The bell rang once, sharp and final, slicing through the chatter like a knife. Lunch was over.
The hallway exhaled back into motion.
A low, constant roar filled the air—hundreds of voices braiding together, sudden bursts of laughter that cracked like dry twigs, the dull metallic crash of locker doors slamming in uneven rhythm. Sneakers scuffed and squeaked against the cold linoleum, each step leaving faint echoes that overlapped and died. Somewhere nearby, keys jingled in a pocket; a crumpled paper bag rustled and tore; a phone clattered to the floor followed by a hissed curse under someone's breath.
Winter sunlight slanted through the high windows in pale, cold blades of gold, striping the floor and warming nothing.
Jian walked straight through the center of it all like he was made of smoke.
Hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, fingers curled tight against his palms until his nails bit skin. Shoulders hunched forward as though bracing against an invisible current. Head tilted down, bangs falling into his eyes like a curtain he refused to lift. Every breath came shallow, tight, catching somewhere behind his ribs. Thinking. Thinking too hard. The thoughts pressed against the inside of his skull—hot, restless, looping—until his temples throbbed with a dull, persistent ache.
Yanyan kept half a step behind him.
Her fingers hovered near his sleeve, trembling just enough that she could feel the faint heat rising off the fabric, but the last centimeter felt like a chasm. Her heartbeat fluttered high and fast in her throat, a small trapped bird. Her stomach twisted in slow, nauseous knots every time his gaze drifted past her. Her shoes tapped a softer, uneven rhythm against the floor, out of sync with his steady stride.
She had noticed every tiny wound.
The way his eyes kept snagging on empty corners, doorways, shadows—searching for a face that wasn't there—leaving her chest hollow and cold. The way he'd stared at the bento she'd woken up early to make, chopsticks hovering, then set them down again; the food untouched, her careful work turning cold and pointless in the plastic box. The way his whole body curled inward, shoulders rounding, spine stiff—like he was shielding something raw and bleeding at his center.
She dragged a smile onto her lips. It felt brittle, like thin ice about to crack. Her throat tightened around the words before they even came out.
"Jian-ge…" Her voice cracked, softer than she wanted, almost lost in the hallway noise. "You're really quiet today."
He didn't turn. Didn't blink. The word scraped out flat and faraway. "Really?"
"Yes." She swallowed hard; it hurt, like swallowing glass. Her palms were clammy inside her sleeves. "You didn't even hear me when I asked if the bread was too sweet earlier."
A long, heavy second dragged past. He cleared his throat—rough, awkward, the sound scraping the back of his neck like sandpaper. "…Oh." His voice was dull, distant, like it belonged to someone else. "It's fine. I was just… thinking."
The word landed between them like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples of silence spread outward.
Thinking about a name he couldn't let himself speak—not here, not now. A boy whose gaze carried the bite of December wind even in spring. A boy who only looked at Jian in stolen, ruined moments—when the distance between them felt widest, when the ache in Jian's chest sharpened into something almost physical, like a bruise being pressed.
Yanyan's smile trembled violently. Cracked. Shattered. Fell away.
"Thinking about what?" Her voice came out small, thin, trembling on the edge of breaking. Her fingertips tingled with the need to reach for him, but fear kept them frozen.
Jian said nothing.
He couldn't.
Last night's silence still sat heavy in his throat—sharp, unfinished, cutting him every time he tried to swallow it down. Frustration burned slow and low in his veins, a dull heat that made his skin feel too tight, his pulse thud too loud in his ears. The ache behind his ribs had grown claws; every breath dragged against it.
He wouldn't lie to her. But the truth would tear something open that couldn't be closed again.
So he gave her only silence.
The soft scrape of his shoes. The shallow rhythm of his breathing. The cold expanding between them like frost creeping over glass.
Yanyan felt the quiet pierce her like winter air slipping beneath her collar—sharp, stealing her breath, sinking deep into her bones until she shivered from the inside out.
Her arms wrapped tighter around her middle, hugging herself against the sudden chill. Her eyes stung, hot and prickling. But she kept walking beside him anyway, each step heavier than the last, falling a little farther behind with every heartbeat.
A Few Steps Be hide Them…..
Wei walked down the opposite hallway, hands in pockets, bag slung over one shoulder, expression unreadable as always.
But he saw them.
He saw Yanyan reaching for Jian's sleeve. He saw Jian lean away without noticing. He saw the crack of worry in her expression.
And even though he didn't want to look— even though he hated looking— his eyes lingered for a second too long.
Not on Yanyan.
On Jian.
On the way Jian's shoulders seemed stiff, on the way he kept chewing the inside of his cheek, on the way his gaze looked somewhere far away.
But Wei interpreted it the only way his world had taught him:
Jian looks uncomfortable, Jian saw me earlier at the courtyard, Jian hates me.
He lowered his gaze at once.
He didn't want to make Jian uncomfortable.
So he walked faster.
Passed them without a sound.
Without a look.
Without a breath out of place.
And Jian—
Jian felt that brief wind of movement beside him
and looked up sharply, heartbeat catching—
but Wei was already gone.
Jian stopped walking for a moment,
his hand lifting halfway as if wanting to reach toward something
without knowing what.
Yanyan stopped too.
"Jian-ge…?"
He didn't answer.
His eyes stayed fixed on the corner where Wei had just turned,
on the empty air still carrying the faint after image of the boy's passing.
What was that?
That look Wei gave earlier in the courtyard— that flicker of attention— that cold expression—had he judged him? Was it disgust?
Was it disappointment?
Does he think I'm shallow?
Does he think I'm pretending?
Does he think I'm—… like everyone else who torments him with stares?
The questions tangled in Jian's chest like vines gripping a window frame,
tightening until it hurt to breathe.
He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling harshly.
"…Why does he look at me like that," he muttered without meaning to,
voice low, raw,
almost like a confession torn out from between clenched teeth.
"Like he already knows what I'm thinking.
Like he's just waiting for me to hate him."
Yanyan blinked.
"Hate who?"
Jian froze.
For a moment he looked like a boy caught in the middle of an earthquake—
no balance,
no control,
no stable ground.
He forced himself to inhale.
And then exhaled.
"No one," he said too quickly.
"Just forget it."
But she didn't forget.
Couldn't forget.
Because she'd seen the way he looked,
the way he stared the empty hallways
the way confusion softened his mouth and tightened his jaw at the same time.
Jian was drifting.
And she could feel it , like a thread slipping through her fingers.
"Jian-ge…" she whispered,
voice barely audible over the hallway chatter.
"If something is wrong… you would tell me, right?"
He didn't respond. He didn't even pretend to think.
His eyes were still fixed somewhere else, following someone else's shadow, listening to someone else's echo, feeling someone else's silence.
Yanyan's smile collapsed slowly, quietly, like a sheet of thin ice cracking over still water.
She didn't cry.
She didn't accuse.
She just walked a little ahead of him
and said softly—
"I'll save you a seat in class."
Jian nodded,
but the words barely reached him. Because in his mind
he was replaying a moment from the courtyard: Wei's eyes flicking toward him.
Just once.
Just for a heartbeat.
Cold.
Unreadable.
Misunderstood.
Wei leaned against the stairwell railing, closing his eyes briefly. He rubbed at the corner of his lip—
a ghost of last night's bruise—and exhaled slowly.
He looked away when he saw me, Of course he did.
Everyone does.
People like him… always do.
Wei didn't hate Jian.
He simply believed:
Jian must think I'm the kind of boy you avoid.
And Jian?
Jian believed:
Wei must think I'm the kind of boy he despises.
Two boys.
Two directions.
Two wrong conclusions