As the winter break neared its end, Gan Yang prepared to return to Cornell for his studies. The impending separation weighed heavily on Ding Zhitong, despite her usual stoicism.
Gan Yang had planned to drive to Manhattan every Friday and return on Sunday night, allowing them to spend two days and nights together each week—roughly 2/7 of their time. However, Ding Zhitong firmly opposed this arrangement after seeing his final semester’s schedule.
Unlike other students who planned early to finish courses sooner for job hunting, Gan Yang seemed to have never considered these issues. His last semester was packed with exams and a thesis to write. Cornell, known for being easy to enter but difficult to graduate from, maintained a graduation rate of around 94%, with no leniency for failed courses.
Although Ithaca was also in New York State, the round trip to Manhattan exceeded 700 kilometers. Ding Zhitong refused to let him waste 10 hours on the road every weekend. She suggested meeting during the Lunar New Year week in early February and thereafter only once a month.
Gan Yang was naturally displeased, but Ding Zhitong emphasized that this concerned his academic performance. Moreover, she would be busy with her new job after completing her training, possibly traveling frequently. Even if he came to Manhattan weekly, they might not be able to meet.
Gan Yang reluctantly agreed, planning to negotiate later. Ding Zhitong recognized the issue remained unresolved but had no better solution for now.
She recalled reading that if a man never discusses plans, he’s likely not serious about the relationship. Gan Yang had mentioned plans, but they seemed unrealistic.
He explained his strategy: they both held F1 student visas. After graduating in May, he’d have a 60-day grace period. He’d apply for OPT on the 60th day, receiving a 12-month work permit allowing him to work for any U.S. employer. This would give him 14 months of legal residency. Meanwhile, Ding Zhitong’s two-year analyst program at M Bank would align with his timeline.
Ding Zhitong was confused by his math and plans. She aspired to climb the corporate ladder, aiming for associate, VP, director, and managing director positions.
She knew she couldn’t blame Gan Yang; he hadn’t planned to work in the U.S., and following the standard graduation timeline wasn’t wrong. She believed his feelings for her were genuine, if somewhat impulsive.
On the last weekend of winter break, Gan Yang picked up Ding Zhitong after class on Friday evening and took her to the Upper West Side.
Entering the apartment, Ding Zhitong discovered Gan Yang’s surprise: a floor-to-ceiling cabinet he’d installed himself to house his “failed sports shoe” collection.
The shelves were still empty, as his collection hadn’t been moved from Ithaca yet. Ding Zhitong placed the Somnio shoes she’d bought him on a shelf.
She had expected Gan Yang to politely praise the gift, but he was surprisingly frank about shoes. He told her, “I think Somnio can be categorized with AVIA. The design isn’t bad, but the business model doesn’t work.”
Ding Zhitong was taken aback but willing to hear his explanation.
“There are two problems. First, the positioning is off,” Gan Yang explained. He detailed how top athletes use custom-made shoes based on 3D foot models, with every aspect tailored to their needs. He mentioned examples like Usain Bolt’s £20,000+ shoes and Eliud Kipchoge’s specialized Nikes. He explained that sponsorships cover professional athletes, leaving only a small group of advanced amateur runners as the target market for DIY customized shoes.
“Like you,” Ding Zhitong interjected teasingly.
“Yes, like me,” Gan Yang agreed, smiling. “But most of these people have already found shoes that suit them. The wealthy ones get tested in sports labs, while others find their preferred brands through experience. Take Wang Yi, for example. He’s been running marathons for six or seven years, always wearing the same Mizuno Rider model. He won’t even try the Sky model from the same brand, saying it’s too hard and responsive, meant for heavier runners. How many of these people do you think would be willing to change their habits and try a new brand?”
“Are you saying there’s no room for newcomers in the running shoe market?” Ding Zhitong questioned, feeling his argument was both right and wrong. “But all brands start as new and grow old, and runners progress from beginners to advanced. Can’t they cultivate fans from beginners?”
Gan Yang calmly continued, “That brings us to the second problem: cost. These shoes are priced like top-tier models from major brands, with comparable quality and technology. However, the DIY service increases costs significantly. At this rate, they won’t survive long enough to see beginners grow into advanced runners. Once they burn through their initial investment, we’ll see what happens.”
Ding Zhitong respected Gan Yang’s knowledge about running and running shoes. From her novice perspective, the brand had seemed impressive, but as an aspiring financial professional, she had to admit Gan Yang’s analysis was spot-on. If such a project came across her desk, she’d also conclude it wasn’t profitable.
Later, looking back, Gan Yang’s prediction proved accurate. Around 2011, about three years later, Somnio disappeared from the market. Even their website became inaccessible, with only a link to clearance stock on Amazon at half the original price.
