Jian had never arrived early to school. Not once in three years of high school. He was the boy who sauntered through the gates with seconds to spare before the late bell, hair still damp from a hurried shower, tie knotted crookedly, uniform jacket slung over one shoulder like he couldn't be bothered to wear it properly. Chaos followed him the way smoke follows fire—he wore it like a signature, pretended it was effortless.
But today he walked through the front gates twenty minutes before homeroom.
The morning sky hung in muted gray, soft winter sunlight filtering through the wide branches of the banyan trees that lined the courtyard. Their leaves rustled faintly in the crisp air, and Jian's breath appeared in small, fleeting clouds in front of his face. He told himself he came early because:
he needed to return a library book before first period,he wanted to grab breakfast from the canteen stall that sold the best scallion pancakes,he'd half-promised Yanyan he'd help her buy bread from the school shop.
Any excuse worked. Anything to avoid admitting the real pull dragging him here so much earlier than usual.
His footsteps echoed louder than normal in the nearly empty hallways. The tiled floors caught the pale light and threw it back in quiet ripples. Most classrooms were still dark, doors closed, only a few early birds moving like shadows. He reached their classroom doorway and paused, heart tightening in a way he refused to name.
Inside: two boys slumped asleep across their desks, hoods pulled up. A girl in the back corner swept slowly with a broom, humming under her breath. Someone near the window was doodling on notebook paper. But the one person Jian's eyes instinctively searched for—
—wasn't there.
Cheng Wei wasn't early. He wasn't here at all.
Jian clicked his tongue quietly, the sound sharp in the stillness, and dropped into his seat. Arms crossed over his chest, he fixed his gaze on the open doorway like he could will it to bring Wei through.
Minutes dragged. More students trickled in—yawns, greetings, the scrape of chairs. The room slowly filled with morning noise: someone complaining about a test, laughter over a phone video, the rustle of snack wrappers. Jian's knee bounced restlessly under the desk. He checked his phone once, twice—no messages from Yanyan (not that he was waiting for her name to light up the screen).
Then he heard it.
Footsteps in the hallway. Light. Soft. Measured. Almost soundless.
He knew instantly.
The moment Wei stepped into the room, a faint cold draft seemed to slip in behind him, as though winter clung to the folds of his uniform. His hair was slightly tousled from the morning wind, eyes lowered to the floor in that habitual way. In one hand he carried the small black notebook he always wrote in instead of chatting like everyone else pages filled with neat, private thoughts no one ever saw.
Jian's heart lurched before he could stop it.
He turned. Not too fast. Not obviously. Just enough to catch Wei as he passed down the aisle.
Wei didn't look at him.
Not even once. Not even for a fraction of a second.
He moved as though Jian didn't exist—as though the frozen moment in the hallway yesterday, the forced kiss meant to erase it, the staring in the café, the back view disappearing into the evening—had never happened at all.
Jian felt something in his chest bend sharply, almost painfully. His fingers curled hard around the edge of his desk until the wood creaked under his grip.
He's ignoring me.
The realization burned hotter than he expected, spreading through his ribs like spilled acid.
He watched, agitation rising, as Wei reached the back row, placed his books neatly on the table, adjusted his chair with quiet precision, and sat down. Graceful. Composed. Untouchable. Like he belonged to a separate world where nothing—least of all Jian—could reach him.
Chen Luoyang slipped in a few minutes later and dropped into the seat beside Wei without ceremony. Their heads bent close almost immediately, conversation starting in low, easy whispers. Wei's voice drifted forward in soft fragments—careful, delicate, the tone he only used with Luo.
Jian hated it.
Not because it was loud. Not because it was soft. Because Wei only spoke like that to Luo. Never to him.
First Class Begins
Teacher Lin entered with her usual large coffee cup and a thick stack of handouts, calling the room to order with her calm, no-nonsense voice.
"Alright, everyone, settle down. Let's review yesterday's lesson before we move on."
Chairs scraped. Books opened. Pens clicked. The room settled into the familiar rhythm of morning class.
Jian sat stiffly, spine rigid, gaze flicking—again and again—toward the back row.
Wei's eyes stayed fixed on the blackboard. Not on him. Not once. Not even accidentally.
And that indifference landed harder than Jian could have predicted.
He'd never wanted Wei's attention before. Never wanted his gaze. Never wanted anything from the quiet boy in the back row who barely spoke and never looked up.
At least, that's what Jian had always told himself.
But now, watching Wei deliberately keep his face forward, neck stiffening slightly whenever Jian shifted in his seat, fingers tightening around his pen for half a second every time Jian leaned back or turned his head—
Jian understood something horribly clear:
Wei was avoiding him.
Not out of fear. Not out of anger or dislike. But out of quiet, deliberate, conscious choice.
That hurt more than outright rejection ever could.
Teacher Lin's voice continued, steady and distant:
"Pay attention to the key points here. We'll have a short quiz next week."
Jian heard none of it.
His eyes drifted again. And again. And again.
Like his gaze had developed a will of its own.
Across the room, Wei remained turned toward the board, expression neutral, posture perfect. But Jian noticed the tiny tells—the way Wei's fingers paused for the briefest heartbeat before resuming their notes whenever Jian's stare landed on him. A subtle hesitation. Barely there.
But Jian noticed. Of course he did.
He sat there, jaw clenched until it ached, chest tight with something hot and nameless, heart pounding for reasons he couldn't untangle, mind looping the same frantic questions:
Why won't he look at me?Why is he acting like I'm invisible?Did I do something wrong?Why does this bother me so much?Why do I even care?Why—
He didn't have answers. Not yet.
But the silence stretching between them—the deliberate distance Wei maintained without a single word—felt like a wall rising brick by brick.
And for the first time, Jian wanted to break it. He just didn't know how.