If Chen Huan’er were to evaluate her life thus far—not particularly long—she would probably choose these two words: catching up.

From the moment she was born, she began racing against death, pursuing health even before consciousness formed. Fortunately, heaven wasn’t too cruel; while bringing down calamity, it also bestowed upon her an incomparable pair of good parents—the world’s best father and mother. They named her Huan’er, and so, carrying their sincere and devout wishes, Chen Huan’er fought through this challenge with determination and endurance. She outran death and would never look back at it again.

Later, when thrown into the torrential river that was Tianhe, where exceptional people were as numerous as cattle hair and unsolved questions as countless as stars in the sky, she was like an ant beneath an elephant’s foot—there was no choice but to get used to catching up. Chasing others became a forced choice of natural selection in this vast world. Through bitter perseverance, she gradually overtook many others step by step, finally becoming Chen Huan’er who began to shine.

Adults often say habits become second nature, and now Chen Huan’er has grown accustomed to this destiny of constant pursuit. She keeps her own medicine for bruises and injuries—failed experiments are redone, erroneous data recalculated, stalled reports are pushed through with literature reviews and reorganized thinking, working through nights if necessary. Before this mountain of academia, she can’t distinguish whether she’s chasing the peak or herself. The only thing to do is keep climbing upward. Precisely because she doesn’t know, she can only carry the belief of “I can” and climb up to see.

She met a good advisor. Though Ding Heping had some peculiar traits—like talking for two hours when in a good mood but refusing to see anyone all day when in a bad one, forbidding group members from wearing high heels in his presence as the sound severely disrupted his thoughts, and maintaining strict requirements for report and paper formats down to punctuation marks, rejecting work immediately for slight errors—Huan’er only saw his 2 AM email replies with point-by-point modification suggestions and his academic papers in renowned journals featuring cutting-edge theories and detailed data. Everyone said Ding Heping was an odd old man, but under such an advisor, Chen Huan’er thrived like a fish in water.

In early April, Chen Huan’er was called for a discussion. Ding Heping got straight to the point, “Have you considered transferring to the doctoral program? Still in my group.”

Huan’er was stunned and asked in return, “This is so sudden?”

This made Ding Heping laugh, “Your grades are good, and your progress these two years has been evident. The paper from the previous project you worked on is about to be published. In my group, there’s none of that murky business—authorship is assigned purely based on contribution rate. You’ll be listed as a co-author.”

Huan’er finally processed it—direct doctoral admission, suddenly presenting her with a new choice.

It was surprising yet not entirely unexpected. Being a student from the same university, she joined the group and started working on projects with senior students after securing postgraduate admission, essentially turning her senior year into a first-year graduate experience. Her research topic had been determined before formal enrollment. Looking at it this way, she was indeed ahead of schedule, though she had never considered further studies while focusing on experiment success and report completion.

“I’ve always believed researchers must have some obsession,” Ding Heping looked at her. “Huan’er, you can stay focused, you’re not impetuous—you’re good seedling material.”

These words greatly surprised Huan’er—the nitpicking Old Ding being generous with praise?

And towards her?

She asked, “Do you have a quota to fill?”

“No quota, but we do need people to work,” Ding Heping waved his hand helplessly, his tone suddenly becoming somewhat moving. “The school will issue an official notice in early May. You’re the first one I’ve called in. Pharmacology and pharmaceutics—on a small scale, it’s scientific innovation; on a large scale, it’s humanity’s mission. I hope you’ll give it serious consideration. After all, this is a lonely and tedious path, and it will be a crossroads in your life.”

Perhaps touched by Ding Heping’s sincere words, Huan’er nodded firmly, “I’ll think about it.”

“Alright, that’s all.”

Huan’er expressed thanks and turned toward the door.

Before opening it, she turned back, “Do you think I’m suitable for doctoral studies?”

“Suitable.” Ding Heping smiled, “I might have told lies to leadership, but never to students.”

Huan’er smiled too, “I’ll keep that secret for you.”

That evening, Chen Huan’er initiated a voice call in the family group chat. Chen’s parents quickly came online, and she recounted her conversation with Professor Ding in detail. After she finished, there was an unusual moment of silence on the other end, then as usual, Chen’s father spoke first, “What do you think?”

“I… want to do it,” Huan’er told them.

“If you’ve decided, Mom and Dad support you one hundred percent,” Chen’s father always spoke with vigor. “Just one condition—don’t exhaust yourself, don’t let your health suffer.”

“Mm.”

