“We” Without “I” Is Not Valid

Two years after graduation, when Zhou Mingting’s voice echoed down the hallway once again, smiles spontaneously lit up the faces of her former teachers. The girl whose vibrant energy used to brighten campus corridors had returned, illuminating an ordinary afternoon with the crisp, buoyant air of early summer.

Speaking with her characteristic rapid-fire cadence, she immediately began sharing stories of her undergraduate life at Davidson College without missing a beat.

“In almost all my history classes, I’m the only student from China and the only non-native English speaker,” she said. “Most of my classmates come from affluent American families and elite private prep schools. Many choose history as a stepping stone to law school, but I enrolled simply because I love the subject. The same goes for environmental science.”

Neither path fit the typical stereotype expected of international Chinese students. “People expected me to study economics or psychology,” she reflected, “but I chose to focus on Jewish history and modern European history instead. Sitting among American students, they discussed the Holocaust; I was often the only person in the room who could offer a completely different cultural and historical reference point. At times, I actually considered transferring—the perspectives in class felt so uniform, as if everyone had been cast from the same mold. It felt almost too safe, to the point of being exhausting.”

What proved even more frustrating was the subtle cultural ignorance she encountered off-campus. Whenever she mentioned she grew up in Beijing, people often asked, half-jokingly, “Beijing, North Carolina?” as if it were improbable that a student from mainland China could sit in their classroom.

“I found myself having to clarify again and again: I am an international student, and I never lived in the United States before college,” she explained. “When people complimented my fluent English, I initially felt flattered—until I caught the underlying surprise in their tone, as if a Chinese student shouldn’t be able to speak so effortlessly. Over time, I learned to respond firmly: ‘I’m from Beijing; I just study here.’ I didn’t want to be mistaken for an American-born Chinese student, nor did I want to be perceived as ‘whitewashed.’ It felt like walking a fine line between wanting to belong and wanting to preserve my true identity.”

Yet through every interaction, she maintained a grounded sense of self.

“One day in class, where everyone had always called me by my English name, Tina, I suddenly mentioned, ‘You can also call me Minting—that’s my Chinese name.’ Surprisingly, the entire class started calling me Minting, which was wonderful,” she recalled. “Later, a friend mentioned ‘Minting’ to someone who asked, ‘Who is Minting?’ and my friend replied, ‘That’s Tina.’ I don’t know why, but I just felt like sharing it that day. Using an English name isn’t about pleasing anyone—‘Tina’ was given to me by my mother, and it’s as much my name as Minting. I’m comfortable with either.” 

It was not an act of resistance, but an act of self-affirmation.

This continuous process of reflection, questioning, and self-discovery defined almost every stage of Zhou Mingting’s youth.

From “Who Is Better” to “Who Am I”

After completing primary school, Mingting and her twin sister, Mingjia, transferred to Keystone Academy. They specifically requested to join the boarding program, spending the next six years growing up on campus.

Mingjia still vividly remembers her very first English class at Keystone. The teacher wrote a word on the board and asked the class to define it in English. Sitting at her desk, Mingjia’s mind went completely blank. It was not that she didn’t comprehend the vocabulary; she simply lacked the confidence and phrasing to articulate her thoughts. Around her, classmates were conversing, joking, and expressing complex ideas in fluent English.

Mingting started her Keystone journey in Level 3 English. Reflecting on those early days, she recalled that her main struggle was not capability, but confidence. “While other students were typing away effortlessly on their laptops, I barely knew my way around a keyboard,” she admitted.

Looking back, Mingjia described the initial pressure as overwhelming. She realized many of her peers had either attended international schools in Shunyi or grown up in bilingual households. Her background was different: “Even though I had attended a private primary school, I didn’t have that kind of immersive English environment.”

She wrote extensively in her journal during that transition. One entry stood out in her memory: “I want to ask the Head of School if I can move back to Level 3.” Yet in hindsight, those academic hurdles were merely minor bumps in the road. What excited the sisters far more was that Keystone offered them something they had never experienced before: separate schedules, distinct social circles, and room to grow as individuals.

Their lives before Keystone had been tightly intertwined. When they were younger, their mother—seeking to streamline drop-offs and extracurricular schedules—enrolled them in the exact same activities. They took piano lessons together and attended the same art classes. Mingting had little interest in practicing rigid classical pieces, preferring creative musical exploration, yet for years she never voiced her frustration. Placed on the exact same track, they were constantly measured by the same yardstick and subjected to the same superficial comparisons: “Who plays better?” “Whose drawing looks more realistic?” 

