Purpose Chapter 1

Short Story

To distract myself from pure academia, I stated writing short stories. This is an easy read fluffy romance without a lot of polysyllabic words and philosophy. Perfect for writing in-between. When I was a teen, I loved Harlequin Romances, so in the spirit of that here we go, story one.

Photo by Sixteen Miles Out on Unsplash

Purpose Chapter 1

Zhao Ming had always been a man of ambition, but until the moment he saw her, he had never known his purpose.

His entire life was a testament to determination. A goal, once he determined it, was a target he would inevitably hit through sheer force of will. He wanted a place at a top university, so he buried himself in his studies. He aspired to become a renowned historian and researcher, so he seized every opportunity with relentless focus. Ambition was his engine, and discipline his compass. Yet, as his gaze fell upon the woman standing in the reception line, a startling realization dawned: all his previous striving had merely been the prelude to this single, defining moment.

Romance had never factored into his equations. He had married his classmate, Hua Xuan, after their master’s program. A quiet, pragmatic arrangement to satisfy their families’ desire to see them settled. For five years, they coexisted as polite strangers in the world of academia, their marriage as hushed and undemanding as the research they pursued. Their eventual divorce was a logical conclusion, handled with the same quiet polite courtesy.

This morning, the university buzzed with the energy of a welcome reception for the new visiting professors. A line of international interns from America, New Zealand, France, and Canada waited to greet their faculty sponsors for the next six months. The air was filled with the polite murmur of handshakes and introductions, soon to give way to a standing reception where research projects and academic writings would be discussed over coffee, tea, and snacks.

It was then, in the middle of that formal line, that Zhao Ming’s world tilted. His eye was caught by a swirl of pale effervescent pink and a cascade of long, black hair. Standing among the Americans was a woman who, the instant she turned and smiled, seemed to draw the very air from his lungs. Her smile was radiant, a sudden bloom of warmth that made him whisper the words almost without thinking: “Like flowers in the spring.”

He had to wrench his gaze away, a physical effort that felt like tearing cloth. Manners make the man, he chastised himself, the old adage a feeble shield against the sudden, unwelcome torrent of his own imagination. What would her voice sound like—melodic or soft? What was the scent that would surely cling to her, of jasmine or rain? And her hand… what would it feel like, nestled in his?

The line shuffled forward at a maddeningly slow pace, a river of polite hellos. Visitors lingered over introductions, and the low hum of translators bridged the language gaps. But Zhao Ming’s attention had narrowed to a single point. He noticed she needed no translator; she responded to the greetings ahead with a confident, though still inaudible, grace.

She was still too far, her voice a secret he was desperate to learn. So consumed was he that he entirely missed the name of the young Canadian man now standing before him. He offered a mechanical handshake, a perfunctory greeting, and a nod, his mind screaming a single, frantic question: What is her department? He sent the thought out into the universe like a prayer: Let it be mine.

More handshakes. More hollow pleasantries. Then, the world dissolved, and there she was.

Her dress was a soft whisper of pink. Her hair, a waterfall of obsidian, cascaded down her back to her waist, held from her face by a single, intricate braid secured with tiny, pink flower clips. Her face was radiant, but it was her voice that truly undid him.

“Hello, very nice to meet you. My name is Mary Thomas. I am with the philosophy department. Thank you for having us here.”

Her voice was lower than he’d imagined, a warm, clear alto that vibrated in the space between them. As she spoke, she placed her hand in his. It was impossibly soft and warm, yet her grip was firm and assured. She bowed slightly, and the movement released a subtle fragrance, a clean, intoxicating blend of peony and sandalwood.

He was frozen, holding her hand a moment too long, lost in the deep, liquid brown of her eyes. He registered the delicate shimmer on her cheeks, the soft, inviting red of her lips. The silence stretched, becoming palpable. Flustered, he muttered a “Welcome,” and returned her bow, leaning in closer than propriety allowed to discreetly drink in her scent.

The effect was instantaneous and profound. A powerful, primal stir, something long dormant and entirely unfamiliar, awoke within him. He looked at her again, his expression a transparent mix of confusion and dazed wonder.

Seemingly unoffended, she gave his hand a final, gentle shake before slipping her fingers from his. The loss of her warmth was a sudden chill. She murmured a polite farewell with a gentle smile and moved on, leaving Zhao Ming standing utterly still, the ghost of her touch seared into his palm and the echo of her presence irrevocably altering his world..

For Zhao Ming, the reception line had become a form of exquisite torture, each introduction an eternity keeping him from his purpose. Philosophy, she had said. His own domain was History, but as the curator of the library research stacks, he could fabricate a dozen legitimate reasons to cross her path. His mind, once a disciplined archive, was now a chaotic scroll of possibilities and questions. How would he approach her? Was she married? The absence of a ring on her finger meant little, but it was a detail his hope clung to.

