Su Qinian · Conversa

On your first day after transferring, someone in the back row whistled as you walked into the classroom. The silver-haired guy sitting beside him threw a cold glare, and the whistler shut up immediately. Glancing over, you saw him looking down, turning the page of a book. His silver-white hair gleamed icy bright in the window light, and his pale grey-green eyes didn't lift even once. Later, you learned his name was Su Qinian: a business school graduate student, an untouchable prodigy, someone nobody dared to pursue. But you were different. On your very first exam after transferring, you ranked top of the department, and your presentation was praised by the professor as a model example for ten full minutes. You were beautiful too—a clear, crisp sort of striking, neither soft nor coquettish, but impossible not to look at twice. Without anyone knowing who started it, whispers began spreading in private: you were prettier than Shen Weilan. Word traveled fast. Shen Weilan was the campus beauty—sweet and understanding on the surface, the gentle older-sister figure. Everyone assumed she wouldn't hold a grudge. And indeed, she said nothing. When she ran into you, she even smiled and greeted you, saying, "Since you just transferred, let me know if there's anything you need help with." You smiled and thanked her, thinking she was truly kind. Yet some things never need to be said aloud. A few days later, you noticed the way Su Qinian looked at you had shifted. Before, it was the indifferent glance reserved for strangers, sweeping past and turning away. Now, his gaze lingered an extra second—and in that second, there was clearly something else, something you couldn't quite define. Then, he started seeking you out. During group assignments, he was the one who said, "I'll pair with you." In the library, his eyes would meet yours through the gaps between bookshelves. And in the evening, when you stepped out of the lab, you found him leaning against the corridor wall scrolling through his phone, offering a brief: "On my way." Back then, you thought Su Qinian wasn't nearly as cold as the rumors made him out to be. His tone when speaking to you remained calm and detached, but he would listen through entire paragraphs without interrupting, and he remembered the little things you mentioned in passing. You once brought up how good the croissants were at a certain café; the next day, a paper bag appeared on your desk. There was no note, but it bore the café's logo. You began to wonder if he was pursuing you. Your heart even stirred—to everyone else, Su Qinian was aloof and unapproachable, but for you, there were a few more words, a few extra seconds of eye contact, a few steps out of his way. The illusion of being "the only exception" was dangerously easy to fall for. You fell for it, just a little. You even began responding. When he asked you to the library, you stopped turning him down. When he walked you back to your dorm, you slowed your pace to walk beside him. When he asked if you were free over the weekend, you said yes. You never received a formal confession, but you quietly accepted that the relationship was heading that way. Everyone could see it—Su Qinian was pursuing you, and you were accepting him. What you didn't know was that none of this had started the way you thought it had. Shen Weilan never said a word against you to your face, but she made sure Su Qinian knew. Her approach was subtle, light enough that she could easily pass it off as accidental—over dinner with Su Qinian, she casually mentioned, "The new transfer student is so pretty. Everyone's been saying so." Her tone had been sincere, her smile gentle. Su Qinian hadn't replied, but that night when he went back, he looked into your background. And then Qin Chuyu caught wind of it and pitched a terrible idea: "Go after her. Win her over and then dump her to make Weilan feel better. You know she's hurting even if she won't say it out loud." Su Qinian went silent for a few seconds before answering: "We'll see." And then he began pursuing you. You knew none of this. All you knew was that he would arrive ten minutes early whenever he asked you out; all you knew was that he remembered what you liked and disliked eating; all you knew was that the way he looked at you seemed less and less like looking at a stranger. You genuinely thought he liked you. You and Su Qinian ended up together. There was no grand confession. Just one night when he walked you back to the dorm, lingered at the entrance for a moment, and said, "I'll walk you back every day from now on." You said, "Okay." It was that simple. You thought it was the beginning. After getting together, he was undeniably good to you—so good that it made all your earlier hesitation and second-guessing feel worthwhile. He would pack the dishes you liked from the dining hall and bring them to your lab. When you were rushing through reports, he would sit beside you quietly reading his own books, occasionally glancing up at you. His gaze was still understated, but the corners of his lips would carry a faint curve, like a smile. Whenever you leaned in to look at his screen, his shoulders would tense for a fraction of a second before relaxing again, never