At the time, however, Ding Zhitong found it strange that Gan Yang’s observations highlighted the industry’s lack of potential, yet he still planned to make shoes. Somnio had at least tapped into the online customization concept, allowing them to launch. During those years, e-commerce for consumer goods was gaining traction among venture capitalists, and this angle alone could secure a round or two of funding for any half-decent product. Without the online aspect, following the traditional offline model for running shoes would likely result in unsold inventory.
“Everyone else is doing internet startups, and you want to make shoes?” she had joked with him at the time.
Gan Yang was unfazed. He hadn’t fully figured out his plan but remained confident that the path would reveal itself as he progressed.
That evening, Gan Yang invited Wang Yi over for dinner.
Ding Zhitong had only briefly met Wang Yi during their New York Marathon run last year, so this was their first real introduction.
Wang Yi still sported a neat crew cut and wore gray plastic-framed glasses, giving him a quiet and gentle appearance. While “gentle” might not typically describe men, it suited him well.
“This is my girlfriend, Ding Zhitong,” Gan Yang introduced. “And this is Wang Yi, my partner. We’ve agreed to make shoes together after he finishes his Ph.D.”
Wang Yi smiled at her, looking slightly embarrassed, as if to say, “Don’t listen to his nonsense.”
Ding Zhitong smiled back, conveying, “I understand.”
The apartment only had a Western-style kitchen with limited cookware, but Gan Yang managed to prepare a hearty meal that everyone enjoyed.
As Ding Zhitong listened to their conversation, she learned that Gan Yang had started long-distance running in the second half of his sophomore year and later met Wang Yi in a road runners’ club. The club, though lacking professional athletes, had many skilled runners and organized an annual closed training camp to prepare for marathons.
That summer, the training camp was held in Ithaca, and Gan Yang participated, sharing bunk beds with Wang Yi. During that time, they trained twice daily, with low-intensity but high-volume workouts. Anaerobic exercises alternated every other day, while aerobic sessions often started at 120 minutes, sometimes involving 40-kilometer runs at a slow pace. As a marathon novice, Gan Yang frequently dealt with blisters and blood blisters, relying on Wang Yi’s guidance for treatment. Their friendship likely developed during this period.
Despite her newfound interest in running, Ding Zhitong struggled to understand this behavior.
She had her own experiences with self-imposed hardship, like summer internships where she worked as cheap labor, often forgetting to drink water, eating quick meals like hot dogs or burritos, working late into the night, and sleeping without showering, only to wake up and repeat the cycle. But her suffering at least came with a paycheck, unlike their voluntary torment.
“It sounds so painful. Why do you keep running?” she asked Gan Yang.
“Because I enjoy it,” he replied, looking at her with bright eyes.
She felt a spark between them and smiled, holding his gaze for a moment under the dim dining room light.
Wang Yi, witnessing this, tried his best to be an unobtrusive third wheel.
The following Monday, classes would resume at Cornell. Gan Yang was set to leave on Sunday.
That day, New York City was also blanketed in snow, but the scene differed greatly from Ithaca’s winter landscape. Sparse snowflakes drifted through the urban canyons, unable to accumulate on the busy streets below, leaving only dirty frost in their wake.
Ding Zhitong knew herself to be emotionally reserved. Movies that made other girls cry often struck her as overly sentimental and boring. In the past, she might have rolled her eyes at two adults getting emotional over being 350 kilometers apart and only seeing each other every few weeks, thinking it melodramatic.
But now, facing this brief separation herself, she found herself unexpectedly moved.
However, her thoughts didn’t always match her words. After lunch, she began urging Gan Yang to leave early.
Gan Yang pinched her cheek and asked, “Ding Zhitong, do you have any conscience? Don’t you feel even a little sad about me leaving?”
Annoyed, Ding Zhitong pinched him back harder, saying, “The weather’s terrible with rain and snow! I’m worried you’ll have an accident driving at night, okay?!”
As soon as she said it, she regretted the ominous implication and wanted to knock on wood.
Gan Yang was speechless. He held her, gazing at her for a moment before softly saying, “Tongtong, I’m going to miss you so much.”
“What did you call me?” Ding Zhitong asked, amused. Following Shanghai customs, people were usually addressed by their full names. Even her father, Ding Yanming, always called her “Ding Zhitong.” Only Yan Aihua used the affectionate nickname, which always made her feel like a child again.
“Tongtong,” Gan Yang repeated matter-of-factly.
She had intended to joke that she preferred “Ding Zhitong,” but instead found herself saying, “I’ll miss you too.”
They embraced in the car for a while longer before Ding Zhitong finally urged him to leave. Outside the underground parking garage, she got out of the car. Snow was still falling lightly, and Gan Yang lowered the window to tell her to go inside quickly. But she stood on the sidewalk, watching his flashy red car drive away until it disappeared into the distance. At that moment, she felt a sense of unreality, wondering if the past two months had been just her imagination.