The university had noises only those who avoid notice: the scrape of backpacks in the corridor, the click of the turnstile at the exact second someone turns their face, the breath held when a name appears around a corner. Su Yue learned to walk by counting steps, as if measuring the width of a river before crossing.
She saw Yichen's dark blazer before she saw his face. Four doors ahead, he was leaving Professor Liang's office with a folder in hand. Yue tightened the strap of her backpack and slipped down the service stairs as if that had always been the planned route.
In the crack of the metal door, a quick reflection: he stopped for two seconds—long enough to notice she had vanished—then kept going. He didn't call out, didn't cross the line. He only adjusted his glasses—a small gesture, almost a wave meant for no one.
— Three flights by stairs, — she whispered, counting steps. — Good for conditioning.
Halfway down, she felt her heart racing. It wasn't fear; it was the urgency of keeping the lines separate, like columns in a table that can't be added without changing the result.
Their usual table was still there, morning light falling in rectangles. Yue opened her notebook and drew a comma in the corner of the page, an old habit to warm up her hand before writing. At eleven ten, his shadow touched the floor between the chairs. She didn't raise her head; she shut the notebook and changed tables, like someone switching seats to escape the air conditioning.
Two steps away, he froze. He saw the silver thermos on the empty tabletop—memory of other days—and stepped back toward a distant shelf, a posture of absence: shoulders back, eyes lowered, breathing blended into silence.
At the new table, Yue wrote to anchor herself: "Things I won't do today: 1) wait; 2) explain; 3) walk in a straight line." And she drew another comma.
The smell of freshly cooked rice, voices mingled with laughter, trays sliding on metal. Yue went at the unlikely hour of 11:32 a.m. to avoid the noon rush. She took a light soup and a roll from the corner basket. Behind her, two seniors whispered softly:
— Transparency is everything when there are donors behind a last name.
— And when the last name is Zhou…
Yue set down her tray, breathed, and switched it for a takeout box with the natural ease of someone who has always preferred to eat under the trees.
— To go? — the attendant asked.
— I will. — She gave a practiced, polite smile.
When she left, Yichen was already at the turnstile, a few steps ahead. He glanced at the door, as if confirming a hypothesis, and then headed to the opposite side of the courtyard. Parallel choices. Two lines, each on its own axis.
The sky thickened. The first gust flipped umbrellas before the rain had even begun. Yue crossed along the strip of pale tiles, plotting the route to the library awning. In the corner, a navy-blue umbrella opened. It was him.
Yichen didn't move forward. He stepped half a pace back—almost imperceptible—creating a clearing for her to pass without brushing the wet fabric. A nameless kindness.
— Thank you, — said a student behind her, taking quick shelter under the canopy.
Yue kept her eyes on the ground, edged along, and passed. Water splashed her ankles. Only when she reached the awning did she notice he had closed the umbrella again, choosing to get wet rather than force a coincidence.
Under the awning, she wrung the hem of her jacket and, by reflex, reached in her backpack for the thermos. She held the lid for a moment—and didn't drink. Some kinds of care, that day, were better left unwarmed.
The rain fell without asking permission. The courtyard turned into a mirror cracked by puddles; oil and water drew a treacherous film. Yue came out by the side of Laboratory 2, counting steps to the awning. Three, five, eight.
— Watch out! — someone shouted.
The scooter fishtailed in a wild arc. The headlight was cutting a ridiculous straight line. Yue's body froze a second beyond what was possible.
The impact didn't come.
A sharp yank pulled her off course. The world became wet grass, the smell of earth, metal hitting cement—and a crack that wasn't from the rain.
Yichen had pulled her out of the way and, in the same motion, taken the blow. The handlebar slammed into his forearm; his shoulder struck the edge of the planter; his head hit the ground with a dull sound. The blue umbrella flew like a crooked bird.
— Yichen! — Yue dropped to her knees on the grass, hands trembling until she forced them to steady. — Breathe… breathe.
He was breathing, but his eyes were glassed over, fixed on nothing. A thin line of blood at his brow bled into the rain. His right wrist sat at a wrong angle; his shoulder hung too heavy.
People ran. The delivery rider, shaking, apologized over and over. Campus security arrived; radios, voices, "make way, make way." Yue pulled the blue handkerchief from her backpack and pressed it to the cut—just enough to dull the red shine.
— Stay with me, okay? — she whispered, although she knew he couldn't hear. — I'm here.
When the campus security cart arrived, she went with him. The thermos knocked against the seat, a metallic sound far too loud for that hour.
The ER had dawn's light even though it was late. Triage, classification, forms. The doctor examined him quickly, voice low, decisions clear:
— CT scan now. X-rays of wrist and shoulder. — And to the tech: — Take the blood pressure again, please.
While they wheeled Yichen away, a nurse offered Yue a chair in the waiting room. She didn't sit. She stood holding the thermos lid in her hand, not drinking. The commas she used to draw came back to mind—pauses are enough.
Time at the hospital has a different grammar. When the CT returned, the doctor spoke carefully:
— Mild traumatic brain injury, no intracranial bleeding. Observation until he wakes safely. Distal radius fracture, probable acromioclavicular dislocation. We'll immobilize, suture the brow, and manage pain.
Yue nodded. Only then did she realize she'd been holding her breath; she let it out, slowly.
She watched the tiny, precise stitches. She watched the cast climb to mid-forearm. She watched the sling hold his shoulder still. She watched his face lose the color of pain and gain the weight of medicated sleep.
The nurse straightened the sheet; Yue moved the thermos closer on the little table, as if warm water could stand watch. The monitor gave an occasional beep—commas she had promised herself to respect.
— You shouldn't have… — she began, very softly; and stopped. — Thank you, — she stamped, as if on an important document.
He came back slowly, like someone surfacing. First, Yue's outline. Then, the worn shine of the thermos. He gave a small smile.
— Are you… okay? — his voice came out low, hoarse.
Her eyes lit at once, wet but steady.
— I am, — she breathed. — Now that you're awake, I am.
He tried to move the arm in the cast, gave up, kept the smile.
— If I… did anything wrong… — he groped for words — I'm sorry.
Yue shook her head, a brief gesture.
— Forget that for now, — she said, and the "for now" sounded like a promise of a conversation, not an escape.
— You're what matters here, — he finished, unwavering. — And no one has the right to doubt your ability. No one.
— That's already behind us, — she answered softly. — We crossed through it.
He extended his free hand; she gave him hers. Their fingers met, warm. For a moment, the beeps on the monitor seemed to match their rhythm—one heartbeat, then the other, steady, close.
The door opened with a contained click.
A man in a dark suit, umbrella still dripping, filled the doorway with his presence.
— Father, — said Yichen, straightening as best he could.
Mr. Zhou's gaze traveled over the cast with the drawn comma, their hands intertwined, and finally settled on Yue.