Zhou Mei's study session invitation came through WeChat Saturday afternoon: *Emergency group work. Me, you, Zhang Wei, and his mysterious music friend. Library, 3 PM. Be there or be academically irresponsible.*
Xiaoran had been planning to work on his movement piece for the Art History presentation, but Zhou Mei's messages had the force of a benevolent dictatorship—you could theoretically refuse, but the social consequences weren't worth it.
*Who's the mysterious music friend?* Xiaoran typed back.
*Zhang Wei's roommate. Apparently brilliant but antisocial. Wei's been trying to get him to hang out with actual humans for weeks. Today he finally agreed. DON'T SCARE HIM OFF.*
*Why would I scare him off?*
*You're aggressively friendly. Some people find that threatening.*
*I am NOT aggressively friendly.*
*You made three new friends in your first week by offering people coffee. That's aggressive friendship.*
Xiaoran couldn't really argue with that assessment. He grabbed his laptop and study materials, texted back that he'd be there, and headed to the library.
The library's main study area was bustling with Saturday afternoon crowds—students clustered around tables, the coffee shop line extending halfway across the lobby, the quiet hum of academic suffering universal across all disciplines. Zhou Mei had commandeered a large table near the windows, her materials already spread out with typical organizational intensity.
"You're early," she observed as Xiaoran sat down. "I'm impressed."
"I'm always on time. You just have unrealistic expectations about punctuality."
"Punctuality is arriving five minutes early. Anything else is just barely not-late." Zhou Mei checked her phone. "Zhang Wei texted that they're on their way. Fair warning: his roommate is apparently extremely awkward. Like, makes small talk feel like pulling teeth. So just... be normal."
"I'm always normal."
"You're never normal. But try to be casually normal rather than intensely normal."
Xiaoran was about to ask what that even meant when Zhang Wei appeared, accompanied by someone Xiaoran recognized immediately from the distinctive posture and the expression of someone who'd rather be literally anywhere else.
Lin Yuze stopped mid-step when he saw Xiaoran, his eyes widening fractionally—the most surprise Xiaoran had ever seen him display. Zhang Wei, oblivious to the tension, continued forward cheerfully.
"Hey guys! This is my roommate—oh wait, do you two know each other?" Zhang Wei looked between them, noting their mutual recognition.
"We're in the same Art History class," Xiaoran said carefully. "And we're partners for the semester project."
"No way! Small world." Zhang Wei dropped into a chair with characteristic casual energy. "Yuze, you didn't mention your project partner was my friend. This is Wen Xiaoran, theater major and possessor of the campus's most optimistic personality. Xiaoran, this is Lin Yuze, composition major and possessor of the campus's most pessimistic silence."
"We've met," Yuze said flatly, setting his bag down but remaining standing, as if calculating escape routes.
Zhou Mei's eyes had gone very sharp, picking up on undercurrents. "So you're the famous ice prince. Interesting. Zhang Wei talks about you constantly."
"He shouldn't," Yuze said, shooting Zhang Wei a look that was probably meant to be intimidating but came across more as deeply uncomfortable.
"Roommate privilege," Zhang Wei said unapologetically. "I know all your secrets. Like how you organize your sheet music by emotional content rather than chronologically, and how you talk to your piano when you think I'm asleep, and how you ate an entire package of cookies at 3 AM last Tuesday while stress-composing."
Yuze's ears turned slightly red. "I'm leaving."
"No, you're not. You promised Mom you'd try to have at least one social interaction this week that wasn't purely transactional. This counts." Zhang Wei pointed at a chair. "Sit. Be uncomfortable. Experience human connection against your will."
"Your mother and my social development are not related topics."
"My mother is your mother's best friend, which means she's legally entitled to worry about your hermit lifestyle. Sit."
The argument was conducted with the easy familiarity of people who'd spent significant time together, and despite his protests, Yuze did eventually sit—as far from everyone else as the table configuration allowed, his body language screaming discomfort.
Zhou Mei and Xiaoran exchanged glances. This was going to be interesting.
"So," Zhou Mei said with false brightness, "what's everyone working on today? I have my Stanislavski reading that's trying to murder my soul, and I'm avoiding it by organizing my notes for the fifth time."
"I'm mixing audio for a project that's due Monday," Zhang Wei said. "But the software keeps crashing, so I'm taking a break before I throw my laptop out a window."
"I'm working on movement choreography for an Art History presentation," Xiaoran offered. "It's actually related to the project Yuze and I are collaborating on—exploring silence and negative space across different art forms."
