The cursor blinked in the empty chat box, mirroring Lu Zhao's wavering heartbeat. He typed, deleted, typed again. Finally, he abandoned the idea of publicly asking for help in the group chat—it felt too much like begging. Gritting his teeth, he opened Gu Xun's private chat window. Compared to the complex emotions and awkwardness that might arise from approaching Jiang Jin, seeking help from Gu Xun—the acknowledged "academic ace"—seemed more aligned with a "businesslike" need, though it still made him feel embarrassed.
"There?" He sent the two words, feeling his fingertips grow hot.
"?" Gu Xun's reply came quickly, as terse and stingy as ever.
"Um... for the big assignment in System Design and Analysis, have you formed a team yet?" Lu Zhao typed, steeled his nerves.
"Not yet."
A faint glimmer of hope flickered in Lu Zhao's heart. "Then... could you add me? I haven't found a team." After sending it, he held his breath, feeling like a prisoner awaiting judgment.
The chat box displayed "The other person is typing..." at the top. those few seconds felt like an eternity to Lu Zhao.
"Sure." Gu Xun's reply arrived.
Lu Zhao exhaled a long breath, his taut nerves instantly relaxing. A flicker of gratitude even surfaced. At least the most immediate crisis was averted.
"Thanks!" he replied hastily.
"Jiang Jin isn't grouped either. Three people per group meets the requirement." Gu Xun sent another message immediately.
Lu Zhao's newly settled heart leapt back into his throat. Teaming up with Jiang Jin? He could almost picture the pervasive, unbearably awkward tension that would fill the air.
But he had no standing to refuse, nor the courage to do so. After all, he was the one who had asked for help in the first place.
"...Alright." That single word was all he could manage.
The team was set. The first group discussion was scheduled for a seminar room in the library. Lu Zhao arrived early, sitting on the cold chair with a fluttering heart. The door opened—it was Gu Xun. He wore a simple gray sweater, notebook and tablet in hand, his expression as calm as ever. He gave Lu Zhao a slight nod in greeting before sitting at the far end of the long table and began flipping through materials, showing no intention of small talk.
Jiang Jin arrived next. Dressed in workout gear, he looked like he'd just finished training, beads of sweat still glistening on his forehead. Spotting Lu Zhao, his steps faltered momentarily. An intensely complex expression flashed across his face—surprise, awkwardness, and perhaps even a hint of... barely perceptible delight? He quickly composed himself, forcing an unnatural smile. "Lu Zhao? You're in this group too?"
"Mhm." Lu Zhao lowered his head, pretending to organize nonexistent notes to avoid eye contact.
"Great. Guys working together again." Jiang Jin attempted to break the tension with a light tone, sitting down one seat away from Gu Xun. His voice sounded slightly jarring in the quiet seminar room.
Without lifting his head, Gu Xun cut straight to the point: "You've all reviewed the project requirements, right? I've sketched out a few initial directions for you to review." He slid his tablet toward the center of the table.
The discussion unfolded in a businesslike, almost detached atmosphere. For the most part, Gu Xun outlined his ideas and framework—his logic was clear, his technical solutions impeccable. Lu Zhao listened attentively, striving to follow the train of thought, occasionally posing detailed questions that Gu Xun answered concisely.
Jiang Jin, however, seemed somewhat distracted. His gaze would drift toward Gu Xun before quickly shifting away, or land on Lu Zhao with an inquiring look. When Gu Xun assigned tasks, he offered almost no objections, merely nodding and saying, "Okay."
Only when Gu Xun mentioned a module requiring interaction with an external API did Jiang Jin suddenly interject: I have some experience debugging this interface. My previous internship company used something similar. How about I handle this part?"
Gu Xun glanced at him, seemingly surprised, but quickly nodded: "Sure."
Lu Zhao observed it all, and that familiar sense of unease returned. Jiang Jin was actively seeking a place where he could contribute—or rather, searching for an opening where Gu Xun might "need" him. This cautious demeanor was a stark contrast to his usual sunny, confident self.
The first discussion wrapped up quickly. Roles were clearly defined: Gu Xun would handle the core architecture and the most challenging backend logic, Lu Zhao would take care of the frontend interface and some business logic code, while Jiang Jin would tackle the interface debugging and auxiliary tasks.
In the days that followed, the trio entered the project development phase.
Communication primarily happened online. Gu Xun posted task progress and technical documentation in the group chat. Lu Zhao and Jiang Jin each completed their respective sections, raising questions in the group when issues arose. Gu Xun would provide answers or guidance.
Lu Zhao noticed that the awkwardness of face-to-face interactions eased considerably behind screens. He forced himself to focus solely on the code and requirements, viewing Jiang Jin and Gu Xun merely as "highly capable teammates." Gu Xun's technical prowess was undeniable; with him steering the project, progress remained relatively smooth. As for Jiang Jin, he truly lived up to his claims, providing substantial assistance with API debugging and resolving several tricky compatibility issues.
Just as Lu Zhao thought they could coast through to project completion without incident, an unexpected setback occurred.
With three days left until the submission deadline, a core functional module Lu Zhao was responsible for encountered severe performance issues during integration testing—the page stuttered to the point of being unusable. He spent an entire night troubleshooting, his eyes bloodshot, yet he couldn't pinpoint the root cause. As time ticked away, the immense pressure and frustration threatened to overwhelm him.
He posted a distress call in the group chat, detailing the problem and his troubleshooting steps.
Jiang Jin replied promptly: "Don't panic. Let me check the logs."
Moments later, Gu Xun chimed in: "Send me the performance analysis report."
Almost simultaneously, they began troubleshooting from different angles. Jiang Jin pinpointed a suspicious database query through the logs, while Gu Xun identified a flawed rendering logic in a frontend component via the performance report—the culprit behind massive redundant calculations and memory leaks.
The issue was swiftly identified and resolved. Lu Zhao watched the interface return to smooth operation, his emotions running deep. On one hand, he was grateful for his roommates' timely assistance; on the other, this feeling of being "rescued" only highlighted his own helplessness and dependence.
He solemnly typed "Thanks" in the group chat.
Jiang Jin replied with a grinning emoji: "No need to thank us, we're brothers."
Gu Xun simply replied with a single word: "Mm."
The project was ultimately submitted on time without major incident. Its clear architecture and high level of completion earned it favorable reviews. Logically, working together to overcome such a difficult task should have brought them closer. Yet as Lu Zhao stared at the cold system notification in the group chat confirming the project's successful submission, he felt neither relief nor joy.
He realized this collaboration hadn't bridged the gap—it had instead confirmed their new dynamic in a harsher way. He was the inadequate "weak link" needing assistance, Gu Xun the cool, powerful 'core' controlling everything, and Jiang Jin the "satellite" orbiting the core, desperately trying to prove his worth.
They could collaborate temporarily for shared goals, but the warmth that once existed in Room 302—that smoky, earthy warmth between friends—had vanished completely. What remained was only a cold, contractual relationship based on ability and need.
Lu Zhao shut down his computer and walked to the window. The night was deep, the distant city lights still dazzling, yet they couldn't illuminate the barrenness in his heart.
He had once believed moving out of the dorm would sever the connection, but it bound him to those two in a different way—more intangible, yet more unbreakable.
He couldn't escape.