It Seems Like My Senior Seems to Like Me - Chapter 4

The overseas exchange student sharing session is held once every year. It is organized by the Academic Affairs Department, inviting students who had successfully applied for the program in the previous academic year to study abroad. The purpose is to let them share their experiences with the college, encouraging more students to apply for international exchange.

Normally, such opportunities are reserved for outstanding juniors and seniors, giving them a taste of the academic atmosphere at top international research institutions. This way, by the time they reach their fifth year and consider graduate school, they’ll have more options to compare.

However, Pei Suye went abroad as a sophomore.

First, because her academic performance was excellent. Second, because her English proficiency had already surpassed the requirement in her freshman year, with a near-perfect score in the TOEFL speaking test.

Thus, the college made an exception, granting her a spot to go abroad for half a year. Now, having returned with credits just in time for her junior year, she was invited to the stage—this time as the Student Council President—to share her study-abroad experience.

“Good afternoon, teachers, classmates, juniors, and friends.”

She held a microphone in her hand, the projection screen behind her showing her slides.

Listening to Pei Suye’s presentation was an enjoyment in itself. Her voice was as soft as silk, her content engaging and easy to understand. She never tried to flaunt her brilliance with technical jargon or obscure terms to sound profound.

The student who spoke before her, a senior, had focused heavily on the research atmosphere abroad. His slides were crammed with advanced terminology and long paragraphs that felt like reading comprehension tests—leaving the audience overwhelmed.

During his talk, Wei Xiaoxiao was slumped over, half-asleep:
“Why do we have to listen to such useless reports? Other than showing off, I really don’t care about those who went abroad.”

Ye Wanjia was struggling to translate the English on the slides.
“Do you even understand what he’s saying?”

Wei Xiaoxiao blinked drowsily and nodded:
“Mm. Basically: the labs are awesome, he’s awesome, his professor’s awesome, and he’s applying for a master’s program in one of those labs.”

“You’re amazing. I don’t understand most of it.”

“Well, I am a Jiangsu exam student, okay? My English still counts for something. But honestly, I bet most people here can’t follow either. I don’t even get why they scheduled this.”

The complaints stopped the moment Pei Suye went on stage.

Her ash-brown hair shimmered under the lights like moonlight. Dressed in a light bluish-green dress that accentuated her graceful aura, she captured every gaze in the room the instant she appeared. And her speech, too, was like moonlight—drawing the audience into a serene, luminous world.

“Perhaps many of you are curious about what we actually did abroad. What you see on the screen now is our daily schedule…”

She began with daily life, letting all 400 audience members immediately sense the rhythm of life overseas. The dense schedule filled with classes made people gasp.

“Holy crap…” Wei Xiaoxiao couldn’t hold back. “That’s as intense as senior year of high school!”

Ye Wanjia’s eyes widened. “They don’t even nap?”

Almost as if responding directly to her, Pei Suye explained on stage:
“As you may have noticed, people in the U.S. don’t take afternoon naps. At first, I really struggled to adapt to that.”

Wei Xiaoxiao froze, then quickly elbowed Ye Wanjia:
“Wow, look at you two, telepathy!”

Ye Wanjia blushed, shushing her:
“Keep your voice down!”

Once her friend quieted, she snuck another glance at the stage, greedily soaking in the moonlight-like presence. A small smile tugged at her lips—such little coincidences felt magical.

On stage, Pei Suye continued her smooth, engaging talk, sharing experiences from the audience’s perspective. On her last slide, she even listed a chart addressing the most pressing concern of students present.

“On the left are the three hard requirements for applying: academic performance, English proficiency, and conduct grades. These are non-negotiable, set by the college.

On the right are two flexible factors I personally believe are critical in competing for a spot. First, expression. Since applications require an English defense, strong communication skills leave a lasting impression on the evaluators. Second, confidence. Everyone at Nanzhou University has strong English, but many restrict themselves to writing. When it comes to speaking, they hesitate, unable to confidently voice their ideas. It’s like a full bottle of water that only shows half. So, confidence is equally vital.”

In just five minutes, she delivered a concise, balanced, and insightful talk. It was simple, practical, and rewarding—so much so that many students exited their mobile games to snap photos of every single slide.

At the end, came the Q&A session, with each audience member allowed to ask one question.

“Senior, my English scores aren’t very strong. Do you have any good learning tips?”

“President, with so many courses abroad, are there any you particularly recommend?”

The first two were routine questions, answered conventionally. Until a third male student stood up:

“Can I ask in English?”

Pei Suye nodded. “Of course.”