“We were compared against each other for as long as I can remember,” Mingting said. “The younger sister is so outgoing when she speaks, while the older sister is so quiet. The younger sister has a smaller face, while the older sister’s hands are a bit large.”

Mingjia nodded in agreement: “People weren’t seeing two distinct individuals—they were playing a game of ‘spot the difference.’”

“It made me feel like I lacked agency,” Mingting reflected. “It felt as if my personal identity was constantly dissolving into the background.”

At Keystone, however, they finally found the space to embrace those differences.

To Be Seen, and Then to Be Yourself

Gradually, each sister found her own rhythm and place within the community.

For Mingjia, that place was the dance studio. Every Friday after school, she would walk down the stairwell and push open the studio door. Inside, twenty or thirty students from Grades 7 through 12 were already stretching, practicing steps in front of the mirrors, or warming up to the music. Mingjia would step into the room and quietly find her spot. Reserved as ever in conversation, the moment the music started, she transformed.

“When I dance, I become someone else,” Mingjia reflected. “I didn’t even know what major those senior students were studying until after they graduated, but when we were dancing together, none of that mattered.”

Her dedication caught the attention of the dance instructor during rehearsals, who consistently offered encouragement and guidance. Before long, senior students began approaching her: “We’re working on a new piece—why don’t you join us?” Their invitation felt effortless, as if she naturally belonged.

It was the first time Mingjia felt truly “seen”—a feeling of being actively sought out. She didn’t have to fight for recognition; instead, someone reached out and invited her into the fold.

For Mingting, her sanctuary was the volleyball court. In Grade 7, she walked into the gymnasium and fell in love with the sport—the squeak of sneakers on the hardwood, the energy of the team, and the focus required to track, set, and spike the ball. On the court, she didn’t need to prove her intelligence or explain complex English vocabulary; she just needed to play. The girls on that team became her core circle—the same friends she’s closest to today.

Mingting also found her voice in the theater. In Grade 8, her drama teacher made an unexpected proposal: “Zhou Mingting, I want you to direct this play.”

“It wasn’t just a symbolic title,” Mingting said. “I was actually given real responsibility.”

She began meeting with faculty to analyze scripts, make creative decisions, and direct rehearsals. Nobody treated her like an inexperienced middle schooler, and soon she forgot her age altogether. “That was when I felt seen,” she said.

Her analytical curiosity extended beyond the stage. When Keystone hosted a visiting documentary filmmaker, Mingting raised her hand during the Q&A: “As a documentary director, do you ever intentionally guide your subjects’ answers to steer the narrative toward a preferred outcome?”

Afterward, a teacher commended her sharp question. “Instead of putting guest speakers on a pedestal,” Mingting reflected, “I asked what I was genuinely curious about.” Looking back, she considers this her most valuable takeaway from Keystone: learning never to accept anyone’s word as absolute truth without critical reflection.

As time went on, the sisters built distinct, independent lives. Their social networks became two large, separate circles that barely overlapped, allowing each to flourish on her own terms.

If adolescence is a journey of self-discovery, Keystone provided both sisters with unique, essential support. Within the school’s diverse environment, teachers demonstrated a keen ability to recognize and nurture individual strengths.

In Mingjia, coaches and teammates recognized her calm, grounded resilience on the volleyball court and drew her into leadership roles. In the dance studio, she found a powerful physical outlet to express her emotions.

In Mingting, theater directors harnessed her dynamic energy to navigate complex dramatic characters under the stage lights, while literature teachers cultivated her sharp insights during class discussions.

A particularly poignant moment occurred in Mingting’s math class. She had long struggled with the subject, but her math teacher never lost patience. When handing back tests, he would walk over to her desk and quietly note: “Last time you only worked through the first step of this problem; this time you made it all the way to the third step.” He tracked her incremental progress, consistently telling struggling students: “Next time is your comeback—you can do this.”

Mingting later realized the profound impact of that approach: she didn’t need to be flawless, because every effort was recognized. “He respected my effort and celebrated my small victories, which kept me motivated,” she said. “Even though math wasn’t my strong suit, I never grew to hate it.”

Stepping away from constant comparison, the sisters embraced a transformative truth: their individual achievements were not mutually exclusive, and both could thrive simultaneously.

Mingjia recalled how, in their childhood, Mingting relied on her for everyday interactions: “She used to hang back and let me handle communications, even simple phone calls.” But during their years at Keystone, Mingjia noticed a shift: “She no longer needed me to step in for her.”

