Tuesday evening found Xiaoran alone in the theater building, running lines for his Acting Fundamentals showcase piece. Professor Qin had assigned everyone monologues from contemporary Chinese playwrights, and Xiaoran had drawn a particularly challenging selection from "Rhinoceros in Love"—a surrealist piece requiring precise emotional control while maintaining absurdist humor.
The black box theater was empty except for him, the overhead lights creating stark shadows that transformed the familiar space into something slightly eerie. Xiaoran preferred practicing alone when working on new material, free from the pressure of observation. He could fail spectacularly, try ridiculous choices, find the character's truth through embarrassing trial and error.
"I love you," he said to the empty theater, trying different inflections. "I love you. I *love* you. I love *you*."
Each variation changed the meaning subtly. Professor Qin had been drilling into them that acting wasn't about the words themselves but the intention beneath them, the subtext that transformed simple dialogue into human truth.
Xiaoran tried the line again, this time incorporating movement—reaching out as if trying to grasp something just beyond reach. Better. The physical gesture added desperation that vocal inflection alone couldn't achieve.
He was so absorbed in his work that he didn't notice someone entering the theater until a voice from the doorway said, "You're stressing the wrong syllable."
Xiaoran spun around to find Lin Yuze standing in the entrance, backpack slung over one shoulder, expression as unreadable as ever. Of all the people to walk in on his practice session, the cold genius who probably thought theater was frivolous compared to music composition ranked near the bottom of his preferred audience list.
"I didn't realize this was open for public critique," Xiaoran said, more defensively than he intended.
"The door was open. I was passing by." Yuze stepped into the theater properly, letting the door close behind him. "I wasn't critiquing your acting. I was pointing out a technical error in stress patterns. Mandarin is a tonal language—stress placement affects meaning even in non-tonal contexts."
"I know how Mandarin works," Xiaoran said, irritation flaring. "I'm exploring emotional subtext, not giving a linguistics lecture."
"Emotional subtext still requires linguistic accuracy. Otherwise you're conveying unintended meaning." Yuze set his backpack down and walked closer, stopping at the edge of the stage. "The line is '我爱你'—I love you. You're stressing '爱' too heavily and dropping '你' almost completely. It reads as 'I love [generic concept]' rather than 'I love *you specifically*.' Different emotional meaning entirely."
Xiaoran opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Yuze was... actually right. The stress pattern had been bothering him without his being able to identify why. Shifting the emphasis to the final syllable made the line more direct, more personal.
He tried it again with the correction. "I love you."
"Better," Yuze said simply. "The meaning is clearer now."
An awkward silence descended. Xiaoran wasn't sure whether to thank Yuze for the genuinely helpful note or be annoyed that he'd walked in uninvited and immediately found fault. Before he could decide, Yuze spoke again.
"What piece are you working on?"
"'Rhinoceros in Love.' It's for my Acting Fundamentals showcase." Xiaoran gestured to his script. "Why are you in the theater building anyway? Music facilities are on the other side of campus."
"I was looking for you, actually." Yuze pulled out his phone. "I tried texting but got no response. We're meeting tomorrow at 7 PM, but I need to reschedule. Faculty meeting for Winter Showcase selections moved to tomorrow evening. I can't miss it."
"Oh." Xiaoran checked his own phone and found three unread messages from Yuze, all characteristically terse. "Sorry, I had my phone on silent. When do you want to reschedule to?"
"Tonight, if you're available. I know it's short notice, but my schedule is extremely tight this week."
Xiaoran glanced at his watch. 8:17 PM. He'd been planning to practice for another hour, then head back to the dorm for reading and sleep. But the sooner they made progress on the project, the sooner it would be finished.
"I guess tonight works. Same place? Library study room?"
"Library closes at 10 PM on weekdays. Not enough time." Yuze was already typing something on his phone. "The music building practice rooms are available until midnight. Room 3B is free. We can work there."
