You are not the one

Chapter One — First Encountertitled Episode

Chapter One — First Encounter

The first time Meng Ruobai saw Zha Mo was at the Global Linear Algebra Composition.

It was a team competition. In the final round, Lavi Ring’s team from Harvard University faced off against Gavin’s team from Yale University.

It was a day when light poured into the competition hall.

Both teams had thirty minutes to solve the problem. Whoever produced the most precise solution would win.

Ruobai ran through countless possibilities in her mind, yet still couldn’t recall which formula she should use. Finally, with only ten minutes left, she arrived at an answer that was logically sound, if not daring. When time was up, both teams openly presented their reasoning processes and full solutions.

Zha Mo didn’t finish his solution.

But he filled ten entire sheets of paper with calculations.

He applied a brand-new approach based on infinite vectors, abandoning conventional algebraic methods and instead using layers of transformations and variations. It was bold, unconventional—exactly the method Ruobai had considered during the first twenty minutes. She had wrestled with it for a long, long time.

Should I use this method… or not?

In the end, she chose the conservative path. Her team won.

Yet there was no joy or triumph on her face.

On the massive screen, both teams’ approaches were displayed side by side. Standing ten meters away on the red carpet, Ruobai stared at Zha Mo’s unfinished solution. A faint sadness flickered through her eyes, lightly veined with red.

“Yes… Zha Mo used the newest method,” she thought. “It’s based on Professor Lun’s latest research at MIT. If only I’d had half the courage to try deriving it that way.”

It was lunchtime.

The competition was held at Harvard’s Department of Science and Technology, and all participants gathered to eat at a café inside the building. Amber-gem-colored rings hung from the ceiling. Warm lighting filled the hall. Thin white strips of light were embedded into scale-layered dining tables.

Ruobai ordered two Americanos at the counter.

“Eight dollars. Good enough—no need to be fancy.”

Zha Mo sat among his teammates. Two of them looked on the verge of tears, while another didn’t quite know whether to laugh or cry.

Longlong said,

“Gavin, honestly—you’ve already been deep into this research lately. I just wanted you to join a competition for fun, and you went and applied your entire research direction to the problem.”

Zha Mo’s eyes were angular, prism-like, as if he were the incarnation of an ancient fox. His eyebrows were thick, his features well-proportioned. His earlobes were full, his ears set lower than his brows. His hair was soft and smooth, the kind that looked pleasant to touch. At twenty-two, he insisted on slicking it all the way back, determined to appear mature.

He wore a black-and-white suit with irregular hems. With his left hand—veins faintly visible, bones sharply defined—he tugged at his tie. Turning his head the other way, he glimpsed the alluring golden clouds outside the café.

And Ruobai—

she saw his forehead, perfectly curved in the sunlight; his slightly aggressive brows; deep-set eyes; the high bridge of his nose; and finally, lips that looked surprisingly soft and pink.

She froze for a moment.

“Ah…”

She glanced to her right.

“Everyone’s just eating… It wouldn’t be awkward if I went over to ask a question, right?”

Phew…

Ruobai took a breath. Her knitted brows relaxed. With long, determined strides, she walked toward Zha Mo and sat down across from him.

“Sheldon, try this—I think the mozzarella here is amazing.”

Zha Mo scooped up a bite of cheese with his silver fork, engraved with a cursive H. He smiled lightly, as though spring itself had suddenly found color.

“Don’t change the subject. I’m being serious here,” Longlong said, slightly anxious. His brows furrowed, like autumn leaves in Boston stinging faintly in the cold.

Ruobai lifted her right hand helplessly and waved. Its pale knuckles were tinged with a healthy red.

“Hi… I actually have the same question as him.”

Unlike the smooth, delicate hands often seen across the Ivy League, Ruobai’s hands were a bit rough.

So what?

The translucent calluses along her ligaments were the result of last night’s workout—pull-ups at 5:55 p.m. She never cared much about what a girl was supposed to be like. She pointed at Longlong, who sat to Zha Mo’s right.

“Well,” Zha Mo said gently, “I don’t think rankings in a competition matter that much. What matters is pushing the field of mathematics forward—maybe even applying it to industry someday. If using a competition helps expose an academic idea, then more people might be willing to study this direction in the future.”

His personality was like soaked silver fungus—soft, yet resilient. He spoke calmly, sincerely, sharing his true thoughts with Ruobai. Though his father had always warned him never to reveal what he truly thought. Zha Mo listened—but not entirely. He liked speaking in half-truths anyway. His ideas were always shifting; today’s belief might not be tomorrow’s.

“Oh, I see,” Ruobai said. “I think your idea is really good. This meal is on me—after all, you’re at our school.”

She handed him a cup filled with thick, black coffee.

Zha Mo remembered her.

After all, Meng Ruobai was the champion that day 🏆.

This girl is impressive, he thought.

Ruobai dressed plainly, almost like one of the guys—slacks and a tie. Except her tie was brown. Her long black hair fell past her shoulders, gleaming like obsidian under the lights. She disliked makeup, so she’d only done proper skincare that day. Her heart-shaped face looked creamy, as if it might drip water. Her lower lashes framed full under-eyes. There was an indescribable strength in her gaze—like it could swallow the entire universe.

Zha Mo caught sight of her subtle double eyelids, her refined aquiline nose—people said such features attracted wealth. Her wild brows sat above ambitious eyes. Her chin was rounded, her lips watermelon-red—not too full, not too thin. Her brown tie was fastened neatly, perfectly vertical. Her inverted-triangle figure—broad shoulders tapering into a slim waist cinched by a leather belt—gave her an air of boldness uncommon in most girls.

She wore a mechanical wristwatch gifted by a friend from UPenn. Wispy curtain bangs framed her face, her softly curled hair brushing her shoulders. Under the café’s warm light, the strands shimmered faintly gold. Before a person arrived, so the saying went, came their scent—lilies mixed with tulips, drifting gently through the air.

She seemed born with a serious face. Calm. Restrained. Serene.

She’s different… but I can’t tell how, Zha Mo murmured to himself.

Like a cool breeze colliding with warm air indoors—snap!—something stirred inside him. It felt like a sleeping water lily 🪷 by the pond, blooming quietly at night.

He didn’t think much of it.

Not until four years later—when he met her again at his own company.