Mingting observed a different evolution in her sister. “In private, she deeply enjoys her own quiet space,” Mingjia noted.

“We developed a mutual understanding,” Mingjia added. “She pursued theater, and I focused on dance. I stopped pressuring her to come watch every one of my rehearsals, and she gave me my own space.”

Mingting acknowledged her own effort to understand others: “I think I’m naturally attuned to people’s needs and feelings. It takes work, but I’ve gotten better at it.” She paused before adding, “And that effort doesn’t feel exhausting anymore.”

Reaching this balance took time. As Mingting later observed: “We both came to realize that my success looks different from yours, but they can beautifully coexist.”

“If she weren’t my sister,” Mingjia joked, “I probably wouldn’t have become friends with her.” Mingting laughed and nodded in agreement.

While the twin’s story is about finding individual identity within shared sisterhood, the journey of Zhu Zifeng and Zhu Zipei explores a different question: how to forge a distinct self from a shared foundation.

Becoming “Me” Within “Us”

Zhu Zifeng still vividly remembers her experience in her IBDP Chinese class at Keystone.

It was during the most demanding stretch of the International Baccalaureate Diploma Programme (IBDP). Assignments were piling up, and deadlines arrived in quick succession. Yet, their Chinese literature teacher Feng Qiongqiong designed a special class. She placed a poem by Yu Guangzhong and Orhan Pamuk’s Istanbul on the table, and then posed an open-ended question: “What does ‘hometown’ mean to you?”

Silence settled over the room for a moment before one student spoke up, then another. The answers varied wildly. Some spoke of geographic roots; others recalled a specific person tied to their memories. A few described a fleeting state of mind—a point in time to which they could never return.

Another spring day remains lingering in her memory.Outside, sunlight flooded the classroom balcony. Eventually, the girls walked out, sat together on the floor tiles, and took turns reading Yu Guangzhong’s poetry aloud. Sunlight washed over the open pages, the tiles, and their eyes as they shared what the lines meant to them.

Toward the end of the lesson, Ms. Feng mentioned that she often designed unscripted sessions like this—and that many alumni looked back on them as defining moments of their high school years.

When the IBDP curriculum came to an end, everyone in the class took a copy of their favorite book they had studied in class, and everyone signed their names on the flyleaf. They signed not just their names, but also words that looked like poetry.

Prior to joining Keystone, Zifeng and Zipei had spent a year living in Geneva, Switzerland. Attending a local school alongside classmates from around the world, they learned to navigate daily life in a foreign language. Though brief, that year made living in a multilingual environment feel natural rather than intimidating. When they transitioned to Keystone, Zifeng felt no culture shock. “It felt completely comfortable,” she noted. “I gravitated toward an environment that felt open and unconstrained.”

Although the sisters looked remarkably alike as children, Keystone’s faculty never mistook one for the other, even on their very first day.

Throughout their school years, the twins were nearly inseparable. Sharing a natural overlap in interests, they joined the same dance troupe and co-founded a literary theater group. Yet, even as they ventured into new activities side by side, those shared projects subtly revealed their distinct individual perspectives.

While Zifeng found herself drawn to pure literature, Zipei discovered a passion for educational design during their community service projects. Zipei observed that while they worked together, “we realized that we had different areas of focus.”

Zipei clearly remembers a sunny Saturday morning on campus. The sisters had opened a classroom door to welcome the children of Keystone’s support staff—cafeteria workers, groundskeepers, and maintenance personnel—for a volunteer tutoring session. The room was filled with elementary and middle school students, their eyes bright with curiosity.

Standing by the blackboard, Zipei and Zifeng produced colorful vocabulary cards they had prepared days in advance and led a series of interactive learning games. Watching the children shift from hesitant quietness to eagerly raising their hands, Zipei felt the tangible, human warmth of education for the first time.

“Designing a lesson from scratch, delivering it, and observing how the kids responded—that was a complete revelation for me,” Zipei said. While she couldn’t solve broader structural inequities, she believed she could help these children experience a learning environment defined by equality and respect.

When it came time to select her university major, her mind returned to that Saturday classroom.

For Zifeng, committing to literary studies was a clear-eyed choice. “I have a pragmatic view of my own writing,” she said candidly. “I don’t claim to possess earth-shattering literary genius; creative writing is a personal outlet for me.”

