Zhang Yujue · Chat

<scenario>Late May, Lan Tong University School of Economics, lecture hall. The 2:00 PM sun slants in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, landing on the edge of the podium. The air is filled with chalk dust and the faint humming of the AC.</scenario><narration>Zhang Yujue stands at the podium. The blue light from the projector reflects on his profile. He is lecturing on the fixed effects model for panel data, his speech steady, without the usual fluctuations. His voice is clean, his logic clear, as seamless as the collar of his well-pressed shirt.</narration><action>His left hand unconsciously presses against his lower abdomen, the pressure very light, rubbing over the fabric of his shirt.</action><narration>There is a dull, dragging pain there. Like something is twisting deep in his lower abdomen, one after another—not intense, but persistent. He pulls his hand back and continues writing on the board. The chalk glides across the blackboard, his handwriting neat, without the slightest pause. Only he knows that the moment his palm pressed down, a wave of subtle nausea churned in his stomach.</narration><scenario>The seat in the third row by the aisle has been occupied by the same person for three years without change.</scenario><narration>He has noticed. Not that he looked intentionally, but that movement in his peripheral vision is all too familiar—present every class, sitting in that same spot every time, never absent. Zhang Yujue doesn't look up; he just finishes writing the last formula and puts down the chalk.</narration><message>“This is the core logic of the Hausman test. Whether individual effects are correlated with explanatory variables determines the direction of model selection. If you have questions before class ends, you can ask now.”</message><narration>His voice is steady, like reciting a line of code he's written countless times. He turns around, his gaze sweeping across the lecture hall, lingering for a fraction of a second on the seat in the third row by the aisle before moving away.</narration><action>He rubs his lower abdomen again. This time the movement is lighter, almost just the fingertips pressing against it, like pressing on a pain point he doesn't want others to discover.</action><narration>The dragging sensation in his lower abdomen rises again. A bit heavier than before. He lowers his eyes, pretending to look at his lecture notes, while actually waiting for that dull ache to pass. There is a fine layer of sweat on his temples, hidden by stray hair, making it hard to see.</narration><scenario>The bell rings for the end of class. The lecture hall fills with the sounds of packing up, the scraping of chair legs against the floor, and low murmurs.</scenario><narration>Zhang Yujue closes his lecture notes and puts the chalk back in the box. His movements are half a beat slower than usual, but still efficient. He picks up his thermos, not drinking, just holding it in his hand. The warmth of the cup travels through his palm, slightly easing the chill in his abdomen.</narration><message>“Submit your midterm paper proposals next week. The formatting requirements have been sent to the course group. If you have questions, send an email.”</message><narration>After finishing, he picks up his lecture folder and walks down the side steps of the podium. His gait is normal, his back straight, no different from usual. Only as he reaches the door does his left hand raise unconsciously to press his lower abdomen, before immediately dropping.</narration><scenario>School of Economics, third floor, at the end of the hallway, turn left, Office 307. The door sign reads 'Zhang Yujue, Associate Professor'.</scenario><narration>He pushes the door open, places his folder on the desk, and sets his thermos on his right. The office is small but very tidy; the materials on the bookshelf are arranged by year, and there is nothing extra on the desk. By the window is a door with a lock, leading to a lounge with an attached private bathroom.</narration><action>He locks the door. He spends about five minutes in the lounge.</action><narration>When he comes out, his complexion is paler than before, his lips lighter. He takes a painkiller from the drawer, swallows it with the warm water from his thermos, and sits back in the office chair, closing his eyes for a while. The dragging pain in his abdomen eases slightly after taking the medicine, but that dull, pulling sensation remains. He rests his hand on his abdomen, pressing lightly through his shirt, his breathing very slow.</narration><scenario>The office door is knocked on three times. The rhythm is steady, neither hurried nor slow.</scenario><narration>He opens his eyes. He glances at the door without speaking, but he doesn't refuse. He knows who it is. Three years—he has long since memorized this knocking rhythm.</narration><action>He sits up straight, moves his hand from his abdomen, and places it on the desk. His expression returns to his usual indifference.</action><message>“Come in.”</message><narration>The door is pushed open. The light from the hallway and the shadows of the office meet at the door, the visitor's silhouette rimmed by the backlight. Zhang Yujue doesn't stand up, just leans back in his chair, looking toward the door.</narration><message>“What is it?”</message><narration>His tone is flat, without inflection, as if asking an irrelevant question. But he notices what the other person is holding—a bottle of warm water, a bag that looks like a pastry. His gaze lingers on those two things for a second before moving away.</narration><narration>Always like this. Coming by after every class, always bringing something. He has refused many times, but the other person never seems to care about being rejected. Three years later, this stubbornness has turned into a habit he doesn't really want to admit to.</narration><action>The other person places the warm water and pastry on the corner of the desk, not saying much, just standing by the desk, their gaze falling on his face.</action><narration>Zhang Yujue can feel the weight of that gaze. Not an inspection, more like confirming something. He turns his head, pretending to look at an email on his computer screen.</narration><message>“I'm not hungry. Just leave it, you can go.”</message><narration>His voice is still that temperatureless, flat tone. But after he finishes speaking, his fingers unconsciously touch the cap of his thermos, as if confirming its existence. The painkiller needs a little more time to take full effect; the dragging sensation in his abdomen is still faintly present.</narration><narration>The other person doesn't leave. Instead, they walk around the desk to the window side, as if wanting to check if the lounge door is locked properly. Zhang Yujue's back tenses for a moment, but relaxes quickly. The door is locked, no problem.</narration><action>He taps his finger against the desk, just once.</action><message>“You were rubbing your stomach during class today; is it a stomachache? Didn't you eat breakfast?”</message><narration>When this sentence comes out of the other person's mouth, Zhang Yujue's movements freeze for a moment. Very short, so short it's almost imperceptible. But he did freeze. Then he lifts his eyes to look at the person standing by the window.</narration><message>“No.”</message><narration>He denies it quickly, his tone not even changing. It's like stating a fact, not hiding something. His expression is the same as usual—cold, calm, revealing no flaws.</narration><narration>But the other person doesn't respond. Instead, they look down. Their gaze happens to land on the trash can by the lounge door. It's a small trash can with a white plastic bag, usually containing only scrap paper and chalk bits. But today it's different.</narration><narration>On the surface of the white plastic bag, a small piece of folded white cotton pad with a faint pink trace is exposed at the edge. A very small edge, so small that one wouldn't notice it unless they looked. But the light happens to fall at that angle, and that faint pink trace appears exceptionally clear against the backdrop of the white plastic bag.</narration><action>Following the other person's gaze, he looks over. Then, his complexion changes.</action><narration>It's like a layer of ice rising from within, freezing every expression. His fingers clench under the desk, his nails digging into his palms, the force so great it hurts. But there is nothing on his face. Only his lips are pressed tighter, thinning into a line devoid of blood.</narration><narration>The room is quiet for a few seconds. As if choked by something. There is birdsong outside, very far away, hard to hear. The AC is still humming.</narration><message>“……Get out.”</message><narration>His voice is very low, almost a whisper. But every word seems squeezed through his teeth, carrying a kind of instinctive defensiveness he rarely shows. He doesn't stand up, doesn't explain, doesn't look the other person in the eye. He just turns his head, staring at an irrelevant email on the computer screen, his back stiff as a board.</narration><narration>His heartbeat grows loud in his ears. His palms are covered in sweat. He waits for the other person to leave, for the sound of the door closing, for this office to become a space for just him alone. He needs time, needs to figure out how to handle this, needs—</narration><narration>But he hasn't even had time to figure out how to explain.</narration>