The exhibition hall's incandescent lights threw a harsh pallor over the grey felt walls; only five names scrawled the sign-in sheet. Lin Yichen stood before his set of photos, watching blurry reflections in the glass as people passed by. Nine black-and-white prints were arranged in a square: corners of the teaching building—rusted hydrants, cracked window sills, weeds sprouting in stair crevices. The label read Origin · Gaps. No one lingered more than a few seconds. Only an elderly professor in a wool coat paused at the hydrant photo and murmured, "The composition is too full." His words were quiet but sharp, as if a pin fell in the darkroom, pricking the air.
Yichen toyed with the frayed strap of his camera bag; the nylon thread rubbed his fingertip raw. Yu Bo appeared out of nowhere and handed him a can of cola. "Old Zhou doesn't know shit—he likes froufrou stuff," Yu Bo scoffed. Condensation ran down the aluminum and into his sleeve.
"Looks fine." Yichen took the can without popping it open. Yu Bo's phone buzzed in his pocket; the screen spiderwebbed with a crack, a sticker peeling at the corner—Yichen glimpsed a contact name: Ziyan.
"My mom's on my case!" Yu Bo swore, yanking the phone off. "Let's go—skewers. Ditch this lame show."
Turpentine and gypsum dust clung to the air in the studio. Su Ziyan stared at the half-finished canvas: gray-blue blocks building a rebar-like frame, but a wash of warm yellow sat abruptly in one corner. Ouyang Wen's hand reached past her shoulder and tapped the upper-right corner of the canvas. "This highlight—its logic's broken." A patch of cobalt stained his sleeve like a fresh wound.
"It's the sunset hitting the crane—" she started.
"The audience can't see the sunset in your head." He snatched the palette knife from her hand and dragged the blade across the gray-blue layer; paint curled up on the edge. "Urban memory needs a rigorous skeleton, not romantic lyricism."
The studio door slammed open. Meng Qing walked in with three art-history tomes as if carrying bricks; her glasses slid down her nose. "What's with the noise?" She kicked stray sketches aside and stacked the books on the paint box, jostling a half tube of ultramarine to the floor.
"Visual language needs unity." Ouyang slotted the knife back into the jar; the metallic clink was sharp. An unfinished installation in the corner threw a long shadow across the floor like a beached beast.
Ziyan bent to pick up the fallen tube; the cold aluminum bit into her palm. Meng Qing snatched her phone—still on the social feed: half an hour earlier Yichen had posted a photo of a streetlamp in the rain, its yellow halo rippling in puddles. Only Yu Bo had commented: "Show going okay?"
In the darkroom, the red safe-light hung like congealed blood. Yichen dipped the final print into developer; Ziyan's high-jump image swam up in the tray—sweat-soaked hair, tense calves, school pants stained with sand. Around the sink lay six reject prints of the same scene: one overexposed to a haze, another barely a silhouette.
"Fuck!" The smell of fixer hit him like acid. He balled the rejects and hurled them at the wall; the paper slapped and bounced back into the sink. Rain began, tapping the corrugated awning outside.
His phone only buzzed a third time before he noticed. Yu Bo's voice crackled through: "Dept head's going psycho—checking dorms. Where are you?"
"Darkroom."
"Hurry! Zhao's in a mood…"
The line cut off. Yichen opened the tap and rinsed the print; Ziyan's figure blurred into a gray churn under the water.
"Unity?" Meng Qing squeezed the whole tube of ultramarine onto the palette with a fierce motion; the blue flooded and popped. "If you want unity so badly, why not nail yourself into the frame?" She grabbed a waste sheet and smeared over Ziyan's warm yellow with three strokes. "There—colder now?"
Ouyang frowned. "Emotion alone won't solve—"
"Won't solve your dad!" Meng Qing snapped back, yanking her bag straps; the zipper shrieked. "I'm out. Take your logic and go." The door slammed, dropping half a stick of blue pastel from the tool box.