"The music building? Isn't that kind of..." Xiaoran searched for the right word. "Territorial? I thought you composition students were protective of your practice spaces."
"Room 3B is designated for collaborative work. It has a piano and adequate workspace." Yuze looked up from his phone. "Unless you have objections to working in the music building specifically?"
"No, that's fine. I just need to grab my laptop and materials from my dorm. Give me twenty minutes?"
"I'll meet you there." Yuze picked up his backpack and headed for the exit, then paused. "The monologue is good, structurally. Your emotional progression is clear and your physical choices support the text. The linguistic issue was the only significant problem."
He left before Xiaoran could process what might have been an actual compliment. Or at least, the closest approximation to a compliment that Lin Yuze was capable of giving.
Xiaoran gathered his own materials and headed back to his dorm, mind churning with questions. Yuze had been looking for him specifically—had walked across campus to the theater building, somehow figured out where he was practicing. That suggested... what exactly? Dedication to the project? Or something else?
Don't be ridiculous, Xiaoran told himself. It suggests exactly what it obviously suggests: efficient time management from someone who needs to reschedule a meeting. Nothing more.
He grabbed his laptop and project materials, texted Zhou Mei that he'd be working late on his Art History project, and headed to the music building. The walk across campus was pleasant in the autumn evening, cool air carrying hints of woodsmoke from nearby neighborhoods, the moon nearly full overhead.
The music building was quieter than during daytime hours but not empty. Xiaoran could hear practice sessions in progress behind closed doors—someone running scales on a violin, a vocalist doing warmups, the distinct sound of traditional guzheng plucked with methodical precision. It was like walking through a building full of private worlds, each person immersed in their own artistic universe.
Room 3B was on the second floor, and Yuze was already inside when Xiaoran arrived. The space was larger than Xiaoran expected—a baby grand piano dominated one corner, with a large table, comfortable chairs, a whiteboard, and even a small sofa along the opposite wall. Yuze had claimed the table, his laptop open and materials spread out with characteristic organization.
"This is much nicer than the library study rooms," Xiaoran observed, setting his own laptop down. "Why didn't we meet here last time?"
"I wanted neutral territory for initial meeting. Some theater students find the music building intimidating." Yuze didn't look up from his screen. "Also, I wasn't sure how seriously you'd take the project. I didn't want to waste prime practice room time."
"And now?"
"Now I've confirmed you're actually putting in effort. Wasting practice room time is no longer a concern." Yuze finally looked up. "I've drafted the philosophical framework section. I'm sending it to our shared document now. Read through it and tell me if it aligns with your visual arts analysis."
Xiaoran opened the document and started reading. Yuze's writing was like his personality—precise, economical, devoid of unnecessary flourish. But it was also remarkably clear, building logical arguments that connected Buddhist philosophy to artistic practice across multiple disciplines.
"This is really good," Xiaoran said after finishing. "You've made the connections explicit without being heavy-handed. It integrates well with my Tang dynasty analysis."
"Good. Then we can move forward with developing the presentation structure." Yuze pulled up a new document. "Professor Huang wants both analytical and practical components. I'll provide musical demonstration of silence as compositional element. You should provide visual examples of negative space in painting, possibly incorporating movement from your theater training to show how the concepts translate across disciplines."
They worked for the next hour, building the presentation framework and dividing responsibilities. Despite Yuze's cold efficiency, Xiaoran found himself appreciating the collaboration. Yuze might be socially impossible, but academically he was a ideal partner—prepared, thoughtful, genuinely interested in creating excellent work rather than just meeting minimum requirements.
"I've been thinking about the contemporary application section," Xiaoran said during a brief pause. "What if we recorded a sample of your composition—the one exploring silence—and I created a short movement piece responding to it? Show the historical philosophy manifesting in current cross-disciplinary practice?"
