The echo of the library crash followed Lin Yue for the rest of the day. It was a phantom sound, replaying in her mind every time she passed a tall bookshelf or heard a sudden noise. But intertwined with the memory of her humiliation was the image of Jiang Chen kneeling beside her, his quiet efficiency and that single, perceptive comment about Stendhal. The two sensations—mortification and a strange, thrilling connection—warred within her as she navigated the remainder of her shift.
By the time she clocked out, the late afternoon sun had cast the campus in a warm, golden glow. Students lounged on the grass, laughing and chatting, a world of casual ease that felt miles away from the silent intensity of the library stacks. Lin Yue's stomach growled, a sharp reminder of the budget-conscious lunch she'd packed—a simple rice bowl with vegetables—and the energy she'd expended.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A message from Xia Ling lit up the screen: First day casualty report? Did the academic sharks circle? Meet me at the Quad Café if you're still breathing. I snagged a brownie.
A genuine smile touched Lin Yue's lips for the first time since the book avalanche. Xia Ling was a force of nature, a whirlwind of color and confidence who had decided on orientation day that Lin Yue's quiet demeanor needed balancing with her own brand of chaos. She was Lin Yue's one solid anchor in the vast, intimidating sea of the university.
The Quad Café was a bustling, noisy contrast to the library. The air was thick with the scent of coffee, steamed milk, and sugar. Lin Yue spotted Xia Ling immediately, her burgundy bob a vibrant splash against the muted tones of the café. She was waving enthusiastically from a small table in the corner, two mugs and a large, fudgy brownie already waiting.
"There she is! The great scholar survives!" Xia Ling announced as Lin Yue slid into the chair opposite her. "You have that look. The 'my-brain-is-full-and-my-feet-hurt' look. Drink up. Caffeine and sugar are the base elements of university life."
Lin Yue wrapped her hands around the warm mug. "It was… eventful."
Xia Ling leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Ominous. I like it. Details, please. Any cute, intellectually stimulating prospects? Or just the usual swarm of over-caffeinated nerds?"
Lin Yue took a sip of her coffee, stalling. How could she possibly describe what happened without it sounding like she'd constructed a full-blown fantasy? "Well… I may have caused a minor incident in the library."
"Did you break something? Please tell me you broke something expensive. It's the best way to make an entrance."
"I broke a silence. With about twenty classic novels." Lin Yue recounted the tale, downplaying her own fluster but carefully describing Jiang Chen's unexpected assistance.
Xia Ling's jaw dropped. "Shut. Up. Jiang Chen? As in, the Jiang Chen? The one who looks like he was sculpted by angels and whose family probably owns the library you were desecrating?"
"I wasn't desecrating! It was an accident. And yes, that Jiang Chen."
"And he helped you? He spoke to you? What did he say? Was his voice as dreamy as they say?"
Lin Yue relayed the conversation about The Red and the Black, watching Xia Ling's eyes widen comically.
"He reads Stendhal for fun? And he commented on it? Oh, Yue. This isn't a minor incident. This is a meet-cute of epic proportions! The clumsy scholar and the brooding prince! This is gold!"
"It's not a meet-cute," Lin Yue insisted, feeling her cheeks grow warm. "It was an embarrassing moment where he was… politely decent. That's all. He probably forgot about it five minutes later."
"Politely decent men don't get on their knees to help strange girls with book avalanches. They call for staff. Or they step over the mess. This is significant." Xia Ling pointed a finger at her. "Mark my words. This is the beginning of something."
"The beginning of me being permanently banned from the literature section, maybe," Lin Yue muttered, but a part of her, a secret, foolish part, replayed the intensity of his gaze when he'd looked at her.
"Nonsense. Now, eat your brownie. You need your strength for your Art History class tomorrow."
Lin Yue's stomach did a different kind of flip. Art History. The one class she shared with Jiang Chen, according to the student directory she'd guiltily scanned. The thought of seeing him again, in the bright light of a classroom after their strange, shadowy library encounter, sent a jolt of pure anxiety through her.
---
The next morning, Lin Yue deliberately arrived early for Art History. The lecture hall was similar to the one for Literary Theory but felt entirely different, charged with a new potential. She chose a seat in the middle row, not too close to the front to seem eager, not too far back to seem like she was hiding.
Students trickled in. She kept her eyes glued to her notebook, pretending to review the syllabus, but her peripheral vision was on high alert. And then, she felt it—a subtle shift in the room's atmosphere, a slight hush that fell over the chatter.
He walked in alone.
Jiang Chen moved with an unconscious grace that commanded attention without seeking it. He was wearing a dark green sweater today that made his skin look warm and his posture even more erect. His gaze swept over the room, impersonal, assessing available seats. For a heart-stopping second, his eyes passed over her. There was no flicker of recognition, no pause. He simply found an empty seat near the front, on the opposite side of the aisle, and sat down, pulling out a sleek, silver laptop.
The dismissal should have stung, but it was what she'd expected. What she'd told Xia Ling would happen. Of course he didn't remember her. She was just a blip in his day. She forced her attention to the front as Professor Lawrence, an elderly man with a kind face and a bowtie, began his lecture.
"Today, we begin with the foundation of seeing," Professor Lawrence said, his voice resonating in the hall. "Not just looking, but truly observing. We will discuss Giotto's Scrovegni Chapel frescoes, a turning point where art moved from flat symbolism towards human emotion and three-dimensional space."