Precisely because of that perspective, she preferred to approach literature as a rigorous academic framework—the study of humanity itself. To her, textual analysis offered a precise lens through which to understand human dilemmas and societal shifts. Her subsequent university research focused on “Global Modernism,” investigating how non-Western nations—particularly China, with its distinct historical lineage—articulated their own modern experiences through literature.

In contrast, Zipei’s choice of major emerged from a process of elimination. Before college application season began, she sat down with a blank sheet of paper. She had long assumed she would follow Zifeng into literature, but she stopped to ask herself a fundamental question: “Do I truly want to pursue literature as a lifelong academic path?” The answer was no.

She listed every potential field of study on the paper and systematically crossed them out: she eliminated natural sciences because she hadn’t taken Higher Level IB science courses; she ruled out journalism to avoid high-pressure, hyper-competitive environments. Finally, her pen rested on education.

Zipei admitted that highly abstract, systemic theories often felt detached. “Rather than grand narratives, it is concrete actions—like reconfiguring a classroom space or crafting a thoughtful teaching activity—that bring a genuine sense of purpose and warmth to both myself and others.”

The emotional security cultivated during their years at Keystone gave both sisters an enduring composure when facing external pressures. When Grade 12 application deadlines arrived, they disregarded any expectation of attending the same institution, choosing instead to apply to universities independently.

In fact, they consciously ruled out applying to the same schools, selecting institutions solely based on individual fit.

Zifeng recalled assuming they would study the same subject, given Zipei’s passion for reading and writing. But when Zipei voiced her hesitation, Zifeng reflected on their shared past: “We did so many things together, but beneath the surface, our focus was already diverging.”

Zipei observed a similar shift in her sister. During the summer after Grade 10, Zifeng undertook a sociology research project. Zipei, who had expected her sister to remain strictly within traditional literature, was surprised to see Zifeng explore “global issues and the tangible intersection between literature and the real world.”

To describe their relationship, Zifeng chose the word symbiosis: “The two of us form a remarkably stable, symbiotic system.”

Though people frequently compared them—noting how “Zifeng is like this, while Zipei is like that”—neither sister minded. “We don’t mind the comparisons, nor do we mind how similar we are,” Zifeng said. When faced with the same opportunity or choice, Zipei added, their instinct was simply to defer to one another.

“I study to satisfy my curiosity and pursue what I love,” Zifeng said, “not for grades or external validation.”

In Zipei’s eyes, Zifeng was always destined for literary scholarship—a realization that first struck her when they were just five or six years old. She remembered an early art class where the teacher handed out canvas bags and markers, asking the children to draw whatever they wished. Sitting beside her, Zifeng didn’t draw pictures. Instead, in childish handwriting, she wrote a question across the cloth:

“What is art? It is beautiful scenery and ideas.”

A nearby adult paused and bent down to read the bag. A six-year-old child had written a question on canvas in dark blue ink—not asking anyone in particular, but simply leaving the thought there to exist.

Even then, Zipei sensed that her sister was someone who would spend her life pursuing ideas, theoretical concepts, and the fundamental questions of human existence.

“That’s why I always knew,” Zipei said softly, “that she was meant for literature.”

Same Floor, Different Doors

On the same boarding floor at Keystone, two pairs of twin sisters lived strikingly different daily lives.

Zhu Zifeng and Zhu Zipei began boarding in Grade 9, their rooms directly across the hallway from each other. The dormitory layout brought students into frequent contact in the common room. “We would sit together—each working on our own homework,” Zifeng recalled. From Grades 6 through 12, except for a few overlapping IBDP courses, they were intentionally placed in separate classes. “I think the school did that on purpose,” Zifeng noted.

Yet back in the dorm, they spent nearly all their time side-by-side. Zipei recalled sitting together even when working on entirely different subjects. Zifeng added that neither ever felt the other’s presence was a distraction: “No matter what we were doing, we could just be together. We never felt a need for forced solitude.”

This dynamic—of quiet companionship without mutual disruption—carried over effortlessly into university. At college, Zipei shared a room with two American roommates from different majors, describing the atmosphere as a source of “quiet comfort.” For her, the dorm was simply a sanctuary for rest, free from social pressure.

Zifeng’s university experience was even more unique. She lived with the same roommate for four straight years. At times, days would pass without a single spoken word between them. Yet at the end of every academic year, her roommate would say without hesitation: “Let’s room together again next year.” Before summer breaks, they exchanged letters filled with poetic, deeply heartfelt words.

“There was an unspoken agreement between us,” Zifeng reflected. “We both silently agreed that the dorm was a space to recharge, so there was never any pressure to entertain each other.”

