The university campus, known to everyone else as a cradle of learning and future promise, felt to Lin Yue like a beautiful, gilded cage. Each Gothic arch of the administration building, each meticulously manicured blade of grass on the quad, seemed to whisper the same thing: You don't belong here.
She adjusted the strap of her worn canvas backpack, heavy with second-hand textbooks that had cost her a significant portion of her summer earnings. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and expensive perfume, a scent carried by clusters of students who moved with an easy familiarity she couldn't emulate. They spoke of weekend getaways to coastal villas and brand names that were just words to her. Lin Yue's world was measured in scholarships, part-time work hours, and the quiet, determined hope that this sacrifice would be worth it.
Her scholarship was a full-ride, a golden ticket she had wrestled from the jaws of statistical improbability. It covered tuition, yes, but it didn't cover pride. It didn't cover the gnawing feeling of being an imposter in a palace built for royalty. Her parents, a teacher and a librarian from a small town whose name elicited blank stares, had hugged her so tightly the day the acceptance letter came. Their pride was a tangible thing, a warm, heavy cloak she wore every day. It was also a weight. Their sacrifices—the extra shifts, the careful budgeting, the quiet forgoing of their own small pleasures—were the bricks of the path that had led her here. She could not, would not, stumble.
"Okay, Yue, first day. Deep breath," she murmured to herself, her voice a soft counterpoint to the cacophony of laughter and reunion around her. She clutched her campus map, her fingers leaving faint damp marks on the paper. Her first class, Introduction to Literary Theory, was in a building called Hawthorne Hall. According to the map, it was right next to the library, a colossal stone structure that looked like a cathedral of knowledge. That, at least, felt like home.
As she pushed open the heavy oak door of Hawthorne, the scent of old books and polished wood washed over her, a comforting aroma. The lecture hall was steep, a semicircle of tiered seats descending towards a podium. It was already half-full. She chose a seat near the back, close to the door—a habit born from a life of needing exit routes. She pulled out a simple, functional notebook and a pen, her movements efficient and quiet.
The professor, a woman with kind eyes and a shock of grey hair, began speaking about semiotics and signifiers. Lin Yue's pen flew across the page, capturing every word. This was her element. Here, in the realm of ideas, she was not a scholarship student from a nowhere town; she was a scholar.
The hour passed in a blissful blur. As students filed out, chattering about coffee and their next class, Lin Yue lingered, double-checking her notes. Her next stop was the library. She had secured one of the coveted work-study positions there, and her first shift was this afternoon. It was more than a job; it was a sanctuary.
The campus library was even more imposing up close. Sunlight streamed through towering stained-glass windows, casting colored patterns on the endless rows of dark wood bookshelves. The silence was profound, a living thing broken only by the soft rustle of pages and the distant hum of a scanner. She found the main desk, where a harried-looking man with a name tag that read 'Mark' was trying to explain the Dewey Decimal System to a first-year.
"—so 813 is American fiction, 823 is British, see? It's logical," Mark was saying, his patience thinning.
The student looked bewildered. Lin Yue waited politely until Mark noticed her.
"Lin Yue? The new work-study? Thank goodness. You look like you have a head on your shoulders," he said, relief evident in his voice. He quickly handed her a stack of books and a cart. "Reshelving duty. The map of the floors is on the cart. Don't be afraid to ask if you get lost. Just… be quiet about it."
Lin Yue nodded, a small smile touching her lips. This, she could do. The simple, methodical task of returning books to their proper places was a welcome antidote to the morning's social overwhelm. She pushed the cart into the labyrinthine stacks, the world narrowing to the scent of paper and glue and the soft squeak of the cart's wheels.
For an hour, she moved through the quiet aisles, her mind blissfully empty of everything except the call numbers. This was peace. This was order.
It was in the literature section on the third floor, a quiet, sparsely populated area dedicated to 19th-century European novels, that her orderly world tilted. She was trying to reach a high shelf to reshelve a heavy volume of Dostoevsky. Standing on her tiptoes, her fingers just brushed the edge of the space. She stretched a little further, the book balanced precariously in her hand.
It was then that she saw him.
He was sitting at a small, secluded carrel tucked between two shelves, so still he seemed like part of the furniture. But it was impossible not to see him. He had a presence that seemed to absorb the very light in the room. He was tall, even seated, with a lean frame encased in a dark, impeccably tailored sweater that whispered of money in a way the loud logos on other students never could. His hair was dark and perfectly styled, his profile sharp and focused as he stared at a laptop screen, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was, without a doubt, the most handsome boy she had ever seen. But it was more than that. He exuded an aura of intense, unapproachable gravity.
Lin Yue's breath hitched. She knew who he was. Everyone knew who Jiang Chen was. The heir to the Jiang Corporation, a prince of industry slumming it in the university library. She'd seen his picture in the campus paper often enough, usually next to headlines about donations or winning some academic award.
And he was in her way.
Well, not in her way, but his carrel was right next to the shelf she needed. To reshelve the book, she would have to invade his sphere of intense, silent focus. The very idea made her palms sweat. She considered abandoning the cart and coming back later.