"Sounds pretentious," Zhou Mei said fondly. "I mean that as a compliment. All the best art is pretentious."
"It's not pretentious if it's theoretically grounded," Yuze said quietly, his first voluntary contribution to the conversation. "The concept of absence as presence is philosophically complex and historically significant across multiple Chinese artistic traditions."
"See?" Zhou Mei gestured at Yuze. "Pretentious. I love it."
For just a second, Xiaoran saw amusement flicker across Yuze's face before it vanished behind his usual neutral expression. Progress.
They settled into work, the table falling into companionable silence broken occasionally by muttered curses at uncooperative technology or difficult concepts. Xiaoran worked on his movement piece, occasionally running through gestures to test spatial relationships, aware of Yuze watching him from across the table with an expression that might have been curiosity.
"Your movement vocabulary is more contemporary than classical," Yuze observed after Xiaoran had run through a particular phrase three times. "Most theater students default to more traditional physical expression."
"My training emphasized physical awareness and authentic movement over stylized technique," Xiaoran explained. "The goal is to let gesture emerge from genuine impulse rather than predetermined form."
"Like improvisation in music. Structure emerges from exploration rather than predetermined composition."
"Exactly." Xiaoran was surprised by the parallel. "You improvise?"
"Not often. But the principle is sound." Yuze had turned slightly toward Xiaoran, his usual defensive posture relaxing fractionally. "Your choreography for the presentation—are you developing it through improvisation or pre-planning the movement sequence?"
"Combination of both. I'm improvising responses to your music, then selecting and refining the most effective moments." Xiaoran pulled out his notebook with sketched movement phrases. "The challenge is capturing spontaneity while maintaining coherence."
Yuze leaned over to look at the sketches, and Xiaoran caught his scent for the first time this close—clean, subtle, something like cedar and paper, completely different from the overwhelming cologne many Alphas wore. It was actually pleasant, understated in a way that matched Yuze's personality.
"These spatial patterns mirror the musical structure," Yuze said, pointing to one of the sketches. "The expansion and contraction of physical space corresponds to the density and sparseness of musical texture."
"That was the intent. I wanted the movement to feel like it was emerging from the music rather than just accompanying it."
They were leaning close over the notebook, discussing the choreography with the same focused intensity they brought to their project meetings. Xiaoran was vaguely aware of Zhou Mei and Zhang Wei exchanging significant glances across the table but ignored them.
"The silence sections," Yuze continued, "you've notated them as stillness, but what if instead of stopping movement entirely, you slowed it to near-imperceptible motion? The way a held breath isn't actually motionless—there's micro-movement, internal activity that reads as stillness from a distance."
"Oh, that's brilliant." Xiaoran scribbled notes frantically. "So the silence isn't empty, it's just a different quality of presence. That's exactly what the project is exploring theoretically—making it manifest physically adds another dimension."
"It also creates visual parallel to musical technique. The silence sections in my composition aren't actually silent—there's resonance, the decay of previous notes, ambient sound becoming perceptible. True silence is impossible. What we call silence is actually just a different relationship to sound."
Xiaoran's mind was racing with choreographic possibilities. "What if during the longest silence section, I incorporate breathing as the only movement? Make the audience aware of breath as sound and motion, the most fundamental presence we usually ignore?"
"Yes." Yuze's eyes had lit up with genuine enthusiasm, all traces of his usual coldness temporarily abandoned. "That would be perfect. Breath as the bridge between sound and silence, movement and stillness. It ties everything together conceptually."
"Okay, this is adorable," Zhou Mei announced, breaking into their creative bubble. "You two realize you've been completely ignoring us for twenty minutes while having an increasingly intense art-nerd conversation, right?"
Xiaoran looked up, suddenly aware that he and Yuze had been leaning across the table in their own world while Zhang Wei and Zhou Mei watched with undisguised amusement.
"We were discussing the project," Xiaoran said defensively.
"You were flirting through academic discourse," Zhou Mei corrected. "Which is the nerdiest form of flirting possible, but still definitely flirting."
"We weren't—" Xiaoran felt his face heat. "It was just project collaboration."
"Very intense project collaboration," Zhang Wei added, grinning. "I've never seen Yuze this animated about anything except music. And technically you were discussing music, so I guess it tracks."
Yuze had retreated back into his usual defensive posture, the brief openness vanished. "It was productive professional discussion. Nothing more."
"Sure it was," Zhou Mei said, her tone making it clear she believed nothing of the sort. "Anyway, Zhang Wei and I are going to grab coffee from downstairs. You two want anything?"
