He remembers the study schedule: wake at 5 AM, review English vocabulary until 6, school until 5 PM, cram school until 9, self-study until midnight. He remembers the ranking boards posted every week, his name climbing steadily toward the top. He remembers the weight of expectation, not just from teachers but from something ancestral, something that lived in the walls of their apartment and whispered about family honor.
His father was proud of the grades. Jian could tell in the rare moments they were together, the way his father would nod at report cards and say "Good. Keep going." But there was always distance there. His father looked at him like he was evaluating a project, not a son.
"You should study abroad," his father said one night, the summer before Jian's final year. They were eating dinner, the three of them, a rare complete family moment. "America has the best computer science programs. MIT, Stanford, Carnegie Mellon."
Jian's mother had set down her chopsticks. "He can study here. Tsinghua is excellent."
"Tsinghua is good," his father agreed. "But America is better. And Jian needs to see the world. He needs to understand how things work there."
Jian remembers the look that passed between his parents. Something unspoken, something heavy.