“Huan’er,” Chen’s mother called out then, her tone unusually serious, “Pursuing a doctorate is very difficult, and unlike preparing for college entrance exams where effort and dedication will yield results at some point—have you thought it through?”

Her mother was always rational and insightful; this was exactly what Chen Huan’er had been pondering all afternoon.

Four or five years at minimum, seven or eight years or even longer at most—the path of research has no shortcuts but countless uncontrollable variables. Moreover, transferring to the doctoral program meant that if she gave up midway, she wouldn’t even receive a master’s degree.

Huan’er paused briefly before answering, “I’ve thought it through.”

She had things she wanted to do and must do.

“So you still want to pursue it?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll be your strong support,” Chen’s mother laughed, calling to her husband from the other end of the phone, “Chen Lei, your Chen family is going to bring glory to the ancestors this time.”

“Hey, that goes without saying for my daughter.”

Parents had always been Huan’er’s most cherished pride, from beginning to end, and at this moment she finally realized that perhaps she was the same for them—only their pride was more subdued yet more profound.

The three chatted about recent news and various family matters. Before ending the call, Chen’s mother suddenly reminded her, “Make sure to tell Qichu soon.”

“I know,” Huan’er answered automatically.

“Alright then, get some rest early.”

After the call ended, she suddenly realized—when did they, no, how did they know?

She and Jing Qichu had agreed not to tell their families about their relationship yet, and Song Cong, being an insider, naturally respected their wishes. It wasn’t due to concerns—the faculty housing area was crowded and everyone was close, with them being from north and south and not local, their parents would inevitably face endless questions. With Zhou Yu and Sister Shanshan from Uncle Zhou’s family as precedent, they both found it troublesome.

Since there was no difference between telling early or late, they might as well enjoy some peaceful days first.

As for secretly carrying on underground work—it wasn’t quite that either. During the New Year holidays, when they went on several dates and her parents asked who she was with, Huan’er honestly answered “Qichu.” The two elders always seemed unsurprised, merely instructing “come back early” without further questions. There was no hiding when visiting each other’s homes either—though of course, kissing was done behind closed doors.

Huan’er could only understand that the parents knew but didn’t make a big deal of it.

Perhaps like Song Cong, they had seen signs early on and anticipated this day would come, or perhaps they felt the relationship wasn’t mature enough and might still change, so they didn’t want to interfere too much from a third-party perspective.

It didn’t matter; her certainty with Jing Qichu was enough.

Huan’er messaged the busy person, “What are you doing?”

The Huandao Artificial Intelligence Laboratory will officially announce its establishment at the end of the month, with the publicity plan focusing on four documentary shorts from different perspectives. Jing Qichu had been chosen as the protagonist for the “Passion” segment. Huan’er knew they were busy filming this week, and the reluctant male lead must be running around frantically.

Sure enough, half an hour later she received a photo—of the cameraman carrying equipment and the director gesturing commands. Jing Qichu sent a voice message: “They said they needed to supplement some footage for my segment. Got called back by Sir Jiang while writing code halfway through, still need to continue writing when I get back. Sigh.”

His tone was full of bitter helplessness.

Huan’er replied with a laugh, “Who told Engineer Jing to have such a good image, accidentally raising the group’s appearance standards.”

Jing Qichu sent a weary, suffering emoji.

Following that was another voice message: “I’ve bought the May Day holiday train tickets. You don’t know how capitalistic Jiang Sen is—I asked for two days off and he insisted on calculating by work hours, almost down to the minute.”

“If you can’t get time off, forget it. I’ll come over.”

“No. I can’t bear to have you troubled like that.”

Huan’er played this message three times, suddenly feeling very heavy-hearted.

During their long-distance relationship, in the vast majority of cases, it was Jing Qichu who traveled south, roughly once a month. Though he never mentioned it, Huan’er knew it must be exhausting.

Five hours by high-speed rail, three hours by plane, then transferring from the station or airport to the school, staying less than 48 hours before having to return—how could it not be tiring?

The reason for her heart’s heaviness was that once she started her doctorate, this situation would inevitably be prolonged.

At a minimum, at minimum, it would be four years.

During that long, serious consideration in the afternoon, Huan’er hadn’t failed to think about their future. If she had to say, it was a case of one thought forcibly overwhelming another—choosing between two options was always cruel.

Huan’er typed three words and sent them: “I’ll wait for you.”

He was already tired enough.

Whether it was heartache or hesitation, she just couldn’t bring herself to tell him her decision.