Fu Chenyuan · Conversa

September in Jing City. Summer heat still lingered in every corner of the city, refusing to leave, but already a few withered leaves on Plane Tree Avenue at Jing University, unable to wait out the change of seasons, were the first to fall from the branches, spiraling down into the gaps between the blue stone slabs, crushed into faint crunching sounds by passing sneakers. As Fu Chenyuan walked through the teaching building corridor, the afternoon light slanted in through the gaps between the Roman columns—one band after another, as if measured with a ruler, spread across the polished terrazzo floor. He walked at an unhurried pace, his white shirt buttoned meticulously to the top button, the collar fitting seamlessly against the shallow hollow beneath his Adam's apple; his sleeves were rolled to mid-forearm, revealing a section of sharply defined wrist—the wrist bone slightly prominent, clean and bare, no watch. He hadn't worn one today. A few strands of light gold hair were lifted by the cross-draft and then fell back; as the ends brushed his brow they cast a momentary shadow, yet failed to shake the innate coldness in his eyes. Those ice-blue pupils seemed coated with a thin glaze; even sunlight landing on them could not give off warmth. He looked straight ahead, his gaze sweeping evenly across the portraits of outstanding alumni hanging on the walls on either side, across the faces of female students who had paused in twos and threes to steal glances at him, over the male students hurrying past with textbooks who unconsciously lowered their voices when they passed him—all of it was the same, faint and weightless, without any stickiness, as if all the living, bustling people and events of this campus were merely film reels turning at a steady speed inside a projector, sliding past frame by frame, leaving no scratch behind. Today he wore a dark gray suit jacket, the shoulder line precisely fitted at the widest point of his frame, drawing the silhouette of broad shoulders and a narrow waist into clean, sharp lines. The jacket was unbuttoned, revealing the curve of the white shirt tucked in at the waistline; his trouser creases were as straight as if cut with a knife, and the hems fell exactly onto the tops of his black Oxford shoes—one inch, not more, not less. From the left breast pocket peeked the corner of a pure gold student council badge; the president's insignia caught the light now and then in the shifting play of light and shadow, then was quickly swallowed by the whiteness of the shirt. Standing there, walking there, he was like a carefully calculated frame—proportion, tone, negative space; not a single element was superfluous. At the end of the corridor, the light suddenly grew brighter, and the shadows of the plane trees scattered across the exit in fragments. “Senior Fu.” A voice caught up from behind, at an angle, carrying the slight rise and fall of breath after a jog. Fu Chenyuan stopped. He stopped very lightly—just the sound of his heel hitting the ground a half beat duller than before—but in that instant he pulled himself out of the rhythm of walking, like a precision instrument paused by a button. He turned his head, the curve of his profile outlined with unusual clarity in the backlight—his jawline taut and sharp, nose high and straight; his brow cast a small patch of shadow over his eye sockets, making those ice-blue pupils look even colder in the dark. A female student, holding a thick stack of documents, the corners crumpled from her grip. She wore a white dress, her hair pinned in a loose bun, a thin film of sweat on her forehead—clearly she had run all the way from somewhere. She stood two steps away and did not come closer, her breathing not yet even; her chest rose and fell gently, her lips opened and closed, as if she were running through her prepared words in her mind once more. Fu Chenyuan did not urge her. He simply looked at her, and the sunlight happened to slide across his jawline at that moment, striking the extremely fine platinum earring on his left ear—a cold glint suddenly burst open, the reverse edge of a thin sharp blade, making the girl blink involuntarily. She finally spoke: “I’m... the deputy head of this year’s orientation gala planning group. I wanted to confirm the approval process for the final stage plan with you in person, because I haven’t received a reply to my email...” Her voice grew quieter as she spoke, the last few words almost swallowed in her mouth. Fu Chenyuan listened quietly, his expression unchanged. He didn't even lower his gaze to the documents in her arms; his eyes stayed fixed on a point slightly above her brow—a polite distance, but also as cold as if separated by the glass of an entire exhibition hall. “If it’s about the orientation gala planning proposal,” he began, his voice clear and even, the final sound of each word cut off cleanly, like the first hammer struck against ice in winter, “send it to the External Liaison Department before Wednesday. Don’t come to me alone.” He paused, then added: “All emails will be handled within three business days. If you haven’t received a reply, it means it’s still in the queue.” After saying this, his gaze moved away from her face. The movement was so smooth it was almost merciless, like turning over a report no longer needed, and his focus fell back toward the end of the corridor. The girl stood where she was, fingers gripping the edge of the documents, knuckles turning white. She opened her mouth, but in the end said nothing more. Fu Chenyuan had already started walking again. His black Oxford shoes struck the terrazzo floor, making even, confident sounds, the rhythm exactly the same as before, as if that pause of less than thirty seconds had never happened. He neither sped up nor deliberately slowed down, just walked forward with the same composure, as if no one else were there. His long legs alternated in long strides, the hem of his suit jacket swaying gently with each step, and through the back of his white shirt the faint outline of raised shoulder blades showed—broad, straight, like a wall that would never lean for anyone. Sunlight at the end of the corridor surged in from all sides, swallowing him into a blinding white. He didn’t look back. The plane leaves were still falling, one by one, silently dropping a few steps behind him. In this school, there was still no one worth turning around for.