Morning at school always came with noise.
Not the loud kind—
the restless kind.
Students drifted through the gates in loose clusters, bags slung low, jackets half-zipped, conversations overlapping without direction.
"Did you bring the form?"
"My mom signed it."
"I forgot—again."
"Teacher won't accept it late."
The trip sat in the air now, invisible but present. Every conversation bent toward it eventually, even when it didn't start there.
Jian walked in with his friends, shoulders loose, energy already higher than usual.
"You submit yours?" one of them asked.
"Yeah," Jian replied easily.
"My mom didn't even argue."
Yanyan smiled beside him.
"Mine asked too many questions."
"That's because you look irresponsible," Jian said.
She scoffed. "Excuse you."
Inside the classroom, the usual rhythm kicked in—chairs dragging, bags thudding onto desks, someone complaining loudly about being tired.
The class monitor stood near the front again, papers stacked neatly this time.
"If you haven't submitted yet, do it now," he said.
"After today, no changes."
A few students rushed forward.
"I forgot yesterday."
"Write mine again, I changed my mind."
"No you didn't," the monitor said flatly.
Jian leaned back in his seat, watching the movement with mild interest. This part felt done already.
Across the room, Wei sat at his desk near the window.
He hadn't moved much since morning.
Jian noticed that—
then told himself not to.
The monitor collected the last few papers and returned to his desk.
"That's it," he announced. "List is final."
A few cheers.
A few groans.
Nothing else.
No names were read out.
No confirmations announced.
The room moved on.
First period started. Then second.
By mid-morning, Ms. Fang came in again—this time with a folder, expression calm but focused.
"Good morning," she said. "I'll take a few minutes."
Groans answered her automatically.
"I promise this is important," she added gently.
That helped a little.
She stood at the front, glancing down at her notes.
"The trip will be three days and two nights," she said.
"We'll be leaving early in the morning, by bus."
Someone immediately raised a hand.
"Do we get seat assignments?"
Ms. Fang smiled.
"You'll find out."
A ripple of excitement.
"You'll be staying in shared rooms," she continued.
"Please be respectful of your roommates."
That earned laughter.
"And dress comfortably," she added. "This isn't a fashion show."
Yanyan leaned toward Jian.
"It absolutely is."
Jian smirked. "I knew you'd say that."
Ms. Fang went on, listing basics—what to bring, what not to bring, schedules, rules everyone would forget by day one anyway.
The classroom buzzed softly beneath it all.
Jian listened with half an ear, already picturing it—bus rides, noise, photos, time away from school.
It felt close now.
Almost real.
Wei sat quietly through the entire thing.
He wrote nothing.
Asked nothing.
When the bell rang, the day resumed like normal.
Books opened. Pages turned.
The trip stayed in the background—
waiting.
And no one said anything about who was or wasn't going.
Not yet.
Then sooner
The bell rang.
Not sharply this time—
just loud enough to loosen the room.
Chairs dragged.
Bags slid off desks.
Someone laughed too loudly for no reason.
Lunch.
The classroom emptied in uneven waves. People didn't leave together so much as peel away from their seats, already mid-conversation, already somewhere else in their heads.
Jian stayed where he was for a moment, leaning back, stretching his arms over his head until his shoulders popped.
He exhaled.
That was when he saw it.
Wei stood near the window, slipping his bag over one shoulder.
His right hand moved slower.
The bandage was still there.
Not clean-white anymore—edges worn, fabric softened by time.
Jian's gaze lingered longer than it should have.
Didn't heal, he thought.
Or maybe—hurt again.
He didn't know which bothered him more.
Wei adjusted the strap, tugged once, then let his arm fall back to his side like nothing was wrong.
Jian looked away first.
He wasn't going to ask.
He wasn't supposed to notice.
"Jian-ge."
Yanyan's voice came from close—too close to pretend he hadn't heard.
She was already smiling, already reaching for his sleeve.
"Let's eat," she said. "I'm starving."
Her tone was light. Familiar. The kind that assumed an answer.
"Yeah," Jian said after a beat. "Okay."
He let her pull him into the flow of students moving toward the stairs.
Their usual lunch spot sat one level below the terrace.
Not hidden, exactly—just ignored.
A concrete corner near the stairwell, loud enough to blend in, open enough to breathe.
Jian leaned back against the wall as soon as they arrived, one foot up, knee bent. Someone passed him a cigarette. Another flicked a lighter.
The flame flared briefly, then disappeared.
Smoke curled upward, thin and lazy.
Yanyan sat nearby, opening her lunch, talking about something she'd seen online. Jian listened just enough to nod at the right times.
His eyes drifted.
Up.
The door above them—
the one that led to the terrace—
stood closed.
He took a drag.
Exhaled.
Why am I thinking about him again?
The thought annoyed him more than it should have.
Get a grip.
He shifted his weight, knocking ash loose.
The door opened.
Not suddenly.
Not dramatically.
Just—opened.
Chen stepped out first, sunlight catching briefly on his hair. He stopped just outside, stretching his arms like he owned the space.
Wei followed a second later.
He paused at the threshold, hand still on the door, like he was listening to something Chen said before committing to stepping fully outside.
They stood close.
Not touching.
But close enough that the space between them felt intentional.
Chen leaned in, saying something animated, voice low but expressive. Wei tilted his head slightly.
An earphone wire connected them.
Shared.
Jian forgot to breathe.
Chen laughed—soft, unguarded—and bumped Wei lightly with his shoulder as they started walking farther onto the terrace.
Wei smiled.
Not wide.
Just enough.
He didn't look down.
Didn't scan the floors below.
Didn't look toward Jian's corner at all.
Like the space beneath the terrace didn't exist.
Something hot stirred under Jian's ribs.
Not anger—
not yet.
More like pressure.
Like a hand tightening around something it didn't have the right to hold.
Why am I—
He cut the thought off.
Took another drag.
The smoke tasted bitter this time.
Above them, Chen said something again. Wei leaned closer to hear it.
They disappeared deeper onto the terrace, voices fading.
Jian's fingers tightened around the cigarette.
For a second—just one—his body leaned forward, like it knew a movement his mind refused to name.
Go up.
Say something.
Do something.
He didn't.
He stubbed the cigarette out slowly, deliberately, grinding it into the concrete until it was nothing but ash.
Yanyan glanced up.
"You okay?" she asked, casual.
Jian turned toward her, smile already in place.
"Yeah," he said. "Just hungry."
She accepted that without question.
Above them, the terrace door closed.
The sound was soft.
But it stayed.