"I'm fine," Yuze said quickly.
"I'll take an Americano," Xiaoran said, then glanced at Yuze. "Are you sure? Their coffee is actually decent."
"I don't drink coffee. The caffeine disrupts my practice schedule."
"He drinks warm water like an old man," Zhang Wei said fondly. "It's tragic. I'm working on gradually introducing him to beverages with actual flavor."
"Warm water is sufficient for hydration needs," Yuze said stiffly. "I don't require flavor."
"Everyone requires flavor!" Zhang Wei stood up, pulling Zhou Mei with him. "We'll be back in ten minutes. Try not to flee while we're gone, Yuze. Xiaoran doesn't bite."
They disappeared toward the stairs, leaving Xiaoran and Yuze alone at the table. An awkward silence descended, all the easy conversation from moments before evaporating.
"Sorry about them," Xiaoran offered. "Zhou Mei has no filter, and apparently Zhang Wei is similarly afflicted."
"He means well." Yuze was staring at his laptop screen, not making eye contact. "He's been trying to improve my social life since we were assigned as roommates. I've explained that I'm content with minimal social interaction, but he persists."
"Maybe he's right though. About the social interaction thing." Xiaoran kept his tone gentle, non-judgmental. "Not that you need to change or anything, but... don't you ever want to just hang out with people? Do something that isn't work-related?"
"Why would I? Social interaction requires energy that could be devoted to more productive activities." Yuze finally looked up, his expression genuinely confused. "I don't understand the appeal of spending time with people just for the sake of spending time with people."
"Because it's fun? Because humans are social creatures? Because sometimes the best moments in life are unproductive ones?"
"That sounds like rationalization for wasted time."
Xiaoran studied him, trying to understand if Yuze actually believed what he was saying or if this was defensive armor. "Do you have any friends besides Zhang Wei? Anyone you talk to about non-work stuff?"
"I don't need friends. I have clear goals and limited time. Every hour spent on social activities is an hour not spent on composition or practice or study." Yuze's voice had taken on a rehearsed quality, like he was reciting a philosophy he'd convinced himself to believe. "I'm not lonely, if that's what you're implying. I'm focused."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive. You can be focused and still have friends."
"Perhaps. But I've found that friendships create obligations and expectations that interfere with optimal productivity. People want your time and attention. They get offended when you prioritize work over socializing. It's simpler to avoid the complications entirely."
"That's..." Xiaoran searched for the right word. "Sad. That's really sad, Yuze."
"It's practical." But something in Yuze's eyes suggested he didn't fully believe his own argument. "I appreciate that you let me use your practice space last night. The dedication in the composition was genuine gratitude, not... anything else. I don't want you to misinterpret my gesture as seeking friendship."
The statement should have been hurtful, but Xiaoran heard the uncertainty underneath it. Lin Yuze had convinced himself he didn't need human connection, had built an entire worldview around that conviction, but his music told a different story. Loneliness and longing and hope—you couldn't compose that without feeling it.
"I didn't misinterpret anything," Xiaoran said carefully. "But I'm also not going to pretend that collaborating with you has been purely professional. You're interesting, Yuze. Your music is incredible. And despite your best efforts to be cold and unapproachable, you're actually kind of likeable when you forget to maintain the ice prince routine."
Yuze stared at him like he'd spoken in an alien language. "I'm not maintaining a routine. This is just who I am."
"Is it though? Because the person I heard playing piano last night—the person who gets genuinely excited about Buddhist philosophy and negative space and breath as movement—that person isn't cold at all. That person is passionate and thoughtful and creative."
"That person is the same person. Music and academic work are what matter. Everything else is unnecessary complication."
"Everything else like friendship? Like having people who care about you beyond your productivity?"
"Yes." Yuze's jaw was tight, his hands clenched on the edge of his laptop. "Exactly like that."
Xiaoran wanted to argue further, wanted to push back against Yuze's lonely philosophy, but Zhou Mei and Zhang Wei were returning with coffee, and the moment for deeper conversation had passed.
"Coffee delivery!" Zhang Wei announced, setting cups down. "And we ran into Chen Lili and Fang Ling downstairs. They're joining us. Hope that's okay."
Yuze's expression suggested it was very much not okay, but before he could protest, Chen Lili and Fang Ling appeared, both carrying study materials and bright smiles.
"Impromptu study party!" Fang Ling declared, claiming a chair. "This is much better than suffering alone in the dorm." She looked around the table and her eyes landed on Yuze. "Oh! You're Lin Yuze! I've heard about you from like three different music majors. Apparently you're either a genius or an alien. Possibly both."
