Wednesday morning arrived with a sky washed pale blue, the kind that hinted at autumn even though summer still clung to the air. A faint warmth lingered in the sunlight, but the wind carried a hint of crispness that made me tug at the sleeves of my uniform. I told myself to act normal. To walk through the school gates as I always did—quiet, unnoticed, slipping between groups of chattering students without disturbing anyone. But my heart betrayed me, beating just a little too fast with every step.
Because I knew I would see him.
The thought alone felt dangerous.
When I entered the classroom, he was already there, of course. By the window again. His chair tilted back slightly, gaze wandering somewhere beyond the glass, as if the world outside held more interest than anything inside these four walls. He didn't need to look around for attention. People noticed him without him asking. I, on the other hand… I tried to head straight for my desk, suppressing the pull I always felt, telling myself not to let him see that I noticed him noticing me.
But the moment I passed his desk, his eyes flicked toward me. Just a fraction. Just enough.
"Morning," he said casually.
Two syllables, and still my breath stumbled.
"…Morning," I managed, my voice softer than I intended.
He smirked faintly, like he'd been expecting that exact response, then returned his gaze to the window. As if acknowledging me was the most natural thing in the world.
Around us, the classroom hummed with the usual chatter, pencils scratching, pages turning. Yet a few pairs of eyes lingered, and I sensed whispers floating at the edges—too low to catch clearly but sharp enough to feel. I kept my head down, arranging my books carefully, pretending not to notice.
By the time the teacher arrived and started the morning lessons, I could already feel the shift. The way people glanced at me, curious. The way the air seemed heavier whenever he leaned back in his chair, stretching with a lazy grace that somehow drew attention without effort. I caught myself stealing glances at him when I thought he wasn't looking, and each time, it felt as though a tiny current passed between us.
During mathematics, the teacher droned on about quadratic equations and formulas. I was working quietly, scribbling notes, when I felt a nudge at my elbow. My eyes flicked up, and there he was, leaning just slightly toward me, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
"What's the answer to number five?" he asked, low enough for only me to hear.
I blinked, startled. "…You weren't listening?"
"Obviously not," he said, voice almost teasing.
Suppressing a sigh, I leaned a little closer and whispered the solution. He didn't write it down immediately—just looked at me for a moment, as though weighing whether I was teasing him. Then, finally, he scrawled something on his paper with his messy handwriting, the strokes wild and unrefined compared to my neat, careful letters.
"Thanks," he murmured.
It shouldn't have meant anything. But somehow, it did.
By the time the lunch bell rang, I felt oddly restless. I had already decided to spend lunch in the library, away from the sudden wave of curious glances. I was gathering my books when a shadow fell over my desk.
"Come on," Ren Jiayun said simply.
I looked up. "What?"
"Lunch," he said, gesturing loosely toward the door. "You're not eating alone today."
My first instinct was to refuse. To tell him I was fine, that I liked the quiet. But the words stuck in my throat when I saw the way he was already waiting, as if the decision had been made the moment he stood up.
So, against every habit I had built, I followed him.
We ended up on the rooftop. The sky stretched wide above us, a soft wind carrying the scent of sun-warmed concrete. Hardly anyone came up here during lunch—it was too far from the cafeteria, too exposed. But with him, it didn't feel lonely.
He dropped his bag against the wall and sat casually, unwrapping another bun from the same bakery as yesterday. Then, without asking, he tossed me one.
"…You bought this again?"
"You skipped breakfast," he said simply, biting into his own.
I froze. "How do you—"
"You were too quiet this morning. And you touched your stomach once in class." His tone was matter-of-fact, like he was listing observations in a notebook.
I stared at him, unsure whether to feel embarrassed or grateful. Maybe both. "…You notice too much."
"Maybe." He leaned back, tilting his head toward the sky. "Or maybe everyone else just doesn't notice enough."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was… different. Almost comfortable. He wasn't hovering, wasn't asking questions or forcing conversation. He simply existed in the same space, letting the quiet stretch between us like a soft ribbon.
I bit into the warm bun, the sweetness lingering as I glanced out at the horizon. He was right—nobody else seemed to notice the small details, the little movements that made someone feel… human. But he did. And for some reason, that mattered.
We ate slowly, neither of us rushing. Occasionally, he would glance at me, studying my expressions, and I caught myself wondering what he saw in those quiet moments. He wasn't smiling broadly, wasn't teasing—he simply looked, as if trying to memorize something without words.
"You know," he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the breeze, "you always seem like you carry your own world with you."
I paused, the words settling around me. "…I guess I do."
"Not that it's bad," he added quickly, noticing my hesitation. "It's just… very you. And interesting."
I wasn't sure whether to feel flattered or self-conscious. Mostly, I felt… seen. Seen in a way that didn't make me nervous, didn't make me want to disappear. And that realization was both comforting and terrifying.
We finished our buns, and he finally stood, brushing crumbs off his sleeve. "Let's finish the history thing after school," he said.
"Library again?" I asked.
His gaze flicked toward me, unreadable but steady. "Unless you'd rather go somewhere else."
I hesitated, then shook my head. "…Library's fine."
"Good." His lips curved faintly. "See you there Yixin." ."