Yuze looked up, and for a moment, something almost like interest flickered in his expression. "That could work. The piece I'm composing for Winter Showcase is structured around silence as presence. Multiple extended pauses where the absence of sound becomes the focal point." He hesitated, then added, "I could play a section for you now, if you want to hear it. Help you understand what you'd be responding to."
"You'd do that?" Xiaoran tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. Yuze never volunteered anything personal, never offered more than the minimum required for professional collaboration.
"It's relevant to the project," Yuze said, already standing and moving toward the piano. "And the practice room is here, so it's efficient."
Of course. Efficiency. What else would motivate Lin Yuze?
Yuze sat at the piano, his posture transforming from neutral to focused in an instant. His hands hovered over the keys for a long moment—not hesitation, but preparation, gathering intention. Then he began to play.
The first notes were sparse, delicate, each one given space to resonate fully before the next arrived. Then silence. Not absence of music, but presence of pause—a held breath, a moment of suspension where anticipation itself became the composition. When the next phrase emerged, it felt inevitable and surprising simultaneously.
Xiaoran found himself holding his own breath during the silences, his body unconsciously responding to the music's emotional architecture. The piece was achingly beautiful, full of longing and restraint and something that felt almost like hope struggling against resignation.
This was the Lin Yuze that existed underneath the cold exterior—someone who felt things deeply, who understood emotional complexity with profound sophistication, who could translate ineffable human experience into sound.
The final notes faded into silence that felt weighted with meaning. Yuze's hands remained above the keys for a moment before lowering to his lap. He didn't turn around immediately, and Xiaoran wondered if he was reluctant to return to the controlled facade.
"That's incredible," Xiaoran said quietly, not wanting to shatter the moment. "It's like... like the silence is grieving for the sound, and the sound is relieved by the silence. They need each other."
Yuze finally turned, his expression carefully neutral again but something lingering in his eyes—vulnerability, perhaps, or the echo of whatever emotion the music had channeled. "That's the intent. Absence and presence as interdependent rather than oppositional."
"I can definitely create movement responding to that. The emotional arc is so clear." Xiaoran was already seeing choreographic possibilities in his mind. "Could you record a full version I could practice with?"
"I'll send you a recording tomorrow." Yuze stood and returned to the table, the vulnerable moment apparently concluded. "We should finalize the presentation outline. I want to submit our proposal to Professor Huang by Friday."
They worked for another forty minutes, Xiaoran occasionally glancing at the piano where Yuze had revealed so much through music while revealing so little through words. Who was this person really? The cold genius who treated human interaction as optimization problem? The passionate musician who poured grief and hope into compositions? Both? Neither?
Around 10:30, Xiaoran's phone buzzed with a text from Zhou Mei: *Still working or dead in a ditch? I need status update.*
*Still working. Music building practice room. Very much alive.*
*With ice prince?*
*Yes.*
*Has he shown any signs of human emotion or is it still like collaborating with an AI?*
Xiaoran glanced at Yuze, who was typing something with intense focus, completely absorbed in whatever he was working on. *Complicated*, he typed back. *He played piano for me. His music is beautiful. He's still emotionally constipated.*
*PROGRESS. Music is his love language apparently.*
*Or it's just convenient for the project. Hard to tell with him.*
He set his phone aside and returned to work. They finished the presentation outline by 11, both satisfied with the structure and content. Xiaoran packed up his materials, exhausted but pleased with their progress.
"I'll send you the music recording tomorrow," Yuze said, walking him to the door. "And finalize the written proposal by Thursday. We should meet once more before the presentation—next Tuesday?"
"Tuesday works." Xiaoran paused in the doorway. "Thanks for rescheduling tonight. And for playing the piece. It helped me understand the project better."
"It was practical," Yuze said, but his tone was fractionally less cold than usual. "The collaboration benefits from shared understanding of source material."
"Right. Practical." Xiaoran smiled despite himself. "Well, goodnight. Thanks again."