She paused, then added warmly, “But we genuinely cared about each other.”

Across the hall, Zhou Mingting and Zhou Mingjia operated on a completely different frequency. Looking back, Mingting could not recall a single instance where the two of them ate dinner together. Their social lives formed two separate spheres with only a tiny point of intersection.

“During the day, we almost never ran into each other,” Mingjia said.

For six years, they lived on the same floor, each returning to her own room and closing the door. Behind those doors lay entirely separate worlds—yet each sister took comfort in knowing exactly who lived next door.

That same spirit of self-sufficiency defined their university years. At Davidson College, Mingting shared an apartment with a roommate from Hong Kong, establishing a relaxed, low-maintenance dynamic. Meanwhile, Mingjia lived on her own in New York City, learning to navigate the raw energy of Manhattan by herself.

In Manhattan, and at Davidson

During her time at Keystone, Zhou Mingjia went through a period of persistent nihilism.

“What was the point of writing another essay just to get a grade?” she remembered asking herself. “It wasn’t something I actually enjoyed.” Unable to pinpoint the root of her disillusionment, she eventually chose to study psychology in college, hoping to understand the underlying mechanics of her own mind.

There was no sudden epiphany. She simply attended lectures, read through course materials, and gradually worked her way through the fog. Yet finding her precise direction took time. At the University of California, Irvine (UCI), she initially explored consumer psychology and fashion. Later, NYU’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study allowed her to design a custom interdisciplinary program. But after trying it, she realized it still wasn’t the right fit, ultimately pivoting to economics.

“I realized economics would give me practical tools to understand how the real world operates,” she said.

After her freshman year, Mingjia made the decision to transfer from the University of California, Irvine (UCI) to New York University (NYU). Enrolling in NYU’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study, which allowed her to design a custom interdisciplinary program, she initially explored consumer psychology and fashion. But after trying them out, she realized it still wasn't the right fit, ultimately pivoting to economics.

The relentless pace of New York could be overwhelming, yet she was unwilling to return to the laid-back routine of California. “It isn’t an easy life,” she admitted, “but it isn’t bad either. It’s certainly better than staying in a comfortable bubble—just eating, sleeping, and drifting through college without purpose.”

Along the wind-swept avenues of Manhattan in dead winter, Mingjia—naturally introverted and once so anxious she would tremble when making phone calls—forced herself to open her laptop every day to send cold networking emails. Sitting in crowded Manhattan coffee shops, her palms damp with sweat, she maintained a warm, steady smile while interviewing seasoned industry professionals.

Where she had once expressed her individuality through vibrant, frequently dyed hair, the high-pressure environment of New York tempered her focus. She washed away the bright hair color and let go of her obsession with outward appearances. “I never imagined I would do something like this,” she reflected, “but I did.”

Over time, Mingjia realized that whenever she faced an unfamiliar environment or a daunting task, her instinct was to break the challenge down into manageable steps—a discipline she had developed at Keystone. “Anxiety comes from a problem feeling too vast,” she noted.

“Keystone taught us how to deconstruct complex processes step by step. Eventually, you realize that’s how everything in life gets solved.”

Meanwhile, Zhou Mingting’s childhood fascination with history carried her into advanced coursework in high school and a full major at Davidson.

“History makes you feel small,” Mingting reflected. Measured against a timeline of centuries, individual anxieties lose their weight. Rather than feeling disheartened by this insignificance, she found it grounding—it made her more resilient and empathetic.

Alongside history, she pursued environmental science. In college, she led a field research project testing water quality in a river near a local elementary school, eventually submitting her findings to the municipal government. “Environmental science doesn’t require grand narratives,” she observed. “You make an impact by digging deep into concrete, everyday details.”

At Davidson—a small liberal arts college in the American South where international Chinese students were a rarity—Mingting spent long hours in document-filled archive rooms. She combed through historical records of water pollution in North Carolina towns and examined centuries-old logs documenting young African girls carrying water, connecting directly with the lived realities of people long past.

Watching the sunlight stream across yellowed parchment, Mingting took a deep breath. “When you stretch your perspective across a thousand years, we are all just tiny fragments of a larger story. That realization makes you so much more patient with the world.” The long-term perspective of history completely healed the self-conscious anxieties of her youth.

On the winter streets of New York, Mingjia continued sending out emails, carving out her place in the city. In the quiet stacks of the Davidson library, Mingting watched the afternoon light filter across archival papers, feeling the lingering weight of past worries drift away.