Then came his rapid-fire English, booming through the speakers:

“Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus begins the record of our hearts. The sweet smell of henna is in the air. My flute lies on the earth neglected, and your garland of flowers is unfinished…”

His delivery was fluent and unwavering, without a single pause, his speed leaving many dumbfounded.

“Damn… this guy’s intense…”

“Like, bro, why go overboard? Who’s gonna remember all that?”

“I know him. He’s a senior. Back then, he competed against Pei Suye for the exchange slot but wasn’t chosen. Bet he’s here to humiliate her.”

“What? If the president doesn’t understand his English, she’ll totally lose face!”

“Exactly. Putting a girl on the spot like that in front of everyone—ugh, so gross.”

Ye Wanjia, with poor listening skills, leaned on Wei Xiaoxiao:
“Did you get what he said?”

Wei Xiaoxiao abandoned her “Jiangsu student” pride for once:
“Other than ‘showing off,’ I got nothing.”

Now Ye Wanjia’s heart clenched too, eyes fixed on the stage. Pei Suye was still smiling faintly, calm as ever, like nothing could faze her.

How was she so composed? Clearly, that guy was trying to embarrass her. What would she do?

Would she admit, “I didn’t understand”? That would play right into his hands.

No. As Student Council President, she surely had the ability to handle surprises. Maybe she’d deflect: “This is an exchange session. What matters is everyone’s learning. Please repeat in Chinese.”

But that, too, would indirectly admit she couldn’t understand English after studying abroad.

Would she say that?

Ye Wanjia’s heart was pounding up to the ceiling. She held her breath, anxiously awaiting Pei Suye’s response.

“Alright.”

Her voice rang out, smooth but edged with faint contempt. Calmly, she said:

“What you just recited was Tagore’s poem, The Gardener.”

The room erupted.

“What?!”

“No way!”

“Pfft—”

“So he just came here to recite poetry?”

“And the president recognized it?!”

As the senior’s face turned pale, Pei Suye continued:
“Though your delivery was fluent, perhaps out of nerves you missed a line. Before ‘The sweet smell of henna is in the air,’ there should be: It is the moonlight night of March. But thank you for your question. If there are no more, I’ll yield the stage to the next speaker.”

Steady, calm, unyielding—she commanded the breath of all 400 people in the hall, standing like a Greek goddess statue.

The host, startled by the unexpected drama, hastily bridged to the next presenter. Meanwhile, the deflated senior slipped out of the room.

When the session ended, 400 students crowded toward the only exit. The narrow doorway jammed with bodies. As a volunteer, Ye Wanjia helped direct the flow, but then noticed—a male student was secretly using his phone to film up a girl’s skirt.

Unlike most girls, Ye Wanjia had a lifelong fondness for wuxia novels and carried a streak of righteousness. Seeing this, she charged forward and snatched the phone from him.

“Ah!”

The boy yelped in shock, turning to meet her blazing glare. His voice cracked as he shouted:

“What the hell are you doing?!”

His loud voice cut through the crowd. The stalled students turned to look toward the commotion.

Clutching the phone tightly, Ye Wanjia demanded:
“I should be asking you—why are you filming girls without permission?”

“I wasn’t! Are you crazy?!” he barked, lunging to grab the phone. Being tall and strong, he shoved her, sending her tumbling down the steps.

Clatter!

The phone hit the ground. As Ye Wanjia lost her balance, an arm caught her from behind.

“Ah!”

She didn’t see who it was—only that it felt like another righteous warrior rushing to her aid. Regaining her footing, she darted forward again, scooping up the locked phone.

“Dare you unlock your gallery? I clearly saw you filming!” she shouted, gripping the phone.

The boy grew furious.
“Who the hell do you think you are?! Why the fuck should I show you my phone?! Give it back!”

He moved to strike her, but was blocked by nearby male students.

Some say the most just group in the world is college students.

What might have been ignored—or merely gawked at—on the street became a rallying point here. Everyone joined in.

“Don’t lay a hand on her!”

“If you didn’t film anything, just open your gallery.”

Voices rose, the narrow exit erupting into chaos. The old wooden doors creaked dangerously under the pressure of the crowd.

Until—

The sound system flickered back on. Pei Suye’s voice rang out again. No longer soft and gentle, but sharp and commanding, like ice.

“Everyone, quiet down.”

The noise fell into silence. All eyes turned to her as she stepped out from backstage. Still in that bluish-green dress, but now she was no longer a graceful bamboo—she was a blade of bamboo, sharp as a knife.

“Don’t block the exit. Everyone leave in order. I’ll handle this.”

She shot a glance to the Academic Affairs head to help disperse the crowd.

Then, taking the phone from Ye Wanjia, she held it between her fingers, lifted it before the boy, her gaze cold.

“Either open your gallery,” she said, “or we call the police.”

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