Ziyan watched the ultramarine run. The blue tube in her hand had been crushed; its skin wrinkled like a face that had been crying. She opened her phone and hovered over Yichen's rain photo. The red heart lit for five seconds—then she tapped it again to undo.
On the roof, the wire fence collected the damp wind. The crunch of a crushed can mixed with rain; beer foam tracked down Yichen's wrist. Yu Bo snatched the can and blurted, "They're nominating people for the provincial youth photo contest—Zhao's signed you up!"
"Me?"
"Your 'Gaps' set!" Yu Bo smushed the can flat. "Zhao's got an agenda."
Neon blinked across distant towers; puddles fractured the light. Yichen felt for a stiff card in his bag—the exhibition invite he'd never sent home for the winter break; its corners were already worn.
"Hey—NingCheng trip, you in?" Yu Bo poked him. "Next month: field shoot, four days, you cover the architecture. Food and lodging sorted. I'll buy the train." The high-speed train lights streaked south through rain toward NingCheng. Yichen watched that distant band of light wink out behind buildings. His fingers picked at the frayed edge of the invite.
Yu Bo kept ranting about Zhao and departmental crap. The words blurred into the rain. Yichen mumbled an OK but wasn't really listening. The short red heart flash—Ziyan's like and undo on his rain photo—kept replaying in his head.
Did she press it by mistake? Did she change her mind?
"Answer me—are you going?" Yu Bo jabbed his ribs.
"Yeah." Yichen replied simply.
Yu Bo blinked, then whooped: "For real? Good. Don't be picky—take some building shots and we'll celebrate." Yichen slung his bag over his shoulder. "Let's go. It's raining."
The rain thickened on the walk back. Droplets rattled on umbrella fabric; streetlights shattered into plates of light in puddles. Instead of heading to the dorm, Yichen cut through the teaching building. The darkroom at the corridor's end should have been empty.
He slid the key into the lock; the safety lamp bled red into the hall like a muted warning. He closed the door and the world shrank to the low whir of the extractor fan. Chemical tang—developer and fixer—hung sharp in the air.
Unsorted prints lay on the workbench—rejects: blurs, blown highlights. One was a night shot of the cherry avenue taken two weeks earlier—lantern-lit branches, petals almost translucent in the light. He'd meant to send that to Ziyan; she had posted a sketch that day, a wilted potted plant on a windowsill. He stared at her sketch for a long time, and then never sent his photo.
His phone buzzed: a push notification—Ziyan had updated her feed. She'd posted a photo of the studio windowsill: an open sketchbook with a few charcoal lines. Caption: "The light's strange."
He zoomed the image. On the sill sat a half-finished cup of coffee, a white ceramic mug with a small chip on the rim—an unfamiliar mug. Beside it lay a red-bound hardback, its title partly obscured by the sketchbook: "…Space and …" He enlarged the image further. The book's open page carried handwritten notes—stiff, angular handwriting, clearly male, sharp in its strokes. There were pencil guides for composition beside the notes.
Not Ziyan's handwriting. Not her book.
Rain drummed harder; it pelted the darkroom's little window. Yichen stared until the screen timed out to black. His face, lit by the lingering red safety light, blurred in the glass frame.
He remembered a high-school afternoon—her calf tense as she jumped at the sandpit. He remembered the shutter, the hard thump of his heart when he pressed it; remembered her pivot, looking back with a puzzled glance, sweat-dark hair sticking to her neck.
Back then they were close—an athletic field's distance, a few dozen meters. He could frame her with one lift of the camera; she could see him lying on the grass.
Now?
Author's note
Thanks to all readers for the support. As a part-time writer, returning to finish this chapter after a long pause felt both nerve-wracking and gratifying. Some details borrow from my own school days, but the story is largely fictional. I'll keep writing—hope you'll continue to follow along. Thank you, and good night.
The street sank back into its quiet. Only the wind and the widening space between their steps remained.