Though their paths had diverged into entirely different landscapes, both sisters were moving forward—fully, confidently, and on their own terms.

Looking Back from a Distance

During college, Zhu Zipei studied in Hamilton, a quiet town in upstate New York. She attended a liberal arts college known for its secluded campus, crisp autumns, and biting winters.

There, she took a course titled Anti-Racist and Inclusive Education, focusing on practical methods to support children with diverse learning needs. The course prioritized actionable classroom design over abstract theory.

One lesson stood out vividly in her memory. The professor demonstrated how to reimagine traditional classroom spaces: instead of seating every student at identical, uniform desks, the room was divided into distinct learning zones—clusters of tables, individual study nooks, soft floor mats, rugs, and even sensory items like ice packs. Students could choose the space where they felt most comfortable and move freely whenever they needed a change of environment.

Another module explored how to teach a single concept by tapping into different learning styles. When introducing a topic like “dinosaurs,” for instance, the classroom was set up with three interactive corners: a sandbox with fossil models for tactile discovery, a reading corner stocked with picture books and a visual art station with drawing supplies and puzzles. Various distinct pathways to master the exact same knowledge.

Zipei spoke about these concepts with quiet precision, recalling every detail and design intent with absolute clarity.

She also completed field observations at local public schools, visiting two very different learning environments. One was a resource room designed for Grade 6 through 8 students with special learning needs—a space where students who attended general education classes could receive tailored, one-on-one academic support. The other was a high school agricultural science class held inside an expansive greenhouse, where students tended to various plant species, each requiring a customized care routine. Looking around the greenhouse, filled with seeds, tools, and living experiments, Zipei realized it was unlike any classroom she had experienced at Keystone, opening her eyes to new possibilities in educational design.

Meanwhile, Zhu Zifeng continued her deep dive into literary scholarship. Studying at a liberal arts college with small class sizes and low student-to-faculty ratios gave her direct access to her professors. “Faculty always had time to engage in deep, nuanced academic discussions,” Zifeng noted.

In seminar rooms and office hours, she tested new ideas, received rigorous feedback, and refined her analytical framework. College allowed her to achieve genuine academic breakthroughs, pushing her understanding of literature into more complex, systematic territory.

Though their paths had diverged, both sisters felt a profound, shared evolution in how they connected.

Zipei recalled a trip to an art museum where they stood before a striking abstract sculpture—metallic, golden, and organic in form. It resembled a bird, yet its wings were folded inward, forming an elongated, graceful arc frozen between movement and stillness.

“When I first saw it, I didn’t quite know what to make of it,” Zipei admitted.

Back in secondary school, neither sister possessed the theoretical language to fully appreciate abstract modern art. But after years of studying art history and modernist theory, Zifeng stood before the sculpture and saw a narrative hidden within its form. Standing beside her, Zipei watched her sister gaze at the piece for a long time, noticing how completely Zifeng’s perspective had transformed. Zipei said nothing, simply respecting the moment.

Rather than comparing specific course material, the sisters found themselves fascinated by each other’s evolving intellectual interests and ways of seeing the world. “Tracking how our perspectives shift and learning about the new ideas the other is exposed to,” Zipei noted, “is genuinely captivating.”

Zifeng shared that sentiment. While their academic disciplines no longer overlapped, their conversations had grown richer: “In high school, we were always talking about the exact same assignments and shared experiences. Now, every conversation brings new insights into things I wouldn’t have understood otherwise. It feels like talking with a close friend who has lived an entirely different life.”

Occasionally, they discussed the future. They recognized that as adult life unfolded, they would see less of each other, yet the distance brought no anxiety. “We know our bond won’t fundamentally change,” Zifeng said.

After a thoughtful pause, 

Zifeng added: “Our timelines run in perfect parallel. We share a foundational understanding of our formative years and the world we grew up in. That shared history allows us to understand each other without explanation.”

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Toward the end of the interview, Zifeng reflected on what Keystone meant to them: “At Keystone, we found a genuine sense of belonging. But for me, belonging didn’t depend on being in the same club, belonging to a specific clique, or doing everything together. It existed at the level of values and ideas—the core principles the school championed were the very ones I came to believe in.”

Later, Zipei would occasionally picture that golden arc again—suspended in mid-air, poised delicately between flight and stillness. She realized that some experiences are like that sculpture: in the moment you encounter them, you cannot predict where or how deeply they will leave their mark.

Yet between the two of them, that shared understanding remains—a quiet, enduring proof of each other’s existence.