The next morning arrived quieter than usual, the kind of winter dawn where the sky hung in pale shades of silver and muted blue, as if the world itself hadn't woken fully yet. Snow from the night before still clung to the pavement in thin, delicate sheets, melting slowly at the edges where weak sunlight touched it. The cold air brushed against my cheeks as I stepped out of my home, settling in a faint sting that made everything feel clearer, sharper, almost too real for a morning so early.
I carried my bag across my shoulder; fingers tucked inside my pockets as I began walking the familiar route toward school. The world felt distant, muffled by the soft hush that snowfall always brought. Cars moved slower, people walked carefully, voices lowered to match the calmness of the morning. I liked winter mornings for that reason—everything softened, even noise.
By the time the school building came into view, warmth from the rising sun stretched across one corner of the courtyard, glinting against the frost-covered railings. A few early students lingered near the gate, blowing into their palms for warmth, talking in low voices. I stepped past them, brushing melted snow from my shoes as I entered the hallway.
That's when I saw him.
Sen Jian.
He wasn't with his friends, not yet.
He stood by the shoe lockers, head slightly lowered as he tied the laces of his shoes. His hair was still damp from a hurried morning shower, clinging softly to his forehead. The winter light from the hallway window touched the side of his face, casting shadows beneath his jawline and across his collarbone. He looked tired—like he hadn't slept well—but also restless in a way I couldn't name.
I hadn't expected him to be there.
And from the quick, abrupt stiffening of his shoulders,
he hadn't expected me either.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
He didn't look at me directly, but I could see it—the subtle twitch in his fingers, the quick swallow, the slight shift of his foot. All small signs, but clear enough to someone who spent life observing quietly from a distance. There was something in the air, some kind of tension that felt like the moment before a snowflake touches the ground: weightless, silent, but heavy with something unnamed.
I thought about walking past without looking, the same way I always did. But my steps slowed just slightly, not enough to be noticeable to anyone else, but more than enough for him to catch. He wasn't looking, yet somehow, he sensed it. His breath hitched faintly, so small a change it would be easy to dismiss if I didn't see the way his jaw tightened.
As I approached the lockers beside him, I felt the air grow warmer, not from temperature but from proximity. He wasn't touching me, wasn't even looking, but his presence pressed against the moment the way warmth from a flame spread outward without meaning to. I opened my locker quietly, removed my indoor shoes, and placed my outdoor ones inside.
He finished tying his laces but didn't stand immediately.
He lingered.
Pretending to adjust nothing, pretending to double-check nothing.
Just… lingering.
As if waiting for something.
Or for someone.
I didn't give him the look he was avoiding.
I didn't speak.
I simply closed my locker gently and stepped away.
But in the glass reflection of the display case across the hall,
I saw it—
the way his head lifted the moment I turned,
eyes following me for the tiniest second
before he snapped them away as if burned.
And for reasons I couldn't understand,
my chest tightened as I walked toward the classroom.
Not painfully.
Not softly.
Just tight enough to make me inhale slower.
When I entered Class 12-A, the room was buzzing with normal morning chatter. Students running between desks, arguing about homework they didn't do, laughing at jokes not worth laughing at. The heater hummed steadily, filling the room with a warmth that felt almost too heavy compared to the crisp air outside.
I took my seat—
or at least, I tried to.
But before I even sat, the teacher walked in holding a clipboard, tapping it lightly against the desk for attention.
"Alright, everyone, calm down. We're changing the seating arrangement today."
A collective groan spread through the classroom,
mixed with excitement from those hoping to sit beside their friends,
and disappointment from those who knew fate always teased them.
I didn't mind seating changes.
Every seat was the same to me—a place to listen, write, and exist quietly.
The teacher began calling names, directing each student to their new spot.
"Cheng Wei — third row, window side."
Window side.
I nodded, picking up my bag and moving to the indicated seat.
I liked windows.
They let the world in quietly.
Then—
"Sen Jian — third row, aisle."
My hand paused for a second on the desk.
Not much.
Just a breath.
Aisle seat.
Next to mine.
I looked up.
He was already staring at the teacher, expression flat and unreadable, but the moment our names formed a pair by location, his left hand tightened around the strap of his bag, knuckles pushing white against skin. His eyes flicked toward me—only once, only briefly—then away again, as if trying to pretend indifference.
He walked toward the desk, every step loose and careless on the surface,
but his heartbeat visible in the tension of his shoulders.
I lowered my gaze as he sat beside me, leaving an inch more distance than necessary between our chairs, as if he feared even a slight overlap of space would mean something. His bag dropped to the floor with a thud louder than it needed to be.
The teacher continued placing others, but the world had narrowed into this small, silent space—
a window,
a desk,
a cold breeze seeping through the cracks,
and him,
beside me.
He didn't look at me.
Not once.
But I felt his glances—
those quick, involuntary slips of the eye he fought to control—
each one hitting the side of my face like faint bursts of warmth.
I kept my eyes on the board, pen poised, posture calm.
On the outside, nothing changed.
Inside?
A quiet question I didn't dare speak:
Why does he look at me like that?
With irritation…
with confusion…
with something I can't name?
The teacher began explaining the first lesson of the day, but Jian didn't write a word.
His fingers tapped soundlessly on the desk,
his gaze flickered to the window,
to the board,
to his friend,
to his lap—
and eventually…
to me.
Just once.
Barely a moment.
But enough for him to jerk his eyes away the second mine shifted even slightly.
A silence stretched between us that wasn't empty at all.
It was full—
of unsaid things,
unnoticed feelings,
and misunderstandings we hadn't even begun to unravel.
The winter light fell across my desk in a soft pale glow,
and as the minute hand on the classroom clock moved slowly,
I felt the day settle into a shape I couldn't quite understand yet.
It was the first time we were seated beside each other.
The first time our worlds touched without touching.
The first time the distance between us
began to change.
And neither of us knew
what this quiet rearrangement
was about to start.