He headed down the hallway, but something made him glance back before turning the corner. Yuze was still standing in the doorway of the practice room, watching him leave with an expression Xiaoran couldn't quite read—not quite the usual controlled neutrality, but something else. Something almost like... loneliness?
The impression was so fleeting that Xiaoran convinced himself he'd imagined it. Lin Yuze, lonely? The guy who'd built his entire life around solitary discipline and appeared perfectly content with his fortress of isolation?
The building's main door closed behind Xiaoran, and he headed back toward his dorm through the quiet campus. The moon was bright enough to cast shadows, the air cool enough to see his breath. A few other students were out—a couple holding hands near the library, a group laughing outside the late-night café, someone jogging with headphones in.
Normal university life. Normal people having normal experiences. And somewhere behind him in the music building, Lin Yuze was probably still in that practice room, working on his composition, alone but not acknowledging loneliness, brilliant but not permitting warmth.
It made Xiaoran sad in a way he didn't fully understand.
Back in his dorm, Wei Chen was already asleep, snoring softly from his bed. Xiaoran got ready for bed quietly, his mind replaying the piano piece—those silences weighted with meaning, those sparse notes carrying disproportionate emotional power.
His phone buzzed with an email notification. Yuze, already sending the recording as promised. The email contained no message beyond "Attached: composition recording. 8 minutes 43 seconds duration."
Xiaoran downloaded the file and listened to it through his headphones, lying in bed in the dark. The music was even more affecting without visual distraction, each silence becoming a space where his own emotions could resonate and expand. By the time it ended, Xiaoran's throat was tight with feelings he couldn't articulate.
Whoever Lin Yuze pretended to be—cold, controlled, untouchable—his music told a different truth. Someone deeply feeling, profoundly lonely, creating beauty out of absence and longing.
Xiaoran fell asleep with the melody haunting his dreams, and when he woke Wednesday morning, his first conscious thought was of piano music and silence and the question he couldn't quite answer: who was Lin Yuze really, underneath all those defensive walls?
Wednesday's classes passed in a blur. Xiaoran attended lectures, took notes, participated in discussions, but part of his mind remained preoccupied with the music he'd heard. During Movement and Physical Theater, Teacher Lin had them working on expressing emotion through gesture alone—no words, no facial expressions, just body as communication instrument.
"Longing," Teacher Lin called out, and Xiaoran's body responded instinctively—reaching toward something just beyond grasp, the same gesture he'd used when practicing his monologue. But now it felt different, informed by Yuze's composition, by that tension between presence and absence.
"Excellent, Xiaoran," Teacher Lin observed. "You're finding the negative space in movement—the places where stillness is as expressive as action. Keep developing that awareness."
After class, Zhou Mei caught up with him. "Okay, you've had that weird distracted look all day. What happened in your meeting last night that has you mentally absent?"
"Nothing dramatic. We just worked on the project." Xiaoran tried to sound casual. "Yuze played some of his composition for me. It's relevant to our presentation."
"And?"
"And it was beautiful. Really, truly beautiful. Made me rethink everything I assumed about him."
Zhou Mei's eyebrows rose. "Character development! You're seeing him as a complex human being now instead of an unfriendly robot."
"I'm seeing him as someone who uses music to express what he can't say otherwise," Xiaoran corrected. "He's still incredibly cold and impossible to talk to. But his music is... different. Honest in ways he isn't."
"That's actually kind of sad," Zhou Mei said thoughtfully. "Imagine only being able to be yourself through your art. Never letting anyone see the real you directly."
"Maybe that's just how some people are built. Not everyone needs emotional intimacy."
"Everyone needs connection, even if they convince themselves otherwise." Zhou Mei bumped her shoulder against his. "But you're not responsible for fixing Lin Yuze's emotional constipation. You're just his project partner, not his therapist."