Yuze looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him. "I'm just a composition student."
"A composition student who had a piece performed by the National Youth Orchestra when you were seventeen," Chen Lili added, settling in with her laptop. "Don't be modest. Your reputation precedes you."
"My reputation is exaggerated and irrelevant." Yuze had gone completely rigid, his defensive walls at maximum strength. "I'm just here to work on assignments, not discuss my background."
"Totally fair," Fang Ling said easily. "We can just work in companionable silence. Though warning: I tend to mutter to myself when reading, and occasionally I'll ask random questions out loud to no one in particular. Feel free to ignore me."
The group settled into work again, but the dynamics had shifted. With more people present, Yuze had retreated completely into his fortress, his body language screaming discomfort. He worked with intense focus, clearly trying to ignore the conversations happening around him.
"So," Chen Lili said after about fifteen minutes, "random question to no one in particular: is loneliness a choice or a circumstance?"
Zhou Mei looked up from her reading, clearly recognizing the question as directed. "Philosophically or practically?"
"Either. Both. I've been thinking about it since my philosophy class covered existentialism last week. Like, are people lonely because external circumstances isolate them, or because they choose isolation over vulnerability?"
"False dichotomy," Zhang Wei said. "It's usually both. Circumstances create conditions, people respond to those conditions, responses become habits, habits become identity. The distinction between choice and circumstance gets blurry."
"But at what point does a circumstantial isolation become a chosen one?" Fang Ling leaned forward, interested in the debate. "Like, if someone initially isolates due to external factors but then maintains that isolation even when circumstances change, is that choice or just momentum?"
"It's fear," Xiaoran heard himself say. "Fear that if you reach out, you'll be rejected or hurt or disappointed. Easier to convince yourself you prefer isolation than to risk connection and potential pain."
Yuze had gone very still, his hands frozen above his keyboard. He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge that the conversation might be relevant to him, but Xiaoran could see tension in every line of his body.
"That's depressing," Chen Lili said. "But probably accurate for a lot of people."
"The solution is to force connection on people against their will," Zhou Mei declared. "Aggressive friendship. Refuse to let people isolate themselves until they realize connection isn't actually scary."
"That sounds like it could backfire spectacularly," Zhang Wei said.
"Only if you're not persistent enough. You have to out-stubborn their fear. Eventually they'll get tired of resisting and accidentally make a friend."
"Is that your strategy with me?" Xiaoran asked, amused despite the heavy topic.
"Absolutely. You tried to be independent and self-sufficient, I bulldozed through your defenses with sheer determined friendliness, and now look—you're stuck with me." Zhou Mei grinned. "It's a foolproof system."
"Sounds like harassment," Yuze muttered, so quietly that Xiaoran almost missed it.
"Sounds like caring about people even when they make it difficult," Zhou Mei corrected, her tone gentler than her words. "Some people are worth the effort of breaking through their walls."
Yuze stood abruptly. "I need to find a quieter space to work. This is too distracting."
"Yuze—" Zhang Wei started, but Yuze was already gathering his materials with mechanical efficiency.
"I'll see you back at the dorm," Yuze said, his voice carefully controlled. "Thank you for the invitation, but this isn't productive for me."
He left before anyone could protest, his departure so quick it felt like escape rather than exit.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the table. Zhang Wei sighed, running a hand through his bleached hair. "I shouldn't have pushed him to come. He's not ready for group dynamics yet."
"He seemed fine when it was just the four of us," Zhou Mei said. "Maybe he's overwhelmed by larger groups?"
"Or maybe he's overwhelmed by conversations about loneliness and isolation hitting a little too close to home," Xiaoran said quietly. "That was pretty pointed."
"Was it?" Chen Lili looked genuinely confused. "I was just thinking out loud about my philosophy reading. I didn't mean to target anyone."
"You didn't," Zhang Wei assured her. "Yuze is just... sensitive about his social situation. He's convinced himself he's content being alone, and any suggestion otherwise feels like an attack on his entire worldview."
"That's so sad though," Fang Ling said. "Like, imagine building your whole identity around not needing people, and then having your music reveal how deeply you actually feel things. The cognitive dissonance must be exhausting."
"You've heard his music?" Xiaoran asked.
"I saw him perform at a department showcase last semester. His piano piece was devastating—like, genuinely made me cry kind of devastating. All this longing and hope and grief." Fang Ling shook her head. "After hearing that, seeing him walk around campus like an emotionless robot feels almost like a betrayal. Like he's hiding the best parts of himself from everyone."
