The last bell of the day rang with a tired metallic echo,
vibrating faintly through the window frames and the wooden legs of our desks
as if the entire building sighed in relief that the day was finally over.
Students flooded the hallways almost immediately—
a wave of chatter, laughter, slamming lockers,
and the hurried rustle of bags being thrown over shoulders
as everyone prepared to escape into the fading winter afternoon.
I stayed seated for a moment longer,
closing my notebook with careful precision,
sliding it into my bag as the room emptied around me.
The classroom door banged open repeatedly as people pushed through it,
the hallway outside a river of noise that made my calm movements feel strangely isolated.
When I finally stepped outside,
the golden light of the near-setting sun stretched across the courtyard,
painting long shadows that looked like stretched silhouettes of memories I hadn't made yet.
The air was cold enough to make my breath visible,
but warm enough that the chill no longer hurt.
Chen was waiting near the entrance,
leaning against the pillar with his hands in his pockets,
watching the flow of students as if the entire scene was some play
he had been forced to attend but was determined to critique anyway.
When he saw me,
his posture straightened just slightly—
a subtle shift that most people wouldn't notice,
but one I had learned to read years ago.
"Let's go," he said mildly,
adjusting his bag strap as he fell into step beside me.
The ease between us wrapped itself around my shoulders like a scarf—
quiet, familiar, unspoken.
As we walked through the courtyard toward the school gates,
I heard loud voices from behind.
I didn't need to turn to recognize them.
Sen Jian and his group.
His friends walked in a cluster—
laughing too loudly,
shoving each other,
throwing jokes into the cold air like sparks from a bonfire.
His girlfriend clung to his arm,
smiling brightly at something one of the boys said,
her voice high and sweet as winter candy.
Jian walked in the center of them—
the sun catching in the strands of his dark hair,
his jacket slung casually over one shoulder,
water bottle swinging loosely in his hand,
that familiar swagger in every step he took.
To anyone watching,
he would look effortlessly alive,
comfortably chaotic,
surrounded by warmth and noise and attention.
But I saw something else.
Or perhaps I only imagined it.
Each time his friends burst into laughter,
his smile felt a fraction late—
as if part of him was still somewhere else,
stuck in a place his mind couldn't leave.
Our paths naturally converged near the gate—
not intentionally,
but because all roads from the school courtyard narrowed into a single exit.
Luo continued talking beside me,
saying something about a new café that had opened near the station,
his tone light, breezy,
a soft warmth against the cold air.
And then it happened—
a moment too small to call an encounter,
but too sharp to ignore.
Jian's group came up from behind,
their footsteps heavy and uneven,
their laughter spilling forward like an echo trying to catch our attention.
He was in the middle of saying something—
a joke, a tease, an argument—
but the moment his eyes caught the back of my head,
his voice faltered.
Not stopped.
Just… fractured.
His friends didn't notice.
His girlfriend didn't either.
But I—
I felt the shift like a change in temperature.
Luo nudged my arm slightly to get my attention
and that small motion caught Jian's gaze like a hook catching fabric.
As we stepped out onto the narrow street lined with bicycles and old winter trees,
I could sense him a few paces behind—
close enough for his presence to press against the back of my neck,
far enough that we never touched.
He didn't speak.
He didn't laugh.
He didn't even look at the people he was walking with.
But I could feel it—
the weight of his gaze,
the confusion simmering beneath it,
the irritation he didn't know how to name,
the restless agitation of someone watching something
they didn't want to watch
and yet couldn't look away from.
Luo was still talking,
but I barely heard his words.
My attention slipped toward the faint reflection in a car window we passed by—
not to look at him directly,
but to understand the moment in a way I couldn't face head-on.
In that reflection—
brief, distorted, half-silvered—
I saw Jian's eyes on me.
Not on Luo.
Not on his girlfriend.
Not on the street.
On me.
But when our steps reached the point where our paths could have converged or separated—
he chose separation.
He turned sharply toward the bus stop with his friends,
his girlfriend tugging his arm,
his friends calling his name loudly.
And even then,
even with his back to me,
his head turned just a fraction—
as if he wanted to look again
but refused to allow himself the weakness.
I didn't look back.
I wouldn't have known what to do if I did.
Instead, I walked on with Luo beside me,
letting the winter air settle around my shoulders,
telling myself the same story I had told all day:
He hates me.
That's all it is.
I didn't know
that hatred is rarely that quiet,
rarely that confused,
rarely that persistent—
and that whatever lingered in his gaze
was something entirely different.