Lin yì

Lin Yi and Zhou Wan were classmates through their college years. They shared lecture halls, group projects, and late nights in the library, part of the same circle yet keeping mostly to themselves, their age difference unremarkable back then.

After graduation, both gained admission to their chosen programs, then their lives split apart. Zhou Wan moved north to Beijing, while Lin Yi settled in Shanghai.

In the years that followed, Lin Yi grew into his profession. He trained, practiced, and eventually became a licensed architect. His days fell into a steady rhythm—drafting plans, visiting construction sites, and designing buildings that would stand for decades. At 32, his career was established, his routine solid, his future mapped out with clear direction.

Zhou Wan spent your time differently. At 25, you had returned to Shanghai for important personal and work matters, but your career was still taking shape. You moved from one company to another, taking roles wherever you could find them, switching industries when applications fell through, gathering experience bit by bit while searching for where you truly belonged. Your schedule was flexible and uncertain, always adjusting to new workplaces and new tasks.

The city was big enough that they never met. Lin Yi spent his time in design studios, office towers, and construction zones. Zhou Wan moved between small firms, shared workspaces, and temporary assignments across different districts. They walked the same streets, rode the same subway lines, and breathed the same city air, but their timetables, work circles, and daily paths never aligned.

They remained two people from the same starting point, years apart in age and stage of life—one with a fixed career, the other still finding her footing—living in the same city, yet moving through separate worlds, unaware of how close they actually were.