"Maybe he doesn't know how to be that person outside of music," Xiaoran suggested. "Maybe music is the only space where he feels safe expressing who he really is."
"Then someone needs to show him he can be that person in real life too," Zhou Mei said firmly. "And since you're his project partner and apparently the only person besides Zhang Wei he can tolerate for more than five minutes, that someone is you."
"Me? Why me? I barely know him."
"Exactly. You don't have history or expectations. You're just a person who happens to be in his orbit for academic reasons." Zhou Mei leaned forward, her expression intense. "Xiaoran, I've seen how he looks at you when you're discussing your project. There's actual interest there. Actual engagement. He's not performing cold indifference—he's genuinely present."
"She's right," Zhang Wei confirmed. "Yuze never talks about coursework or classmates. But he's mentioned your collaboration multiple times. He respects your ideas, your creativity. That's rare for him."
"Respecting someone's academic work isn't the same as wanting friendship," Xiaoran protested.
"It's a starting point though," Chen Lili said. "And honestly, someone needs to be his friend before he calcifies completely into a hermit genius who dies alone surrounded by sheet music."
"That's very dramatic."
"But not inaccurate," Zhang Wei said ruefully. "I love my roommate, but he's on a trajectory toward profound isolation if someone doesn't intervene. And he's too stubborn to accept help from people he thinks have ulterior motives. You don't have ulterior motives—you're just genuinely kind and interested in people."
"This sounds like you're all trying to set me up as some kind of friendship therapist," Xiaoran said. "That's not my job. If Yuze wants to be alone, that's his choice."
"Is it though?" Zhou Mei challenged. "Or is it just the path of least resistance when no one's willing to put in the effort to push back?"
Xiaoran wanted to argue, but he remembered Yuze's face when discussing the music, remembered the dedication in the composition, remembered the note left on his desk: *The piece is dedicated to you.*
Gratitude, Yuze had said. Nothing more. But people didn't dedicate compositions out of pure gratitude. Art came from emotion, from connection, from something deeper than transactional appreciation.
"I can't force friendship on someone who doesn't want it," Xiaoran said finally. "But... I can try to be present. Be open. See if he decides connection is worth the risk."
"That's all anyone can do," Zhang Wei said. "And honestly, it's more than most people would bother with. Lin Yuze is prickly and difficult and makes friendship feel like hard work. Most people give up after the first few rejections."
"Well, I'm apparently aggressively friendly," Xiaoran said with a slight smile. "So I guess we'll see if that's enough to outlast his defenses."
They returned to their work, but Xiaoran's concentration was fractured. His mind kept drifting to Yuze—fleeing the library, retreating to whatever practice room or isolated corner he'd claimed as sanctuary, convincing himself he preferred solitude.
Xiaoran had never been good at leaving people alone when they were clearly hurting. It was both his greatest strength and his most exhausting weakness—this inability to ignore suffering, this compulsion to reach out even when reaching out was unwelcome.
Zhou Mei was right about one thing: he was aggressively friendly. And Lin Yuze was about to discover that aggressive friendship was very difficult to escape.
Whether that would be welcome or disaster remained to be seen.
But Xiaoran had two more project meetings scheduled, plus at least two more months of shared Art History classes. That was time enough to be present, to be open, to see if the person underneath the ice wanted to be found.
And if Yuze continued rejecting connection? Well, at least Xiaoran would have tried. At least he'd know he'd reached out.
Sometimes that was enough. Sometimes trying mattered more than succeeding.
The afternoon faded into evening, the study group eventually dispersing to various commitments and obligations. Xiaoran walked back to his dorm through the autumn twilight, thinking about loneliness and music and people who built fortresses around their hearts and called it contentment.
Somewhere on campus, Lin Yuze was probably in a practice room, pouring emotion into piano keys, alone but not admitting loneliness, brilliant but not permitting warmth.
Tomorrow was Sunday. Xiaoran would text Yuze about finalizing the presentation details. Keep it professional, keep it focused on the project, but leave space for something more if Yuze wanted to reach for it.
Small steps. Gentle persistence. Aggressive friendship deployed with subtlety.
It was worth trying. Even difficult people were worth trying for.
Especially difficult people, sometimes.
Especially people whose music revealed hearts they worked so hard to hide.
Xiaoran fell asleep that night with piano melodies in his head and the quiet conviction that Lin Yuze needed a friend whether he knew it or not.
And Wen Xiaoran, aggressively friendly theater major with poor boundaries and excellent intentions, was apparently volunteering for the position.
The universe would handle the rest.