Part 2: What We Left Unsaid
That sense of isolation reached its peak during a major team project for a core course. Students were free to form their own groups and build a complete system. Lu Zhao instinctively thought of asking Gu Xun—but found he'd already been "reserved" by a group of top-tier seniors. He turned to Jiang Jin, who apologized, saying he'd teamed up with colleagues from his internship. Their project aligned with his current work, making it more efficient.
In the end, Lu Zhao joined a group of classmates who, like him, were competent but uncertain. The project was a grind—arguments over technical choices, sleepless nights in the lab, endless debugging. When they finally passed the review, Lu Zhao felt no joy—only exhaustion and a hollow sense of survival.
He watched Gu Xun's group present a seamless, elegant system. Watched Jiang Jin pitch their commercial application with flair. Then looked back at his own team's patched-together, barely functional product. A wave of helplessness washed over him.
He felt stuck. Not brilliant enough to enter Gu Xun's world, not savvy enough to fit into Jiang Jin's. That quiet, persistent sense of mediocrity wrapped around him like a thin film—transparent, but suffocating. It colored the way he saw everything, adding a layer of sensitivity he hadn't noticed before.
One night, Lu Zhao returned from the study room and found only Gu Xun in the dorm. For once, he wasn't at his computer. He stood by the window, holding a steaming mug, staring into the night.
Hearing the door, Gu Xun turned. Under the light, his face looked pale, the shadows under his eyes darker than usual.
"Still up?" Lu Zhao asked, surprised. It had been a long time since they'd spoken outside of academic topics.
Gu Xun hesitated, then replied softly, "Project hit a snag." His voice was tired.
Lu Zhao nodded, unsure how to respond. He felt the gap between them—a chasm he couldn't cross. He didn't understand the scale of Gu Xun's "snag," couldn't offer help. He quietly sat down at his desk and opened his laptop.
Silence settled over the room. Only the wind outside and their breathing filled the space.
After a long pause, Gu Xun spoke again—barely above a whisper, as if to himself. "Sometimes… it just feels exhausting."
Lu Zhao's fingers froze on the keyboard. He almost thought he'd imagined it. It was the first time Gu Xun had shown such raw vulnerability in front of him. He turned, looking at the thin figure by the window. Moonlight outlined his silhouette, fragile and fading into the night.
On impulse, Lu Zhao stood, picked up the thermos, and walked over. He refilled Gu Xun's mug with hot water.
"…Thanks," Gu Xun murmured, not turning around.
Lu Zhao opened his mouth, wanting to say something—comfort, encouragement, anything. But the words stuck. He realized how little he truly knew about this roommate of two years. So little that even a simple sentence felt out of reach.
He returned to his seat, a heaviness pressing on his chest.
After that night, everything returned to normal. Gu Xun resumed his elusive routine. Jiang Jin continued his whirlwind life outside campus. Lu Zhao kept struggling through coursework and uncertainty. That brief moment of vulnerability—like a stone dropped into a deep pool—sent out ripples, then vanished into the cold depths without a trace.
The second semester of sophomore year faded in a haze of growing distance and silent battles. When summer heat returned to campus, Lu Zhao dragged his suitcase down the hallway, pausing one last time outside Dorm 302. Jiang Jin's bed was already empty—he'd left early for his internship. Gu Xun's desk was still immaculate. He was probably still in the lab.
Lu Zhao closed the door behind him, locking away the noise, the silence, the confusion, and the distance. He didn't know that this seemingly quiet ending was only the calm before the storm. When autumn came, and he stepped into that room again, everything he'd ignored, everything he'd buried, would rise like a tidal wave—and nothing would be the same.