I don't remember the exact sound that pulled me out of sleep—
maybe it was the faint scrape of a shoe against the floor,
or the soft click of the classroom door being pushed open,
or perhaps simply the change in the air that always arrives when another presence enters a silent space—
but whatever it was, it stirred me from the warm haze of my nap,
pulling me slowly back into the quiet, sunlit classroom.
My head was still resting on my folded arms,
and instead of lifting it immediately,
I opened my eyes just enough to let a thin sliver of the world in,
the way a cautious person peeks through a doorway before stepping outside.
At first everything was blurred by sleep—
sunlight stretched in long golden bands across the desks,
dust drifting lazily like tiny creatures suspended in amber—
but then, gradually, a shape at the edge of my vision sharpened into something more definite.
A silhouette.
Tall, tense, unmoving.
And even before my sight fully cleared,
my body recognized him in a way my mind took a second longer to process.
Sen Jian.
He stood near the doorway,
his posture rigid in that way people freeze when caught between leaving and wanting to stay for reasons they don't understand yet,
his hand wrapped so tightly around his water bottle that the plastic bent slightly under his grip,
his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that didn't belong to casual curiosity.
There was something in his eyes—
something I could not name,
something raw and unguarded,
as if he had stumbled upon a moment he was never meant to see.
The winter sunlight played across my cheek,
and the breeze slipping in through the half-open window lifted strands of my hair in slow, weightless movements—
and for a very brief second,
something in his expression shifted,
as though he was seeing me not as the quiet boy he avoided,
but simply as someone…
sleeping.
But the moment I shifted slightly—
just the smallest movement of my hand against the desk—
whatever softness had flickered across his face vanished instantly,
replaced by a sharp tightening of his jaw,
like he had been caught in a feeling he did not want to be caught in.
He snapped his gaze away so fast it was almost violent,
as if looking at me for even a second longer was something he couldn't allow himself,
and in that sudden shift,
every line of his body hardened into a shape that spoke clearly of irritation and restraint.
He didn't speak,
didn't offer even a minimal greeting
or a careless insult
or any form of recognition.
He simply turned,
shoulders stiff,
pushing the door open with more force than was necessary,
the metal frame rattling in protest as he walked out without a single backward glance.
The sound of the door closing echoed in the empty room,
carrying with it a kind of finality that felt strangely familiar,
the kind that settles around people who never say what they mean
and never mean what they say.
I lifted my head fully,
a soft ache stretching down my neck from sleeping in the wrong position,
and blinked at the dust-motes dancing lazily in the sunlight.
For a moment I simply sat there,
letting the cold breeze cool the warmth that still lingered on my skin,
trying to understand the strange tension he always seemed to carry whenever our eyes met.
But understanding never came.
Instead, a quiet conclusion did—
the same one I'd drawn for years.
Of course he hated me.
Of course, my existence irritated him.
Of course, every time he looked at me, his expression hardened like a fist closing around anger he didn't bother to hide.
To someone like him,
I must have seemed like the worst kind of reminder—
silent, calm, composed—
the very opposite of his loud, burning world.
There was no other explanation.
I leaned back against my chair, exhaling softly,
and let the winter light fall across my eyes again.
Whatever I was to Sen Jian—
it certainly wasn't warmth.
To him,
I was simply a cold draft passing through his life,
irritating, unwanted,
easily blamed for feelings he did not want to have.
And I told myself that was enough.
That it didn't matter.
That he didn't matter.
But the shift in the air where he had stood a moment ago
told a different story—
a story I would not understand until much, much later.