The noise of the morning market faded behind me as I walked up the slope toward school, the cold wind brushing against the back of my neck as if trying to remind me that winter had arrived early that year, carrying with it the sharpness of broken glass and unfinished words from the street below. Even after I left the scene of Jian shouting in the middle of the road, his voice — raw, trembling beneath anger — still echoed inside my chest in a way I couldn't quite ignore, no matter how quietly I walked or how deeply I tucked my hands into my coat pockets to warm my fingers.
The school gates were crowded with students rushing in with red noses, steaming breaths, and half-awake irritation. Some laughed too loudly; others dragged their feet as if the cold had frozen their motivation entirely. I stepped into this morning chaos like slipping into a stream — quietly, carefully, letting the flow move around me without letting it pull me in.
Announcements for new class sections were pinned to the bulletin board. I stood in front of it, scanning the paper slowly, my eyes tracing down the list of names with the same practiced calm I used for everything. I had just found my class number—11-A—when a voice behind me, sharp and impatient, cut through the cold like a blade:
"Oi—move a little. Some of us need to see too."
I didn't need to turn.
The tone alone told me who it belonged to.
I shifted one step to the left, allowing space.
And then he stepped into my peripheral vision—
Sen Jian, shoulders still tense from the fight, breath still uneven, frustration written across his face in the form of clenched jaw muscles and a scowl that didn't soften even when his girlfriend tugged gently at his sleeve to calm him down.
He didn't look at me.
But he knew exactly where I was standing.
His eyes flicked toward the list, then to the side—briefly, sharply—before he pretended to focus entirely on the paper in front of him. I watched the muscles in his neck tighten, as if even standing near me made something inside him coil up.
"Same class," one of his friends muttered behind him. "11-A. As usual."
"Great," Jian replied, but the sarcasm in his voice didn't match the flicker of discomfort in his posture.
He didn't say it because of the class.
He said it because of me.
I turned away and walked toward our building, letting the chatter of other students blur into background noise. Behind me I could hear his girlfriend whisper, "Jian, don't start something this early in the morning," but Jian only grunted in response, sounding equal parts annoyed, embarrassed, and unsettled.
When I entered the classroom, the heater hadn't been turned on yet; the air was still cold enough that I could see faint traces of my breath as I stepped inside. Students were scattered everywhere—some leaning on desks, others hanging at windows, the room filled with the kind of half-awake chaos that always marked the first day of a new term.
I took my seat in the last row.
The air shifted behind me.
And then he entered.
Not quietly—Jian never did anything quietly—but in a way that made the entire room tilt slightly, as if everyone unconsciously rearranged themselves around his presence. He slammed his bag down on the desk near the window, running a hand through his messy hair as if he needed to shake off the rest of the morning's tension.
His friends clustered around him almost immediately.
"Bro, what happened in the market?We heard shouting," one asked with too much curiosity.
Jian scoffed, leaning back.
"Nothing. Just idiots talking shit."
"What kind of shit?" another boy grinned, already half-laughing.
"Doesn't matter," Jian said, shrugging. "They deserved worse."
His girlfriend tugged his sleeve again.
"Jian, stop. You're going to get into trouble again."
"I'm already in trouble," he muttered, rolling his eyes, then added under his breath, "And today isn't helping either."
His gaze slipped — unwillingly — in my direction.
I felt it before I met it.
I lifted my head just slightly, and our eyes crossed for a heartbeat that felt strangely heavy. He looked away immediately, jaw tightening as if I'd stepped on a bruise he didn't want anyone to know he had.
One of his friends caught it.
They always did.
"Damn, Jian," the guy teased, nudging him.
"You got beef with the quiet one now? What'd he do, breathe too calmly?"
A few students snickered.
Jian glared at them.
"Shut up," he snapped, the words sharper than necessary.
But he didn't deny it.
He didn't deny the staring.
He didn't deny the discomfort.
He didn't deny the fact that something about me had stuck in his chest like a stone he couldn't swallow.
The teacher entered then, giving us the usual beginning-of-term speech.
I opened my notebook.
My handwriting stayed neat and even through all the noise.
But a few minutes in, I felt it again—
that sharp, quick flick of attention from behind me.
A stare,
then a look away,
then a stare again.
As if he was checking whether I was going to acknowledge him.
Or mock him.
Or remind him of the bottle,
the shouting,
the embarrassment he tried so hard to bury.
At one point, the teacher turned to write something on the board.
Tools scraped, chalk squeaked.
And in that moment, in the soft pause of classroom silence,
I heard Jian whisper harshly to his friend:
"…Tell him to stop acting like he didn't see anything."
His friend whispered back, amused:
"He's literally just sitting there."
Jian didn't answer.
He just huffed, frustrated, tapping his pencil against the desk in a rhythm that betrayed how unsettled he truly felt.
I didn't look back.
I didn't say anything.
But it was obvious:
He wasn't angry at me.
He wasn't annoyed by me.
He was triggered by me.
And neither of us had the language for that yet.
To be continued...