Part 2: Distance and Drift
In stark contrast to Jiang Jin's rising popularity, Gu Xun was diving deeper into the world of technology. The research project he'd joined had entered a critical phase, and he often spent nights in the lab. Even when he returned to the dorm, he was usually buried in academic journals or remotely debugging code. He grew quieter, thinner, but his eyes burned with a sharper, more focused light—the kind that comes from finding something you truly love.
Lu Zhao could see how exhausted he was. Sometimes, when Gu Xun came back pale and hollow-eyed in the early hours, Lu Zhao would urge him, "Don't push yourself too hard. Your health matters."
Gu Xun would pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard, look up with bloodshot eyes that were still startlingly clear, and nod. "I know." Then he'd go right back to work.
Lu Zhao found it harder and harder to enter Gu Xun's world. That world—built of code, algorithms, and cutting-edge theory—felt too distant, too complex. He still asked Gu Xun for help with assignments, and Gu Xun still answered, but their conversations remained strictly academic—questions and answers, nothing more.
Sometimes, Lu Zhao thought back to freshman year, when they'd walk back to the dorm together at night, exchanging a few quiet words. Now, those moments were rare. Gu Xun was either absent or completely absorbed in his own pursuits. Lu Zhao couldn't help but feel that the door between them—once cracked open—was slowly closing again.
And Lu Zhao himself was drifting into uncertainty. He watched Jiang Jin thrive in social circles, watched Gu Xun delve deeper into academia, and looked at his own reflection—average in every way. Not top of the class, not socially gifted, no clear plan for the future. He did what was expected: attended classes, finished assignments. But a quiet emptiness gnawed at him.
That emptiness peaked during a midterm group project. It was a challenging programming assignment with open team selection. Lu Zhao instinctively wanted to ask Gu Xun to partner up—but saw that Gu Xun had already joined a team with senior lab members. The words died in his throat. Jiang Jin had also quickly latched onto another group, admitting he wasn't cut out for this kind of work.
In the end, Lu Zhao joined a group of classmates with similar skill levels. The process was bumpy—arguments, compromises, rework. When they finally submitted the project just before the deadline, Lu Zhao didn't feel relief—only exhaustion and a deep sense of inadequacy. So this is how average I really am, he thought.
That night, he ran laps around the school track until his legs gave out. Lying on the grass, staring at the faint stars beyond the city glow, he asked himself for the first time: What kind of person do I want to become? Someone like Jiang Jin—shining in the crowd? Or like Gu Xun—brilliant in his field? He thought of the barely passable code he'd just submitted and felt like he was falling short of both.
When he returned to the dorm, lights were about to go out. Jiang Jin was still out, probably busy with post-tournament logistics. Gu Xun, surprisingly, wasn't at his desk. He stood by the window, holding a cup of water, gazing into the night. His silhouette looked unusually solitary.
Hearing Lu Zhao enter, Gu Xun turned. His eyes lingered briefly on the sweat-damp hair clinging to Lu Zhao's forehead.
"Went for a run?" he asked. His voice was soft, unusually clear in the quiet room.
"Yeah," Lu Zhao replied, surprised that Gu Xun had initiated conversation.
"When the pressure gets too much, running helps," Gu Xun said, then turned back to the window, saying nothing more.
It was such a simple sentence, but it froze Lu Zhao in place. He noticed? He'd always assumed Gu Xun was too absorbed in his own world to pick up on such subtle shifts.
A faint warmth stirred in Lu Zhao's chest, easing the chill of his confusion. He looked at Gu Xun's slender back, feeling a tangle of emotions. Gratitude for the unexpected kindness. But also a quiet ache—because Gu Xun's world still felt so far away. Jiang Jin's overwhelming energy, Gu Xun's unreachable focus, and his own uncertainty… all of it wrapped around him like an invisible net, leaving him adrift.
That autumn, the three of them were like ships sailing separate courses.
Jiang Jin rode waves of popularity, seemingly thriving, yet unable to reach the lighthouse he longed for. Gu Xun sailed into the deep waters of technology, clear in his direction but alone. And Lu Zhao floated in a quiet sea, calm on the surface but swirling underneath, searching for a compass.
They drew close, then drifted apart—each navigating their own joys and doubts. None of them realized that beneath the surface of daily life, something was building. A current, silent but strong, waiting for the right moment to surge forth and shatter the fragile balance they had come to rely on.