Jian's Night + Wei's Night (Parallel Cinematic Sequence)
Jian's Night — A Restless Fire
The house was its usual evening chaos—
a muffled argument in another room,
a television playing too loudly,
someone slamming a door just to make a point
no one cared enough to win.
Jian sat on the edge of his bed,
shirt half-off,
hair still damp from the rushed shower he'd taken after basketball practice,
his skin warm but his mind anything but.
He ran a hand through his hair—
once, twice—
hard enough that the strands stuck up like wild flames.
He should be tired.
He should be knocked out by now.
He had sprinted, fought, laughed, shouted, argued,
done everything humanly possible to exhaust himself.
But his body refused rest.
His mind replayed the day like broken film strips—
each moment flickering in sharp, unwanted clarity:
The morning fight.
The glass bottle shattering.
Wei walking past him like calm winter water.
Lunchtime tension.
Chen Luoyang's hand on Wei's shoulder.
The way Wei's voice softened for someone else.
The classroom sunlight.
Wei sleeping.
Wei breathing.
Wei not noticing him.
Wei not looking at him.
Wei not caring.
That last part hit him the hardest.
He threw his pillow across the room just to release the pressure building inside his chest.
It hit the desk with a dull thud.
"Why the hell—"
He stopped, teeth clenching until his jaw pulsed.
He didn't even know what the question was.
Or who he was angry at.
Or why the warmth of the winter sun on someone else's face
felt like it had burned him.
He lay back against the bed,
restless,
eyes on the cracked ceiling.
Every time he closed them, he saw—
Wei asleep.
The quiet rise and fall of his breathing.
The way his hair shifted with the wind.
The sunlight touching his skin as if claiming him.
Jian clenched his fists in the bedsheets.
He didn't want that image.
Yet it refused to leave.
What irritated him more was the feeling beneath it—
the strange, confusing tug in his chest
whenever he thought of Wei's calm expression,
so peaceful it made Jian feel something unfamiliar…
Something he mistook for anger.
Something he would later learn was not that at all.
But for now—
He told himself the only explanation he could endure:
"I just can't stand him."
But the lie rang hollow in the stillness of his room,
echoing back at him in a way that made the night
even longer.
Night — A Quiet Winter Page(Cheng Wei POV — soft, slow, introspective)
Our house was quiet when I returned—
quiet in the way that settles over a home
when no one is waiting for you to arrive.
The hallway light buzzed faintly,
the heater clicked with slow mechanical breaths,
and the windows trembled softly whenever the winter wind pressed against them.
I set my schoolbag on the table,
poured myself a glass of lukewarm water,
and changed into something more comfortable—
a loose sweater,
old grey pants,
the kind of clothes that made silence feel gentler.
I sat at my desk.
Opened my notebook.
Uncapped my pen.
I wasn't writing homework.
I was just writing.
Small lines.
Fragments of thoughts.
Pieces of the day I didn't know how to place anywhere else.
The winter sun in the classroom.
My accidental nap.
The sound of the door opening.
The sudden, heavy silence behind me.
Jian standing there.
Jian leaving without speaking.
Jian always looking as if my existence scraped his nerves raw.
My handwriting slowed.
I stared at the page,
the ink still glistening in the dim light.
For someone I barely spoke to,
he occupied a strange space in my mind—
not loud, not sharp,
but persistent in the quietest way,
like the memory of a cold wind that keeps passing over the same part of your skin.
I leaned back in my chair,
watching the shadows form patterns on the ceiling.
Chen had asked me earlier if something felt off today.
I'd told him no.
And maybe it was the truth.
Maybe nothing had changed.
Maybe Jian was just irritated
because he had seen me asleep
and assumed I was mocking him by being so relaxed
in a world where he was always tightening his fists.
Maybe he was angry
because of something unrelated to me.
Maybe he hated the way I walked,
the way I looked,
the way I didn't raise my voice even when he did.
It was easier to believe those things
than to assume anything softer.
I returned my attention to the page
and wrote a single line:
"Some people burn loudly.
Some people freeze quietly.
Both hurt in their own ways."
I closed the notebook gently.
Outside,
snow began to fall—
soft flakes drifting in and out of streetlights,
like small memories brushing against the edges of night.
I turned off the lamp,
lay down on my bed,
and pulled the blanket over my shoulders.
As sleep crept in,
my last thought was a quiet, resigned one—
He must truly dislike me.
Otherwise, he wouldn't react this way.
I didn't know
that somewhere across the city,
in a small chaotic room filled with noise and confusion,
another boy lay awake
because of me.