"I know that. I'm not trying to fix anything." But even as Xiaoran said it, he wondered if it was completely true. Some part of him wanted to understand Yuze, wanted to find the person beneath the ice, wanted to prove that the music wasn't lying about who he really was underneath.
Thursday and Friday passed with no further contact from Yuze—just a brief email confirming he'd submitted their project proposal to Professor Huang and would see Xiaoran at Tuesday's final meeting. No personal comments, no small talk, pure information exchange.
Normal Yuze behavior. Xiaoran told himself he wasn't disappointed by the lack of additional interaction.
Friday evening, Zhou Mei dragged him to a party at the performing arts building—a casual gathering of theater and dance students celebrating the end of their first full month of university. Xiaoran had resisted initially, wanting to spend the evening working on his movement piece for the Art History presentation, but Zhou Mei had been insistent.
"You need social time," she'd argued. "You can't spend every evening locked in practice rooms or hunched over essays. That's Lin Yuze behavior, and you're better than that."
The party was exactly what Xiaoran needed without realizing it—loud music, terrible dancing, enthusiastic conversations about shows and techniques and upcoming projects. He found himself laughing genuinely for the first time in days, the anxiety about Jintao temporarily forgotten in the warmth of community.
Chen Lili was there, along with Fang Ling and several of their mutual friends. Zhang Wei arrived late, dragging along two other music production students who immediately monopolized the conversation with increasingly ridiculous stories about recording session disasters.
"So the string quartet shows up," one of them was saying, "and none of them brought their instruments. Not one. They'd all assumed someone else was handling it. We lost four hours of studio time and had to reschedule for next week, except next week the cellist has the flu, so now the entire project is delayed indefinitely. This is my life. This is what I chose."
"Still better than dance injuries," Fang Ling countered. "Last week, someone in my advanced ballet class dislocated her shoulder attempting a lift that our instructor explicitly told us not to try. Blood everywhere, ambulance called, the whole dramatic production. And she still showed up to class two days later with her arm in a sling, determined not to fall behind."
"Artists are insane," Zhang Wei declared. "We're all insane. There's no other explanation for choosing creative fields."
"Passion," Chen Lili suggested. "We're passionate."
"Passion is just well-marketed insanity."
They debated the fine line between dedication and delusion until someone changed the music to something danceable and the conversation dissolved into movement. Xiaoran found himself dancing badly and unselfconsciously, Zhou Mei beside him matching his terrible rhythm with equally enthusiastic incompetence.
"This is what you needed," Zhou Mei shouted over the music. "Fun! Frivolity! Zero academic pressure!"
She was right. Xiaoran felt lighter than he had in weeks, the constant low-level anxiety temporarily lifted. This was why he'd come to university—not just for training and discipline, but for experiences like this. Community. Connection. The kind of messy human joy that couldn't be optimized or scheduled.
Around 11 PM, the party started winding down. Xiaoran and Zhou Mei headed out together, both pleasantly exhausted, walking back toward the dorms through the quiet campus.
"Thanks for forcing me to come," Xiaoran said. "I actually had fun."
"You're allowed to have fun, you know. Even during project season. Especially during project season." Zhou Mei linked her arm through his. "Balance is important. Can't be all work and no play."
"Tell that to Lin Yuze."
"Lin Yuze is a cautionary tale, not a role model." Zhou Mei laughed. "Though honestly, I wonder if he ever has fun. Like, does he enjoy his music or is it just another achievement to unlock?"
"He enjoys it," Xiaoran said with certainty. "You can hear it in how he plays. That's not obligation—that's love."
"But is it enough? Can you live a full life if music is the only thing you love?"
Xiaoran didn't have an answer. They walked in comfortable silence until reaching Zhou Mei's dorm, then Xiaoran continued alone toward his own building, the campus quiet except for distant music from other late-night parties.
He was almost to his dorm when he saw someone sitting on the bench outside the building's entrance. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought it might be Jintao—but no, wrong build, wrong posture, wrong everything.