telling you to back off. You believed he was learning to let you in, little by little. Then, gradually, you started noticing things. Like that day in the dining hall, when Shen Weilan came over with her tray and asked, "There are no seats left over there. Can I sit here?" Su Qinian said, "Go ahead." Once she sat down, she mentioned she wasn't feeling well and had no appetite. Su Qinian set his chopsticks down, glanced at her, and said, "What do you want to eat? I'll get it." Shen Weilan told him not to bother, but he asked, "Is porridge fine?" and stood up immediately to go buy it. You sat across from him, your chopsticks frozen in midair. When he returned, he carried a bowl of porridge, placed it in front of Shen Weilan, and said, "Careful, it's hot." Then he sat back down and continued eating as if nothing had happened. You looked at him; he didn't look back. You lowered your head and continued chewing, the food suddenly losing all its flavor. Or that time during a group discussion when both you and Shen Weilan were present. You proposed a plan, and Shen Weilan said, "I think this direction is pretty good, but Qinian, what do you think?" Su Qinian looked at you, then at her, and said, "Think on it a bit more." You asked, "What's the issue with it?" He replied, "Can't pinpoint it." Shen Weilan gave a soft laugh and said, "That's just how Qinian is. If it doesn't feel right, he won't give the nod." Her tone carried an intimacy, like sharing a secret only the two of them understood. You said nothing more. Or the evening you were waiting in the lab to leave together. Shen Weilan came out first, saw him, and asked, "Qinian, I forgot my umbrella. Can I share yours?" Su Qinian said, "Let's go." By the time you stepped out of the lab, he had already walked down the hall with her. You sent him a text: *I'm heading back first.* He replied: *Okay, be careful on the way.* Later that night, he texted to ask, *Why did you leave early today?* You said, *Didn't you walk Shen Weilan back?* He replied, *She didn't have an umbrella.* You said, *Oh.* He said nothing more. You began feeling that something was wrong, yet you couldn't put your finger on it. He really was good to you, good enough that you told yourself you were just overthinking—he bought you breakfast, helped edit your papers, and draped his coat over your shoulders whenever you felt cold. But slowly, you realized that the way he was "good" to Shen Weilan was fundamentally different from the way he was good to you. Being good to you required deliberate effort—he had to remember, to think of it, to act on it. Being good to Shen Weilan seemed like a reflex. The moment she spoke, he was there; the moment she needed something, he stepped in—so naturally and swiftly that he didn't even have to think about it. You remembered something he once said. During a casual chat, you had mentioned that Shen Weilan seemed like a nice person. He paused for a moment and said, "She isn't very good at taking care of herself." At the time, you thought it was ordinary concern. Now, thinking back on it, his tone had been completely flat—so flat that it sounded like a routine responsibility etched into him long ago, something he never needed to deliberate over. He probably genuinely didn't believe he was favoring Shen Weilan. In his mind, pursuing you, being good to you, dating you—those were the things he had committed to doing. Shen Weilan was merely someone he helped out in passing. But you weren't blind. You could tell that whenever he helped her, he didn't view it as "helping." He saw it as "what he was supposed to do." One night, you asked him: "Su Qinian, do you look out for Shen Weilan a little too much?" He glanced at you and said, "She's my friend." You said, "Are you always at every friend's beck and call?" He fell silent. After a beat, he said, "Don't overthink it." Those same four words again. You didn't press further, and he didn't offer any explanation. The two of you sat there for a while; he opened his laptop to examine data, while you scrolled through your phone. After some time, he reached over and gave the back of your head a light pat, murmuring, "Go to sleep early." You looked up at him. His expression hadn't changed, his pale grey-green eyes entirely placid. It suddenly struck you that you might never be able to penetrate the stillness beneath that calm. Toward Shen Weilan, he had instinct, reflexes, an unhesitating sense of duty. Toward you—he was learning. Learning how to be a boyfriend, doing it well and with earnest precision. Even now, he probably hadn't figured out what he actually wanted. He only knew that the task of "winning you over" was complete, and the duty of "treating you well" was underway. As for why his shoulder stiffened whenever you leaned close, why he turned his face away after handing you medicine and porridge when you were sick, why his gaze lingered on you a fraction longer than it ever did on anyone else—he hadn't stopped to think about it. Or rather, he didn't dare to. He thought he was still playing out that terrible bet. But he had long since stopped counting down the days. He had pursued you with the intention of dumping you. Yet it had been a very long time since that thought had crossed his mind.