(Jian's POV, but told through the quiet lens of Cheng Wei's misunderstanding)
If I were to imagine what went through his mind after sports class—
if I allowed myself to sketch the outline of his thoughts the way a writer traces a shadow before filling it with ink—
I suppose it would look something like this:
He would have walked back toward the classroom with the same sharp, impatient strides he always carried,
his hair still damp from the cold wind,
the warmth of the sports field fading from his skin while the winter air slipped beneath his uniform and settled against his spine.
He would be annoyed—
not at anyone specific,
not at anything concrete—
but annoyed in the vague, restless way people become when something under their ribs feels tight and unresolved.
Maybe he kept replaying the stupid morning incident,
the noise,
the fight,
the bottle breaking,
the humiliation of losing his temper in public.
Maybe he cursed himself for letting someone like me—
quiet, expressionless—
see him in that moment.
He always seemed to hate that.
He hated being seen by me.
Or at least,
that is the impression I carried.
If I try to imagine him walking,
I picture his jaw clenched,
his fingers tapping against the cap of his water bottle,
every footstep a little harder than necessary
as he tried to force his irritation back into whatever corner of himself, he used to store unwanted emotions.
He would open the classroom door expecting emptiness.
He always returned quickly when he forgot something.
I had noticed that small pattern in him.
And then he would step inside.
He would see the room filled with sunlight and dust and silence—
and me.
Sleeping.
My head resting on my folded arms,
my hair falling over my eyes,
the warm gold of winter settling across my face as if the season had decided to claim me for itself for a few moments.
And if I imagine his reaction—
if I allow myself to guess—
I can only assume it would be something sharp and uncomfortable,
the kind of feeling that twists itself into anger simply because it has nowhere else to go.
Because what else could someone like him feel when looking at someone like me?
Annoyance.
Frustration.
That strange irritation he always seemed to wear whenever our eyes met.
In my imagination,
he would freeze for a second—
not out of softness,
but out of irritation at finding me in the one place he didn't expect me.
He would scowl at the sight,
hating the stillness I carried,
hating the calmness, he could never achieve,
hating the quiet that wrapped itself around me like a second skin.
And then,
as soon as I moved even slightly,
he would shut the door on the moment—
slam it closed in his chest,
turn away,
and leave quickly,
as if running from something he didn't want to see twice.
I imagine his footsteps heavy in the hallway.
I imagine him breathing hard for no reason.
I imagine him telling himself the same thing he always seemed to project toward me:
"I can't stand him."
I imagine this because it is easier
than imagining anything else.
Because people like him
do not look at people like me
with anything gentler than disdain.
And so,
in the silence that followed his exit,
I told myself a version of his thoughts that made the most sense to me:
He hated me.
He hated the sight of me asleep.
He hated the calm on my face.
He hated that I existed in the spaces he didn't expect.
And if there was anything lingering in his chest
after he left the room—
anything heavy,
anything warm,
anything that refused to settle—
I told myself it was just leftover anger.
Not longing.
Not softness.
Not the beginning of something neither of us could name.
Because I didn't know,
not then,
how wrong I truly was.