Finally, the last visiting professor moved through the line, and the formalities dissolved into the mingling crowd. His eyes, as if pulled by a lodestone, found her instantly. Any flash of pink in his periphery made his heart stutter. She was encircled by the Philosophy faculty, her smile brilliant and effortless. He was bracing himself for the inevitable small talk when his department head approached, shepherding a trio of new professors.

“Ming, I’d like you to meet some of our visitors. This is Anna Scott from New Zealand, Drake Phillips from America, and Leo McNair from Canada.”

“A warm welcome to you all,” Zhao Ming said, the words practiced and polite. “I hope you enjoy your time with us. We are truly happy to have you.”

“Ming is our library curator for the research department,” the department head added. “He will be your key to all your archival needs.”

The conversation continued, but Zhao Ming’s attention had already drifted back across the room, hunting for a specific shade of pink. He spotted her near the coffee service, a solitary figure for a precious moment. “Please, excuse me,” he interjected smoothly. “I think I’ll grab a coffee. Enjoy the party.” He extricated himself and walked over, his stride measured despite the frantic rhythm of his heart.

Mary Thomas was turning away, a cup of black coffee in her hands. He nodded, his mind scrambling for an opening, and landed on the most mundane observation. “You take your coffee without milk,” he said, his voice emerging strangely husky. He busied himself with pouring a cup, the simple action requiring intense concentration.

“Yes, it’s a habit from my graduate school days,” she replied, her tone friendly. “Though I must confess, I prefer tea in the afternoon.”

He stirred two creamers and two sugars into his own cup, the ritual suddenly feeling exposed.

“In America, we’d call that ‘Boston style,’” she offered with a gentle smile.

“Really? Are you from Boston?” he asked, seizing on the thread of conversation.

“No, the other side of the country, California.”

“I believe you call it the Sunshine State?” he ventured, and was instantly rewarded.

She laughed, a sound that seemed to brighten the air around them. “No, that’s Florida. California has Hollywood, we are the Golden state.”

“But it is very sunny there? Good weather?” he pressed, eager to keep her talking.

She shifted slightly, closing the distance between them. Emboldened, he gestured to a nearby standing table, and she followed.

“What department are you in?” she asked.

He was momentarily lost, captivated by the delicate shimmer on her eyelashes and the intelligent warmth in her eyes. He had been studying the landscape of her face and completely missed her question. “Pardon?”

“Your department?” she repeated, her smile hinting at amusement.

“History.” He choked out. “I also curate the research library. If you need anything from the stacks, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you. The library is always my favorite place in any institution.”

A spark of hope ignited in his chest. “Good. I hope to see you often, then. What will you be teaching?”

“Unfortunately, I’ll be lecturing on Western philosophy—Plato, Marcus Aurelius, those pillars.”

“Unfortunately? You don’t care for it?”

“No, don’t misunderstand, I enjoy it,” she clarified. “But my heart belongs to Confucianism. I wrote both my thesis papers on him.”

“How does a Confucian scholar end up teaching Western philosophers?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.

“Because I’m good at it, I suppose,” she laughed, a light, self-deprecating sound. “Truly, the position required it. But my personal research here will be entirely focused on Confucian philosophy.”

“Fascinating. What first drew you to him?”

“Oh, it’s a long story,” she said, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as her gaze fluttered away for a moment. “It began with my professor introducing me to Du Fu’s poetry. I became consumed with wanting to understand the man behind the words—what he thought, what he believed. That path led me straight to Confucianism in the Tang Dynasty, and I suppose I never found my way back out.” She took a sip of coffee, as if to hide her slight embarrassment at the admission.

Just then, she glanced over his shoulder. “Excuse me,” she said, “my colleague is motioning for me. It was lovely chatting with you…”

“Zhao Ming,” he supplied, his name feeling like the most important word he’d ever spoken.

“It was lovely chatting with you, Mr. Zhao. Mary Thomas, my Chinese name is Xue Meili “I hope to see you again.” With a final bright smile and dismissive wave, she walked away.

Zhao Ming watched her go, utterly captivated. An American Confucianist. The contradiction was utterly compelling. “What an interesting woman,” he murmured to the empty air.

The space she left behind felt palpable, a sudden void. He finished his coffee, made a final, perfunctory round of the room, and took his leave. Pausing at the ballroom door, he cast one last look in her direction. The certainty that settled in his soul was as quiet and absolute as dawn. He had found his person. The how and the what next were terrifying, unknown territories, but the core truth was immutable. In her, he had found the missing piece of a puzzle he hadn’t even known he was trying to solve.