The teacher entered moments later,
her heels clicking softly across the floor as she placed her papers on the desk.
Her gaze swept the room with practiced precision.
But she paused.
Her eyes landed on Wei at the back row.
The teacher frowned briefly—
not out of irritation,
but concern.
During attendance, she stopped mid-roll and looked up.
"Cheng Wei?"
Wei lifted his head slightly.
"Yes, Teacher Lin ."
Her gaze shifted to the empty seat beside Jian,
then back to him.
Her voice softened.
"Why did you change your seat?"
The classroom fell quiet—not fully, but enough for ears to turn mutely toward the exchange.
Wei felt Jian's eyes on him from across the room.
It was a warm, sharp pressure against the side of his face,
unwelcome but deeply present.
He lowered his gaze again,
fingers tightening around his pen.
"I just… prefer the window side, "Teacher Lin ," he said quietly,
his tone even, polite, calm.
The teacher studied him for a moment,
her brows knitting,
as if she sensed something unsaid beneath the simplicity of his response.
But she nodded.
"If you're comfortable there, then it's fine.
Just make sure you can see the board clearly."
"Yes, " Teacher Lin "
The class resumed its usual rhythm,
students whispering,
papers shuffling,
the heater humming softly to fight the winter cold.
But neither Jian nor Wei were fully present.
Jian stared at the back of Wei's head.
He couldn't stop.
Every time he tried to focus on the teacher,
his eyes dragged back to him—
to his stillness,
to the soft way he held his pen,
to the faint light outlining his profile.
Every glance felt like someone tugging a thread tied around his ribs.
The empty chair beside him felt colder with every passing second.
The words he had thrown casually in the hallway—
words meant for his friends,
words never meant to reach Wei—
echoed like guilt in the back of his mind.
Had Wei heard?
Had he moved because of him?
Had he left because Jian said he didn't want him near?
The thought twisted something deep inside him.
Something he didn't know how to name.
Something he tried to bury under annoyance,
but it kept rising—
slow, sharp, undeniable.
He should be relieved.
He had gotten what he said he wanted.
Wei was far away.
The seat beside him was empty.
Silence returned to normal.
Then why does it feel
so absolutely, painfully wrong?
Jian leaned back in his chair,
chest tight,
fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh.
He kept glancing—
not enough for anyone to notice,
but enough that his heart tripped every time Wei shifted slightly.
All he wanted was one thing he couldn't admit even to himself:
Come back.
But he didn't know how to say it.
He didn't even know why he wanted it.
Instead, he sat in the heat of his own confusion,
watching that quiet boy by the window—
the boy who had moved away
because Jian had pushed him
without ever touching him.