The sound of the door closing echoed softly in the quiet room, followed by a silence so heavy it almost seemed to breathe.
Zhane didn't move at first. His head rested against the pillow, eyes half-lidded, his breath slow but steady — pretending, even now, to be asleep. But when the faint sound of Celine's footsteps faded down the hallway, he opened his eyes.
The world seemed a little dimmer.
He stared at the door she had just closed, as though its wooden frame still carried her presence — that calm, gentle voice, the way her eyes had softened when she looked at him. For a second, he had almost believed she cared.
Almost.
Slowly, he pushed himself up, the motion dragging through the dull ache in his body. His head throbbed faintly, but it wasn't the kind of pain that came from a fall or exhaustion. It was the kind that lived deeper — behind his ribs, in the part of him that refused to forget.
He exhaled shakily.
Celine.
Her name slipped into his mind like a whisper he hadn't invited.
He knew that face — the way her hair framed her cheekbones, the faint curve of her lips when she spoke, and those same clear eyes that had once looked down on him with disgust.
How could he forget?
That day in the restaurant— it flashed in his mind like lightning: the customers buzzing with scorn, the sting of her slap against his cheek, the humiliation that followed as everyone stared. The memory still burned, raw and alive, as if it had just happened yesterday.
His hands clenched around the blanket.
He could still hear the echo of her voice from that moment, sharp and cold . "Look what you did to my dress, asshole .
And then the mockery . Always the mockery
Now she had sat here — in this same room, with the same face — and looked at him as though none of it had ever happened. Concerned. Gentle. Kind.
Zhane's lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"What are you playing at, Celine?" he murmured under his breath. His voice sounded tired, hollow, almost foreign to his own ears.
He rubbed his temple, trying to quiet the whirl of thoughts. There was a time he might have welcomed her kindness, maybe even believed it. But not now. Not after everything.
He couldn't trust her.
He had learned that people wore masks — beautiful ones, polished with charm and sympathy — but underneath them, they hid fangs sharper than truth.
And Celine… she was one of them. Or at least, that's what he told himself.
Still, something about her eyes lingered in his mind. The way they had softened when she noticed the blood on his nose. The quiet tremor in her voice when she asked if he was alright. It didn't feel fake. It didn't sound rehearsed.
That confused him the most.
He sighed and turned to look out the window. The sun had already begun to dip beyond the trees, spilling gold across the school courtyard. Students were moving in groups, laughing, calling to each other — all part of a world that had never seemed to have room for him.
From here, it almost looked peaceful. Almost.
Zhane pressed his palm against the cold glass, tracing a faint streak of sunlight with his fingers.
He didn't belong there — in their laughter, their easy friendships, their careless joy. He was the gray among the blues, the whisper among the shouts.
And maybe that was fine.
But why did she have to appear again? Why did it have to be her of all people?
He tried to push the thoughts away, tried to convince himself it didn't matter. Yet every time he blinked, he saw her face again — the faint crease between her brows, the soft way she said his name.
Maybe she really didn't recognize him.
That thought sat uneasily in his chest.
If she truly didn't remember, it would mean that while he carried the pain of that day like a scar, she had simply moved on, unbothered. That she had forgotten him as easily as people forget a raindrop in a storm.
But if she did remember… then why act so kind?
Why pretend to care?
Zhane sank back onto the bed, lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling as the light shifted through the blinds. Shadows crossed his face like fleeting thoughts.
He wanted to hate her. He really did.
Hatred was simple — it kept him safe, kept the walls around him firm. But there was something else buried beneath the anger, something quieter, something almost… curious.
A dangerous kind of curiosity.
His mind wandered back to the way her voice had trembled slightly when she told him to rest. She didn't sound like the Celine he remembered from that hallway — the proud girl with sharp words and sharper eyes.
This version of her had been softer, almost fragile.
Maybe time changed people. Maybe not. He didn't know.
But he knew one thing for certain — he couldn't afford to let his guard down. Not around her. Not around anyone.
He turned to the small wooden desk beside his bed, where his books lay , it had probably been arranged by Celine . His sketchbook lay half open. The page was smudged with charcoal, a faint outline of a girl's face taking shape — eyes, lips, a faint smile.
He hadn't even realized he'd been drawing her.
Zhane stared at it for a long time, then snapped the book shut, as though that could silence whatever stirred inside him.
He rubbed his face with both hands, dragging them through his hair before leaning forward, elbows on his knees. The faint throb in his temples had returned, a reminder of how drained he was.
His thoughts spiraled back to her again, unwanted but relentless.
Maybe she had helped him out of guilt. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe she was just being nice for the sake of appearances.
But deep down, beneath all those guesses, a smaller voice whispered something he didn't want to admit — what if she had meant it? What if she had truly been concerned?
He clenched his jaw.
"No," he whispered. "Don't be stupid."
He wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. Trusting people — trusting her — had only ever led to pain.
For now, he'd avoid her. Pretend today never happened. That would be safest.
Zhane stood, walking slowly toward the window again. The golden light was fading, melting into shades of amber and gray. The reflection staring back at him looked distant — a boy with tired eyes and a heart that carried too much noise.
Somewhere outside, a faint tune drifted through the air — the muffled sound of singing from the music room across the courtyard.
Celine's voice.
Even from here, he could recognize it — soft, smooth, alive with emotion. It slid through the air like silk, brushing against something deep inside him.
For a moment, he forgot to breathe.
He closed his eyes.
That voice had once hurt him — now it stirred something he didn't understand.
Maybe fate was cruel for weaving their paths together again. Or maybe it was giving him a chance to see something he wasn't ready for.
He didn't know which.
All he knew was that the sound of her singing didn't make him angry. It made him ache — and that scared him more than hate ever could.
The song faded into silence, replaced by the evening breeze slipping through the slightly open window. Zhane stood there, unmoving, his thoughts heavy but quiet.
He didn't know what tomorrow would bring — whether their paths would cross again, whether he could keep avoiding her.
But as the sun vanished completely behind the trees, one thing was clear:
Celine wasn't just a memory anymore.
She had returned, and no matter how much he tried to deny it, her presence had already started unraveling something he'd tried so hard to keep buried.
And deep down, Zhane feared that the next time he saw her… he wouldn't be able to look away.