Morning arrived with a quiet coldness that clung to the air like a thin, invisible film. The school courtyard was bustling as always— students dragging themselves through the gate with half-zipped jackets, someone shouting across the walkway about forgotten homework, girls exchanging hairbands and lip tints like treasures, boys balancing steaming breakfast buns and iced coffee cups in one hand.
But Jian wasn't paying attention to any of it.
He walked through the gate with his bag slung over one shoulder, hair slightly wind-blown, jaw tense, eyes searching without admitting they were searching.
He scanned the clusters of students— the scooter parking area, the cafeteria line forming at the entrance, the crowd near the bulletin board.
He didn't see Wei.
He told himself he didn't care. He told himself he was only looking out of habit. He told himself he was checking the time, the weather, the people—
But his chest tightened anyway.
He walked toward the hallway entrance, Yanyan jogging a little behind him, trying to catch up while fussing with her scarf.
"Jian-ge! Slow down! You didn't even say good morning—"
She reached him, breath fogging in the cold air, but Jian barely heard her. His footsteps quickened as they entered the building.
The hallway was loud— filled with locker doors slamming open, students complaining about the math quiz, the scent of cheap hairspray and jasmine perfume mixing into a familiar school smell.
Jian turned the corner—
and froze.
Wei was there.
Standing alone near the end of the hallway, in front of his narrow locker, tucking his books neatly inside with small, precise movements that made everything around him look chaotic in comparison.
His hair fell forward slightly as he lowered his head, a pale strand catching the morning sun that seeped through the window. He wore his uniform perfectly, collar straight, sleeves buttoned, tie aligned, everything about him quiet and controlled.
There was no sign of last night's bruise showing, but Jian saw the faint stiffness in his posture,
he tiny hesitation in the way he lifted his bag, the almost-invisible wince when he straightened.
The image twisted something sharp inside Jian's chest. He didn't understand why. He didn't want to understand.
As students rushed around them— laughing, shouting, complaining— Wei moved with a calmness that didn't match the world around him. He closed his locker gently, the small click of metal sounding strangely loud to Jian's ears.
Yanyan nudged Jian gently,
eyes bright with her usual morning energy.
"Jian-ge, you forgot—your notebook's still in your bag. And your scarf is crooked—here, let me fix—"
Her fingers barely brushed his collar when everything around Jian went silent.
Because—
Wei turned.
Jian held his breath, waiting for their eyes to meet, waiting for a flicker of recognition, waiting for something— anger, irritation, hurt, anything.
But Wei didn't look at him.
Not even for a heartbeat.
Wei's eyes remained lowered, expression unreadable, as he walked past— not hurried, not hesitant,
not avoiding deliberately. Just… passing. Calmly. Like Jian wasn't there. Like Jian was no one. Like Jian was the same as every other noise in the hallway.
They were close enough that Jian felt the faint brush of cold air as Wei walked by, the quiet rustle of his uniform sleeve, the soft scuff of his shoes against the floor. But not once did Wei's gaze lift to meet his. Not a glance.
Not a flicker.
Not even the tiniest accident of eye contact.
He simply walked past him as if the previous day had never happened— as if the bruise, the hurt, the humiliation, the words he overheard, had dissolved into nothing.
Jian's throat tightened suddenly, a pressure building under his ribs that felt too raw for early morning.
He kept his gaze fixed on Wei's back, his heartbeat dropping hard into his stomach before bouncing sharply up into his throat.
Yanyan's voice broke through faintly—
soft, concerned:
"Jian-ge… are you listening?"
He forced a breath out,
jaw tightening as he dragged his eyes away from the boy disappearing down the hall.
"I'm listening," he said quietly.
He wasn't.
Yanyan stepped closer,
her fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve.
"You seem… upset."
Jian let out a low, irritated laugh—
the kind he used when he wanted to hide something.
"Upset? At what?"
Yanyan's eyes softened with something fragile.
She looked at him—
really looked—
like she saw the knot twisting behind his calm.
"At someone," she whispered.
Jian clenched his jaw,
breath shaking for half a second.
"…You're imagining things."
He walked forward before she could say anything else.
But Yanyan stood there, hands trembling a little, watching him walk toward the classroom. And Jian— without looking back— kept repeating the same lie inside his chest over and over,
I don't care.
I don't care.
I don't care.
