The moment their drinks were ready, Chen Luoyang handed one plastic cup to Wei, tapping the lid lightly with the straw in that annoyingly gentle way he had.
"Wei, drink some first—this spot is warmer."
Wei accepted it with the same small, restrained nod—almost delicate, the kind of quiet movement only someone who rarely drew attention could make. His fingers closed around the cup carefully, as though the warmth mattered more than the drink itself.
Yanyan had already slid into the seat opposite Jian, unwrapping her straw with quick, cheerful fingers. She was talking about something—probably the new boba flavor or a drama she'd watched—but Jian wasn't hearing her. His gaze had locked onto the entrance of the café, where the glass door was just swinging open.
Wei pushed it with his shoulder, hair brushing lightly across his eyes, breath fogging in the sharp winter air outside. Chen stepped right beside him, their strides falling unconsciously into sync, shoulders nearly brushing. The warm amber light from inside spilled across Wei's profile one last time, gilding his cheekbones in soft gold.
And in that stolen second, Jian understood something violent and irreversible: Wei looked different with Luo.
Softer. Calmer. Less alone.
Chen said something longer this time—maybe a teasing remark, hand gesturing casually in the air. Wei's lips curved again—that fragile, almost-smile Jian had first glimpsed after school. It barely lifted the corners, barely changed the shape of his mouth, yet it transformed the entire atmosphere around him. A quiet thaw in an otherwise frozen expression.
Jian had never seen Wei make that face before today. He hadn't even known it was possible.
And somehow that tiny, private curve hurt more than the desperate, punishing kiss he had forced on Yanyan in the hallway earlier. Because Wei wasn't smiling at him. He never had.
Yanyan leaned back against Jian's side, resting her head lightly on his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck.
「建哥,你看什麼啊?」(Jian-ge, what are you looking at?)
Her voice was sweet, lilting, the same tone that usually pulled him back to her. But it barely reached him now.
He didn't answer.
He just watched as Chen nudged Wei's shoulder lightly. Wei shook his head with a faint, soft exhale—barely audible, but so natural it felt practiced, habitual. Like they had walked home together like this for years. Like this rhythm between them was old, comfortable, earned.
The door closed behind them with a soft jingle of bells. They disappeared into the evening street, backs receding under the glow of streetlamps.
Yanyan's hand curled around Jian's arm again, warmer now.
(Are you tired? You've been strange today.)
Jian finally tore his eyes from the empty doorway.
(It's nothing. Drink your boba.)
His voice came out rough, wrong even to his own ears. He lifted his cup mechanically, took a sip that tasted like nothing.
Later That Night — At Home
Jian stood under the shower, forehead pressed lightly against the cool tile as hot water poured down his back in long, relentless streams. Steam clouded the small bathroom mirror until his reflection was only a vague blur. The steady hiss of water drowned out the distant sounds of the house—his mother's TV in the living room, his little sister's muffled music through the wall.
For once the world felt muted enough for him to think.
Or maybe that was the problem: he could think now.
He closed his eyes.
And the day replayed itself in sharp, disjointed fragments:
Wei walking away from the library corner without a backward glance. Wei sitting alone in the back row of the classroom. Wei not returning to the seat beside his. Wei leaving school with Luo. Wei half-smiling at the café counter. Wei not turning once in Jian's direction.
Why didn't he look at me?
The question sliced through him so sharply he inhaled too fast, lungs burning. His fingers tightened around the shower knob until the metal creaked.
He thought about the hallway again—how he'd pulled Yanyan closer, kissed her harder, hands gripping like he could force the chaos in his chest to stop. It hadn't worked. It had only made everything feel more wrong.
Because Wei hadn't reacted. Not irritation. Not jealousy. Not even embarrassment. Just calm, quiet withdrawal—like Jian was background noise, insignificant as rain tapping on the locker-room roof.
Jian slammed a palm against the tile—not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to feel the sting travel up his arm. Something real. Something that wasn't this hollow ache.
Why the hell do I care?Why am I even thinking about this idiot?What did he do? Nothing. He did nothing.
He exhaled sharply, the sound lost in the water.
Then, almost under his breath—half whisper, half desperate lie—he started muttering to himself, words tumbling out like he could force them into truth by repeating them:
"It's fine. I've always hated him anyway… I really do hate him… I don't care what he did today."
The words rang hollow against the tiles.
He kept going anyway, voice cracking a little louder.
"Like hell I'd care who he smiles at. He can be with whoever he wants…"
His throat closed tight. He swallowed hard—too hard—feeling the muscles protest.
And then, almost angrily, trying to drown out the thing he refused to name:
"Tomorrow… I'll ask Yanyan if she wants to see a movie. Haha…"
The forced laugh bounced off the walls, dull and empty, dying before it reached the steam.
Jian kept his eyes shut.
The water kept falling, hot against his shoulders, cold inside his chest.
He repeated the lie again and again, quieter each time:
I hate him.I don't care about him.
I don't.
I don't.
I don't.
But no matter how many times he said it, Cheng Wei's quiet face refused to leave the dark space behind his eyelids. The almost-smile lingered there too—soft, private, never meant for him.
And for the first time Jian couldn't pretend it didn't matter.