The morning air bit sharp, laced with frost that turned sidewalks into fragile glass. Jian walked to school with heavy steps, feeling as if the sleepless night had stolen half his thoughts and left only echoes behind.
He reached the gate earlier than usual. Leaning against the cold iron railing, he pretended to wait for Yanyan, but his gaze swept the arriving crowd with quiet urgency, searching faces one by one.
Students flowed past in noisy waves—laughing, shoving each other, voices bright against the winter chill. Jian's breath clouded white with every exhale. Still no sign of Wei.
A thin, uncomfortable tightness coiled in his chest. He straightened and walked inside.
The hallways glowed with pale morning sunlight slanting through tall windows, but the warmth never reached him. He kept glancing around corners, peering into the courtyard, scanning every knot of students lingering near classroom doors. Empty glances met him every time.
He pushed open the door to their classroom.
Yanyan spotted him immediately and waved with her usual bright energy.
Jian gave a small nod, but his eyes slid past her at once, drawn to the back row.
Wei's seat stood empty.
He lowered himself into his own chair slowly, the strange heaviness in his chest pressing harder. The clock ticked on, each second stretching thin and painful. Conversations buzzed around him, distant and meaningless.
Then—footsteps echoed in the hallway, approaching the door.
Jian's pulse jumped. He turned his head just enough to watch the doorway without seeming obvious, breath caught somewhere between hope and dread.
The footsteps slowed, then stopped just outside.
The classroom door creaked open. Jian's head snapped up, pulse jumping in his throat.
Wei stepped inside quietly.
His shoulders curved inward just enough to notice, hair falling soft and slightly messy over his forehead. He cradled his books against his chest the way he always did—close, careful, as though they were the only thing keeping him steady, as though any sudden movement might disturb the fragile space around him.
Jian's gaze locked on him and didn't waver.
Then he saw it.
A thin, shallow cut on Wei's forehead. Pink-edged, barely scabbed over. A faint, lingering mark from yesterday's locker room shove—the one that had sent him crashing against metal, the one Jian had watched happen without moving.
The small wound looked so delicate, so quietly brutal in the morning light. It shouldn't have mattered so much. It was tiny. It would fade in days. But the sight pierced Jian deeper than any shout or bruise ever could. His breath snagged, sharp and painful, somewhere behind his ribs.
Wei didn't glance his way. He didn't meet anyone's eyes. He simply crossed the room in silence, steps measured and soft, and reached his seat in the back row. He set his books down with the same gentle precision, opened his notebook, arranged his pen, and began preparing for class. His face stayed perfectly blank—calm, distant, practiced.
No flinch. No anger. No sign the cut even existed to him.
Jian stared, unable to look away. The chatter around him blurred into white noise. The sunlight slanting across desks felt too bright, too ordinary for the ache blooming steadily in his chest.
Wei sat motionless now, gaze fixed on the page in front of him, as though nothing had ever happened. As though the mark on his forehead wasn't proof of something Jian could no longer pretend he hadn't seen.
The bell rang. Class began. But Jian barely heard it.
Jian couldn't tear his eyes away.
Wei sat at the back, head slightly bowed, hair falling forward like a curtain. The thin pink cut on his forehead caught the morning light every time he shifted—small, fragile, impossible to ignore. Jian's chest squeezed tighter with each passing second, breath shallow, throat closing around everything he wanted to say.
Are you okay? Did it hurt when it happened? Did you clean it properly? Why didn't you tell anyone? Why didn't you fight back yesterday—or ever?
The questions burned, urgent and useless, piling up behind his teeth. He opened his mouth once, twice, but nothing came out. The words stayed locked somewhere raw between his throat and his heart, heavy as stones.
He watched Wei's fingers tremble faintly as they closed around his pen. Watched the careful way he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, trying to hide the wound from view—from everyone, from Jian most of all. The gesture was so quiet, so practiced, it made something inside Jian twist painfully.
Wei never once lifted his gaze. Not toward the front of the room. Not toward Jian. The deliberate avoidance landed colder and heavier than any insult or shove Jian had ever endured. It wasn't anger. It wasn't hatred. It was distance—careful, complete, earned.
For the first time in his life, Jian tasted regret properly. Not the fleeting sting of embarrassment or guilt that faded by lunch. This was deeper, metallic, lingering on the tongue like blood. It settled in his lungs, made every inhale ache.
The teacher's voice droned on, chalk scratching the board. Classmates whispered and laughed softly around him. But Jian heard none of it. He sat frozen, staring at the back of Wei's head, at the careful line of his shoulders, at the small cut that refused to disappear.
He wanted to cross the room. To speak. To fix something.
He didn't move.
The First Class of the Morning
The bell rang with its usual soft melody, and the classroom slowly settled. Conversations tapered off, chairs scraped into place, and pens clicked open one by one.
Teacher Lin stepped inside with a thin book in her hands and the attendance sheet tucked under her arm. She brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear and smiled at the class—warm, steady, familiar.
"Good morning, class."
A chorus rose immediately:
"Good morning, Teacher Lin!"
She nodded, pleased.
"Alright, everyone, have a seat. Let's begin… but before that, I have something to announce."
The room quieted. Even the window wind paused.
"As you all know, you're in 12th grade now. The university entrance exam is coming soon. You should start preparing seriously, and hopefully, you've already begun thinking about which university you want to enter."
A ripple of whispers moved through the class—nervous excitement, quiet panic, determination. Teacher Lin always spoke with the same tone: gentle, thoughtful, encouraging. It was impossible not to like her. She carried warmth with her the way others carried their textbooks.
"That's all. Let's start today's lesson."
She picked up her chalk and began writing neatly on the board.
The energy in the room was unusually high—maybe because it was the first class, maybe because it was Teacher Lin's class, or maybe because the word "university" had jolted everyone awake. Students leaned forward, pens ready, eyes focused.
Well—
almost everyone.
Two people were not truly present.
Two people sat upright, eyes forward, hands folded neatly over their notes…
…but their minds were far, far away.
Cheng Wei.
And Jian.
From the outside, they looked perfectly attentive—quiet, disciplined, ready for the lesson. Their backs were straight, their expressions calm. No one would have suspected anything wrong.
But on the inside—
both of them were drifting.
Wei's eyes were fixed on the board, but the words blurred into white lines. His mind kept slipping into the echo of yesterday—the sting on his wrist, the silence in his throat, the distance between him and the world. He didn't want to face any of it. He didn't know how to begin facing it.
Jian, on the other hand, sat rigidly in his seat, pretending to focus, but every few seconds his gaze betrayed him—sliding toward the back of the classroom where Wei sat. His thoughts were tangled, heavy, sharp. Every memory from the night before kept pushing into the front of his mind: the locker room, the old hallways, the winter alley. He didn't want any of it to be true. And yet he couldn't look away from the truth anymore.
Both boys sat in the same classroom.
Breathing the same air.
Listening to the same lesson.
But inside, each was fighting a different storm—
a fear,
a guilt,
a truth they weren't ready to face.
Between them was a silence too loud to ignore,
and a distance both were painfully aware of…
even if neither dared to acknowledge it.