Lin Yuze sat alone on the bench, staring at his phone with an expression of profound frustration. His usual controlled façade had completely cracked, revealing genuine emotion—anger? Distress? Something vulnerable that Xiaoran had never seen from him before.
"Yuze?" Xiaoran approached carefully. "Are you okay?"
Yuze's head snapped up, and for a second, Xiaoran saw naked surprise before the walls slammed back into place. "I'm fine. Just—" He gestured vaguely at his phone. "Technical issues."
"At midnight outside my dorm building?" Xiaoran sat down on the bench, maintaining respectful distance. "That's a very specific location for technical issues."
"I was..." Yuze seemed to struggle with explanation. "My practice room booking got canceled. System error. All the rooms are booked solid through tomorrow. I have a composition deadline and I need piano access."
"So you were... what? Sitting outside my dorm hoping for divine intervention?"
"I was trying to find alternative practice locations through the online system." Yuze's frustration bled through his words. "Everything is booked. Every single room on campus. I can't work on this piece without a piano and the deadline is Monday."
Xiaoran thought for a moment. "My roommate is visiting his parents this weekend. Our dorm has a keyboard—Wei Chen is a music tech major. It's not a real piano, but it's better than nothing?"
Yuze stared at him like he'd offered something impossible. "You would let me use your room?"
"For working on your composition, yes. I'm not using it—I was just planning to sleep." Xiaoran stood up. "Come on. It's not ideal but it's something."
He led Yuze up to his dorm room, suddenly hyperaware of how messy it might be, how personal spaces revealed things about their occupants that public spaces didn't. But when he unlocked the door, the room was acceptably clean—Wei Chen's side organized with typical music student precision, Xiaoran's side lived-in but not disastrous.
"The keyboard is there," Xiaoran gestured to Wei Chen's setup. "Headphones are in the drawer if you don't want to disturb anyone. Help yourself."
Yuze approached the keyboard like it was a lifeline, his fingers already moving through the air as if playing invisible keys. "This is—thank you. I mean it. Thank you."
It might have been the most genuine gratitude Xiaoran had ever heard from him. Lin Yuze, vulnerable and grateful and temporarily stripped of his cold armor.
"No problem. I'm going to get ready for bed, but you can stay as long as you need to work. Just lock the door when you leave." Xiaoran grabbed his toiletries. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
When he returned from the bathroom, Yuze was already absorbed in his composition, headphones on, hands moving across the keyboard with complete focus. Xiaoran changed into sleep clothes as quietly as possible, climbed into bed, and turned off his light, leaving only Wei Chen's desk lamp illuminating the room.
He lay in the dark, watching Yuze work—the intense concentration, the way his entire body engaged with the music even though Xiaoran couldn't hear what he was playing. This was Lin Yuze at his most authentic, completely unselfconscious, lost in the thing he loved most.
Eventually, exhaustion pulled Xiaoran toward sleep. His last conscious awareness was of Yuze still working, silhouetted against the lamp light, creating beauty in the quiet night while Xiaoran drifted into dreams of music and silence and the spaces between notes where meaning lived.
When Xiaoran woke the next morning, Yuze was gone. The keyboard was neatly shut down, the chair pushed in, everything returned to exactly how it had been. The only evidence of his presence was a note on Xiaoran's desk in precise handwriting:
*Thank you for the practice space. I finished the composition. The piece is dedicated to you. —LYZ*
Xiaoran read the note three times, his heart doing something complicated in his chest. The piece is dedicated to you.
What did that mean? Gratitude for the favor? Acknowledgment of collaboration? Something more?
He had no idea. With Lin Yuze, every gesture required archaeological interpretation.
But as Xiaoran got ready for his Saturday, the note carefully preserved in his desk drawer, he couldn't stop smiling.
Maybe there was a person underneath all that ice after all. Maybe.