What I found between the lines of the court

In the final year of my undergraduate studies, I took part in my university’s “Sanhao Cup” volleyball tournament as a member of the Law School team.

Playing in a volleyball competition had always been a dream of mine, yet a men’s volleyball team in the Law School had never existed until this year. From the moment our team was formed to the day we stepped onto the court, less than a month had passed. Still, we managed to develop a remarkable sense of teamwork, perseverance, and courage. We practiced every day after class, squeezing training into whatever time we had left. On weekends, we traveled to Zijingang Campus to train on professional courts, where the echo of the ball and the vastness of the stadium sharpened our focus and brought us closer together as a team.

On the court, we were clearly not as strong as teams from other faculties—their squads had been established earlier, trained more frequently, and had access to better facilities—but we never gave up. For me, sports are not defined by winning or losing; they are about challenging oneself and experiencing the beauty of cooperation. More importantly, I gained something I had long been missing: friendships grounded in trust, care, and genuine affection—something the first three years of my university life had lacked. After the matches, we would gather together, reliving the passion and adrenaline of the game and talking late into the night about life, dreams, and everything beyond the court.

In the past, I may have evaluated myself almost entirely through academic performance, reducing my worth to a set of external metrics. I worried about grades, rankings, and the shape of my future. But I gradually realized that even in the midst of uncertainty, I could choose to live with both feet on the ground—

to feel the shift of the weather on my skin,

to watch leaves deepen in color as the seasons change,

to savor the textures of simple meals,

to return to a life that is honest and unfiltered.

Some experiences cannot be neatly put into words; some forms of sincerity resist expression.

Yet they remain—quiet, luminous, and tucked safely in the deepest corners of memory.