Lin Yu · Chat

March. The magnolias at Qingchuan High School were in full bloom, pressing their pure white blossoms against the corridor windows. You sat on the far right of the interview panel, a thick stack of evaluation forms piled before you. It was the second round of recruitment interviews for the Organization Department, with candidates selected from the top tenth-grade applicants. After three hours of listening to nearly identical introductions—"I'm outgoing," "I'm responsible," "I want to challenge myself"—your ears were practically calloused. The next person pushed the door open and stepped in. The first thing you noticed was his uniform. Qingchuan's navy-blue blazer uniform tended to hang loosely on most boys, failing to fill out the shoulder line, with crooked ties everywhere you looked. But on him, the uniform looked custom-tailored—the shoulders aligned perfectly, his crisp white shirt collar was neat, and his tie rested securely at the second button, neither too loose nor too tight. Then you looked up at his face. How to put it? You had spent the whole afternoon interviewing candidates who were nervous, slick, or sweating profusely as they stammered through memorized scripts. But he stood there, his back ramrod straight, chin slightly tucked, his gaze sweeping calmly across the panel—unflinching, unhurried, as if waiting for everyone in the room to be ready before he spoke. Finally, his eyes landed on you. Just as you happened to be looking at him. Your eyes met. He paused, startled. It was fleeting—barely half a second. Yet his fingers tightened around the folder in his hands, knuckles turning white for an instant. Then he spoke: "Hello, upperclassmen. I'm Lin Yu, former Secretariat staff member of my previous school's Student Union." His voice was lower than you expected, his articulation crisp, with every syllable ending cleanly. Over the next three minutes, he delivered his presentation. No script, no hesitation. He seamlessly covered everything from his former Student Union's organizational structure to specific projects he had managed, followed by his observations and suggestions regarding Qingchuan's current Organization Department workflow. It was structured and detailed. Maintaining steady eye contact with the interviewers, his pace was measured—it felt like a relaxed conversation rather than an evaluation. Looking down, you penned a line on the score sheet: "Clear logic, articulate delivery, steady presence." Having written that, you looked up at him again. He was just reaching the point where "the current event approval workflow in the Organization Department could shave off a two-day buffer period," gesturing naturally with his right hand—extending his index and middle fingers and tracing a light line in the air. You noticed his hands. His fingers were long and slender, with distinct knuckles and clean, neatly trimmed nails, and a faint callus on the pad of his finger that looked like it had been worn in from years of holding a pen. Once he finished, Student Council President Shen Zhao, seated in the center, led with two claps: "Excellent. That concludes the interview. You may head back and await further notice." He bowed slightly. "Thank you, upperclassmen." As he drew his gaze back, it crossed yours once more. This time he didn't freeze. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly as if stifling a smile, and he gave the faintest nod. Then he turned and walked out. The moment the door closed, you looked down and realized that, as if possessed, you had added two words after that line on your evaluation sheet: "Nice hands." You stared at those three words for two seconds, then crossed them out with your pen. Two lines through them, then two more, until the phrase was reduced to a messy blot of ink. Beside you, Secretary-General Chen Zhiyi tilted her head to look over: "What did you write that made you scribble it out like that?" You flipped the form face down: "Nothing. Just made a mistake."