No, she chastised herself. This is your job. Don't be intimidated. He's just a student.
Taking a steadying breath, she maneuvered the cart as quietly as possible, wincing at every tiny squeak. She positioned it by the shelf and once again reached for the high spot. This time, she managed to slide the book into place. But as she pulled her hand away, her elbow knocked against the book she had just placed. It teetered for a heart-stopping second. Then, like the first domino in a chain, it nudged the next book, which nudged the next.
It happened in slow motion. A whole section of heavy, hardbound classics slid from the shelf with a thunderous crash that shattered the library's sacred silence.
Lin Yue froze, her face flooding with heat. The sound echoed through the stacks like a gunshot. She stared in horror at the pile of books splayed across the floor, some pages bent, spines cracked. It was a catastrophe. A loud, embarrassing, unprofessional catastrophe.
And then, she saw a shadow fall over her.
Jiang Chen was standing there. He had risen from his carrel. Her heart plummeted to her shoes. This was it. He was going to complain to Mark. She was going to be fired on her first day. She couldn't even meet his eyes, her gaze fixed on the elegant leather loafers that had stopped just short of the literary disaster zone.
"I am so, so sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling as she dropped to her knees, frantically beginning to gather the books. "I'm so clumsy. I didn't mean to disturb you."
She expected a sigh of annoyance. A cold, dismissive remark. Perhaps he would just walk away in silent disgust.
Instead, he knelt down beside her.
"The shelving is too high here. It's a design flaw, not a clumsiness issue," he said, his voice quiet but clear. It was a low baritone, devoid of the irritation she had braced for. It was just… factual.
Startled, she dared a glance at him. Up close, his features were even more striking. His eyes were a deep, intelligent brown, and they weren't focused on her in judgment, but on the copy of Madame Bovary he was carefully picking up, smoothing out the bent pages with a surprising gentleness.
"Here," he said, stacking a few books with an efficiency that spoke of a logical mind. "Let's get these off the floor before they get trampled."
He was… helping her. Jiang Chen, the campus prince, was on his knees in the dusty stacks, helping a clumsy work-study student he didn't know.
"Thank you," she managed, her voice a little stronger now. "Really. I'm Lin Yue. I just started today."
"Jiang Chen," he said, though of course she knew. He placed the last book on her cart. His eyes then fell on the title of the book that had started the avalanche. It was a well-loved copy of Stendhal's The Red and the Black.
"A bleak choice for a sunny afternoon," he remarked, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips.
It was the first time he had said something that wasn't purely practical. It was an observation. An opening.
Lin Yue, emboldened by his unexpected kindness and the shared, slightly rebellious act of creating noise in the library, found her voice. "Isn't that the point of Julien Sorel's story, though? The ambition that burns brightest often thrives in the shadows."
Jiang Chen stilled, looking at her properly for the first time. His gaze was intense, searching, as if he were seeing past her plain clothes and flustered exterior to the person underneath. It was a disconcerting feeling, like being X-rayed by someone who actually knew how to read the results.
"You've read it?" he asked, a note of genuine curiosity in his voice.
"A few times," she said, suddenly self-conscious. "It's a fascinating study of social climbing and self-destruction."
He was silent for a moment, his eyes still on her. The library seemed to grow even quieter, the space around them shrinking. "Most people just call it a classic and move on. They don't see the shadows."
In that moment, Lin Yue forgot he was Jiang Chen, the heir. He was just a boy in a library who understood what she meant about the shadows. It was the most unexpected connection she had ever felt.
The spell was broken by the sound of a clearing throat. Mark was standing at the end of the aisle, an eyebrow raised. "Everything alright back here? Sounded like a building collapsed."
"A minor shelving incident," Jiang Chen said smoothly, straightening up. His expression returned to its neutral, unreadable state. "All under control."
"Right. Well, Lin Yue, when you're done with the earthquake cleanup, there are more books at the front desk." Mark gave a curt nod and walked away.
The moment was over. The prince had returned to his castle. Jiang Chen gave her a brief, polite nod. "Good luck with the rest of your shift, Lin Yue."
"Thank you… for your help," she said.
He didn't reply, simply turning and walking back to his carrel, the air of untouchable gravity settling around him once more.
Lin Yue stood there for a long minute, her heart still beating a strange, unsteady rhythm. She looked at the cart of neatly stacked books, then towards the carrel where he was already absorbed in his work again. The encounter had been brief, chaotic, and utterly disarming.
She had come to this university carrying the weight of a thousand wishes, determined to keep her head down and her focus sharp. She had not accounted for the probability of a library avalanche, or of a prince who knelt in the dust to help a stranger, and who knew about the shadows in Stendhal's novels.
As she pushed her cart back towards the main desk, the whispered voice of doubt in her head—the one that told her she didn't belong—was, for the first time, quiet. In its place was a new, faint, and terrifyingly intriguing thought: Maybe this place holds more than just a degree for me.
The main conflict was no longer just about class and belonging. It was now about the undeniable pull of a connection that logic screamed was impossible. And as every good literature student knows, the most compelling stories always begin with the impossible.