blue gouache tube from home—cold metal, oddly reassuring. A message popped up from Yichen with a thumbnail of the day's ceremony photos; Ziyan wrote back that she'd been told off for loose lines in class. He replied: "It's okay. Take your time." Those four words sat oddly, only partly soothing and leaving a small sting. She turned her phone face-down, rolled the blue paint tube in her hand. The sky outside dimmed early.
Yichen's days were no easier. He'd joined the campus paper's photo team expecting freedom, but much of his work was assigned: full-coverage shots of ceremony, official visits, hero portraits—clean, upbeat compositions. He skimmed through images of crowded backs and identical stage setups; only a crooked frame of a yawning freshman felt interesting—and it wasn't usable.
"Linyichen, these're blurred—fix them in post," the senior photo editor ordered, handing him a pile to retouch. Yichen sat late, retouching shots he didn't love, missing the freer shots he used to take in high school. He kept opening his encrypted album, lingering on that one captured moment from the school sports meet—Ziyan's hair lifted, an intent face in a tiny halo of light—then closing it without comment.
Night settled. Meng Qing cracked the window to invite the cool air in. "Lines are the skeleton," she said matter-of-factly when Ziyan complained. "If your bone structure's wrong, the prettiest colors won't hold. And if your mind's elsewhere, your hand trembles." She glanced at the dented blue tube. "Long-distance relationships are like painting through frosted glass—don't let it steal all your focus."
Her bluntness stung, in a useful way. Ziyan felt both unsettled and sharpened, as if someone had nudged open a jammed hinge in her thinking.
Their messages grew fragmentary—short replies and photos, slow replies bridging two busy lives. Sometimes a lecture—like the guest talk by Ouyang Wen—would electrify Ziyan and she wanted to share the insight; then she hesitated, worried his reply would be flat. She sent only: "Lecture finished. Gained a lot. The professor was really good."
Late, the blue paint tube glinted under the desk lamp. Outside, the campus lights blinked. The distance between two cities felt like a seam slowly widening, barely held by a thinning thread.