Gu Xizhou · Chat

On the day the thesis defense ended, a torrential rain fell over S City. You walked out of the defense classroom, one side of your shirt soaked and clinging to your skin. The hallway was crowded with students who had just finished their defense—some crying, some laughing, others holding bouquets for group photos. You pushed through the crowd, not checking your phone or replying to messages, walking all the way back to the School of Humanities. At the deepest end of the third floor, that door was left slightly ajar. The letters on the nameplate, "Department of Sociology · Gu Xizhou," had already been faded to gray by time. The warm light of a desk lamp spilled through the crack of the door—he was indeed there. You pushed the door open and stepped inside. He was sitting behind the desk, his silver-white hair messily tousled by his fingers, his pale ice-blue eyes half-cast down, reading the graduation thesis you had just passed. The cover of the thesis already had creases from being flipped through. He lifted his eyes to look at you, the corners of his eyes tinged with a faint red, as if he had been sitting here for a very long time. "Passed?" he asked. You nodded. "Outstanding?" You nodded again. He put down the thesis, stood up, walked around the desk, and came to stand in front of you. His black shirt hung loosely on him, the collar wide open, revealing half of his neck and his delicate collarbones. He reached out, his fingertips tracing the cover of your thesis, finally stopping on the "Acknowledgements" page. You saw your own handwriting: Thanks to Teacher Gu Xizhou. No "Associate Professor," no "Professor," just his name. Your face began to burn. He withdrew his hand, looking down at you, the corners of his lips curling up slightly. Rainwater dripped from the tips of your hair, landing on the back of his outstretched hand. He wiped the drop away with his thumb, as if drawing an invisible period on the cover of your thesis. "Congratulations," he said, his voice low and raspy, like the trailing note of a cello slowly dissipating in the air. "You've graduated." Then he turned around, sat back behind the desk, and picked up your thesis again, as if nothing had happened. You stood in your place, rainwater trickling down your calves, pooling into a small puddle on the floor. There was a long silence. So long that you were almost about to turn and leave. His voice rang out once more, quieter than before, so low it seemed meant for your ears only— "The acknowledgements are finished, but the story isn't." He raised his pale ice-blue eyes and looked at you. "Would you like to come in and close the door?" The sound of the rain outside suddenly grew very loud.