Slides flashed on the screen. Lin Yue was soon absorbed, her pen flying across the page as the professor spoke about narrative, emotion, and the revolutionary use of light and shadow. It was fascinating, a visual counterpart to her literary studies.
"So," Professor Lawrence said, clapping his hands together. "Let's put this into practice. I want you to turn to the person next to you and discuss for five minutes. What is the primary emotion Giotto is conveying in The Lamentation? And how does his composition—the lines, the angles, the space—guide your eye to feel that?"
A wave of chatter instantly filled the room. Lin Yue froze. The students on either side of her had already paired up. She was, for a moment, the odd one out. She looked up, flustered, and her eyes accidentally met Jiang Chen's. He had turned in his seat, and the two students behind him were deep in conversation. He, too, was unpaired.
Professor Lawrence's twinkling eyes scanned the room and landed on them. "Mr. Jiang. Miss…?"
"Lin," she squeaked.
"Miss Lin. It seems you are a team by default. Please, enlighten each other."
The walk from her seat to his felt like a mile. She could feel curious glances from other students. What is she doing talking to Jiang Chen? She slid into the empty seat next to him, her heart hammering against her ribs.
For a moment, they just looked at each other. The image of the fresco—the mourning figures surrounding the dead Christ—was still on the screen.
"It's despair," Jiang Chen said, his voice low and matter-of-fact, breaking the silence. "But not a chaotic one. It's a focused, collective grief."
Lin Yue was startled by his immediate, confident answer. She looked back at the slide, forcing her analytical mind to engage. "Yes, but… it's more than that. It's compassion. See how the angels in the sky are twisted with grief? Their pain mirrors the humans below. It's not just a earthly tragedy; it's a cosmic one. The composition… the diagonal line of the mountain ridge leads your eye directly to Christ's face, but the figures circling him create a contained, intimate space. It's like the whole world is collapsing into that one point of sorrow."
She finished, slightly breathless, and dared to look at him. He was watching her, not the slide, with the same unnerving intensity he had in the library. There was a new light in his eyes, one of genuine interest.
"You see the angels," he stated, as if it were a rare and notable skill.
"Don't you?" she countered, a thread of boldness weaving into her voice.
"Most people focus on the central figures. Mary and Christ. You're right. The angels are the key. They universalize the emotion." He paused, then added, "It's a more nuanced observation than simply 'despair'."
It was the closest thing to a compliment she'd ever heard him give. A small, warm spark ignited in her chest.
"Your turn," she said, gesturing to the slide. "How does the composition guide the eye? You mentioned the focus."
He turned fully towards her, and for the next four minutes, they engaged in a rapid-fire discussion. He pointed out the use of light and shadow to create volume, how the grieving figures' postures created a rhythm that pulled the viewer around the scene. His analysis was sharp, logical, and surprisingly perceptive. It wasn't the dry recitation of a student who had memorized a textbook; it was the insight of someone who truly understood how things were built, how they worked.
The five minutes flew by. When Professor Lawrence called the class back to order, Lin Yue felt a pang of disappointment. The conversation had been… exhilarating.
As she gathered her things to return to her seat, Jiang Chen spoke again, his voice so quiet only she could hear it.
"It seems we have a talent for causing a stir in quiet places, Miss Lin."
Her head snapped up. He remembered. And he'd made a joke. A dry, almost imperceptible one, but a joke nonetheless. He was looking straight ahead at the professor, his expression neutral, but the corner of his mouth was tilted up just a fraction.
She returned to her seat, her mind reeling. The rest of the lecture was a blur. When the class ended, she took her time packing her bag, half-hoping, half-dreading that he might say something else. He didn't. He was one of the first out the door.
But as she stepped out into the bright hallway, she found him waiting, leaning against the wall just outside the lecture hall. He pushed off as she approached.
"I have a proposition," he said, getting straight to the point. "We seem to be in the same boat for this class. Professor Lawrence favors collaborative analysis. It would be… efficient… to have a consistent partner."
Lin Yue's brain short-circuited. "A… partner?"
"A study partner," he clarified, though a glint in his eye suggested he knew how his words could be misinterpreted. "I have the notes from the first week, which you missed. You have…" He paused, searching for the right word. "A different perspective. It could be mutually beneficial."
This was insane. Jiang Chen was asking her, Lin Yue, to be his study partner. This was the plot of one of the anonymous daydreams she'd never dare write down. Every rational bone in her body screamed no. This was a path fraught with complication, with gossip, with the undeniable risk of her own foolish heart getting involved.
But she remembered the thrill of their discussion, the way her mind had felt alive, matching wits with his. She thought of the library, and the boy who saw the shadows in Stendhal.
The scholarship student who calculated every risk met the gaze of the prince who could afford to take them.
"Efficient," she repeated, her voice surprisingly steady. "Okay."
A single nod. "Good. The library? Tomorrow, three o'clock. The same carrel."
He didn't wait for her confirmation. He turned and walked away, seamlessly absorbed into the flow of students in the hallway.
Lin Yue stood rooted to the spot, the sounds of the university fading around her. The main conflict was no longer a vague notion of social divide. It was now a concrete, terrifying, and exhilarating arrangement. She had just agreed to a partnership with the one person who represented everything she was not. And she had no idea if she'd made the smartest decision of her academic life, or the most catastrophic mistake of her personal one.