But the truth was simple: Wei walked past him without looking. And that shouldn't have mattered.
But it did. More than Jian wanted to admit. More than he could ignore. More than he could stop.
The long school day dragged on in a haze— words on the blackboard dissolving into meaningless shapes, voices of teachers blending together, the smell of chalk and old wooden desks filling the air, but none of it reaching Jian completely.
He kept glancing toward Wei. Not obviously. Not constantly. But enough for Yanyan's eyes to flick toward him again and again, her jaw tightening each time.
Wei didn't look at him once. Not during English, not during Math, not even during break.
He sat with that same quiet posture, hands folded neatly on his desk, writing notes with calm precision, his expression a blank winter surface not meant to be read.
Jian watched all of it. He hated that he watched. He hated that he couldn't stop.
By the time the final afternoon class ended, the sky outside had darkened slightly— a sign of the early winter evening approaching.
And then the announcement came:
"Class 3-2: Cleaning duty today is Shen Jian, Cheng Wei, and Yanyan. Please stay behind."
Jian's stomach dropped.
Wei looked up— just to acknowledge the teacher— and then lowered his gaze again. No reaction. No complaint. No flicker of emotion.
Yanyan forced a smile she didn't feel.
"Oh… so it's us today."
Jian's throat tightened.
"Yeah."
He didn't look at her.
He was staring at Wei's profile again— that calmness, that stillness, that exhaustion he hid under the perfect uniform.
The rest of the class left slowly— laughing, chatting, even shoving each other out of the door— while the three of them remained behind.
When the door finally shut and the classroom emptied, the silence felt heavier than it should. Yanyan went to the broom closet. Jian walked to the chalkboard. Wei, without being told, lifted the trash bag from its hook.
Their movements echoed softly— the swish of the broom, the scrape of chalk dust, the rustle of a plastic trash bag. But beneath the sounds was tension so thick it coated the air like humidity before a storm.
Jian wiped the chalkboard harder than necessary. Every stroke was sharp, like he was angry at the board instead of himself.
Yanyan swept quietly, her small hands trembling slightly, her eyes flicking between the two boys with worry.
Wei moved through the room like a ghost— silent, steady, efficient— picking up fallen paper scraps,
closing windows, tying the trash bag neatly, his movements neither rushed nor slow. He didn't speak.
He didn't sigh.
He didn't react to the tension.
He looked untouchable, like someone who had learned how to survive any silence without letting it touch him.
Jian watched him from the corner of his eye— watched the way Wei's fingers gripped the trash bag tightly, how the bruise on his jaw looked slightly darker in this light, how he paused once,
just once, as if the weight of the world was pressing on his shoulders.
He hated the sight of it. He hated that he cared. He hated that he couldn't say anything.
At one point, Jian reached for the eraser on the teacher's desk at the exact moment Wei leaned forward to pick up a fallen roll of tape. Their arms brushed—
barely,
light as breath,
accidental.
But Jian felt it like electricity, a heat that shot up his arm and settled in his throat. He looked at Wei—
instinctively,
sharply,
like his body reacted faster than his mind.
Wei froze.
His fingers tightened around the tape. His shoulders stiffened. is jaw clenched ever so slightly. And then— He stepped back. Quickly. Too quickly. Like Jian's skin burned him. Like the touch wasn't just unwanted— it was unbearable.
He did not look at Jian. Not even by accident. He simply turned, picked up the trash bag, and walked toward the door.
Jian felt something inside him twist painfully. A part of him wanted to reach out— to stop him,
to say something, anything— But his voice wouldn't come. It stayed stuck in the back of his throat, swallowed by guilt and irritation and confusion he couldn't name.
Wei carried the trash out as if carrying nothing at all. His head remained lowered, his steps quiet,
his silhouette lonely in the fading light.
The classroom felt colder after he left. Yanyan stopped sweeping,
her eyes soft with sadness.
"Jian-ge…" she whispered,
approaching him carefully.
"…you can't pretend this doesn't hurt you."
Jian exhaled sharply, jaw tight,
hands gripping the rag until his knuckles whitened.
"I'm not hurt."
Yanyan looked at him for a long, heavy second.
"You are," she whispered,
"even if you don't know why yet."
Jian closed his eyes for a moment,
breath shaking faintly.
But he said nothing.
He finished erasing the board
in harsh, uneven strokes
as if trying to erase something inside himself instead.