The neon globe on the ceiling turned lazily, scattering broken pools of light across faces, clothes and the greasy low table. A cheap sound system blared a boy's hoarse, off-key love song; the beat thudded against people's chests. The air smelled of popcorn sweetness, the sour malt of beer, and the stubborn must of old leather sofas. Su Ziyan slouched in a soft booth, holding a half-empty can of cola; beads of condensation slid down the can and dampened her fingertips. Around her were high-school classmates she hadn't seen in six months—familiar and oddly changed: new perms, makeup, different regional accents.
"Honestly, south is better!" the old class sports rep boomed, slapping the table loud enough to cover the music. "Hands don't freeze in winter; plein air in winter is awesome!" Conversation quickly splintered—comparing campuses, cafeterias, dorms with AC, strict professors. Amid the noise, Ziyan's eyes kept drifting to a corner of the room.
Lin Yichen sat there like a shadow, wrapped in a wide, worn coat on a single sofa, a gap between him and Yu Bo. The rotating colored lights sometimes brushed his face, revealing only lowered lashes and a neutral mouth. He still wore that deep-blue hoodie, its cuffs more worn than she remembered. He held a can of cola too but barely drank—just absently rubbing the cold aluminum with his fingertips. Yu Bo leaned in, animated and loud; Yichen occasionally glanced up, nodded, or forced a faint smile. When someone egged him to request a song, he mouthed "don't know how," his voice swallowed by the roar.
Watching him, whatever vague nostalgia Ziyan had carried back faded like a tide, leaving coarse grains of disappointment. He seemed to sink deeper behind that tiny lens of his life. She toyed with her freshly done nails—pearly shell-pink that glinted under the flashing lights. It was impractical for painting, but she wanted it—a little alien shell to wear.
The gathering broke up before midnight. A cutting winter wind spun down the street and swept away the booth's warm, stale air. People bundled into coats, pairing off under neon to say goodbyes; puffs of breath fogged the air with their words.
"Hey, Yichen, wait!" Yu Bo grabbed the turning Yichen and then called to Ziyan a few steps away. "Ziyan, don't head home yet. Come walk with us—shake off the cold!" He flashed the kind of eager grin hard to refuse and gave Yichen a hearty pat on the back.
Yichen stiffened almost imperceptibly, froze, glanced toward Ziyan, then abruptly looked away as if burned, focusing on the shadow at his feet.
Ziyan paused. The wind pinned stray hair to her cheek; she looked at Yu Bo, then at Yichen's bowed figure. A small voice in her—maybe the cold, maybe Yu Bo's insistence, maybe a stubborn reluctance to let things end there—urged her on. She tugged her collar and nodded. "Okay… let's walk."
The road back to their old high school was unusually quiet. Old yellow street lamps cast flickering, fractured light through bare plane branches onto the pavement. Footsteps sounded sharp in the emptiness: her boot heels and his sneaker scuffs. Yu Bo hummed a tuneless line behind them, trying to ease the awkwardness; his effort only made the silence between the two more pronounced.
Ziyan tried to break the ice. "I heard your campus built a new art building on the north side?" Her question seemed oddly loud in the hush.
Yichen replied with a clipped "mm" and nothing else. His gaze stayed down, pinned to the shifting tree shadows on the ground.
That curt answer pricked her. She felt foolish for starting, but a dull irritation nudged her onward. She remembered his quiet social feed—photos of empty streets and blurred light with no captions—and the terse, spare replies to her late-night messages about campus life and course worries. It felt as if a thick pane of glass stood between them, not just a few hundred kilometers.
"Lin Yichen," she said, voice hardening without warning, "are you okay at school? Are you still taking photos?" She pushed a little, watching his profile. She'd seen the occasional repost of the student paper and knew their department ran small shows.
"Shoot." He forced out the word—finally more than one syllable—but still didn't look up. Then, softer, almost as an afterthought: "…it's okay."
"It's okay?" Her voice spiked in the cold. "What does that mean? The 'Old Factory at North Campus' series—those were yours, right? The composition was… striking." She meant it, but the question also carried a challenge: why didn't he share that with her? He knew she cared.
His step faltered. He lifted his head for a moment; the streetlight illuminated half his face, leaving the other half in shadow. His look was complicated—surprise, a flicker of embarrassment, then a deep, almost stubborn silence. He swallowed and said, dryly: "Just snapping."
"Just snapping?" The phrase hit like cold water. All the little warmth she'd felt extinguished, replaced by sharp irritation. That series had been discussed at length between her and Meng Qing; how could he call it "just snapping"? Was it humility, or indifference? Her concern felt like she'd thrown it against a frozen wall.
"So what have you been up to? Really just 'snapping' all the time?" Her voice sharpened as she scanned his battered camera bag for any sign he cared.
"Classes." He lowered his voice. "And… other stuff." He folded into himself, hands in his hoodie pockets like a withdrawn shell. Inside that pocket was a neatly folded flyer for his small solo show next month, Origin—centered on that sports-meet shot and his thoughts about starts and time. He had wanted to invite her that night, here on this road. But seeing her—fashionable boots, painted nails, a confident air—he felt his own work would read as amateur beside hers. The thought closed his throat.
"Other stuff" sounded evasive to her. It was the final straw: why was she the only one trying to bridge this growing distance? The public-art project in NingCheng that Ouyang had urged her toward—fully funded and career-shaping—had been something she hesitated to tell him about, for fear of causing misunderstanding or indifference. Now it felt like a private joke: she held treasures he ignored.
Anger and hurt bubbled up until reason broke. She stopped short and faced him. Under the streetlight, her eyes glimmered with tears and a clear, fierce anger.
"Lin Yichen!" she snapped into the quiet, "Stay hiding behind your lens forever, then!"
He flinched at the words, a look of genuine surprise and wounded confusion on his face—he hadn't expected such bluntness.
Her chest heaved; cold air cut at her throat. A flicker of regret rose, but more than that was the fierce resolve of someone shoved into a corner. "You always do this—shut down and avoid. When will you ever say something real? Don't pretend to care and ask 'you okay'—my life isn't yours to manage!"
The last line cut deep. Yichen's face went pale under the lamp; the last of his astonishment splintered into pain. He looked drained, breath shallow. He tried to speak but only managed a hoarse gasp, then a coughing fit that wracked his thin shoulders.
"Hey—what's going on?" Yu Bo hurried up, wide-eyed and worried, seeing Ziyan's reddened eyes and Yichen bent over coughing.
Yichen finally stopped, straightened, chest still heaving. He wiped at the tears the coughing had brought with his sleeve. When he lifted his head, his dark eyes were deep and still—something heavy and wordless lay in them. He drew out a few ragged words, voice raw:
"Be… careful… on the road."
He said it with effort, then turned and walked away, his silhouette stretching long under the streetlamp. Ziyan stood frozen, her heart racing and throat dry. She wanted to call after him, to chase, but no sound came. Yu Bo shuffled awkwardly nearby, helpless at how to mend the sudden rupture.