The lunch bell rang with its usual disinterested clatter, and the classroom dissolved into groups moving toward the cafeteria, some sprinting for the best seats, others dragging their feet in the slow shuffle of winter exhaustion. I packed my notebook slowly, letting the crowd thin before I made my way out.
Chen had gone ahead already— [ here you might be little confused about Chen / Luo so its Chen Luoyang only sometime i call him Chen and sometime Luo :)] so anyways back to where we are He said he needed to check something in the art club room before meeting me on the terrace.
So, I walked alone through the corridor, hands in my pockets, breathing in the faint scent of chalk dust and winter air leaking through old windows.
I was just passing the stair landing outside the boys' lockers when I heard a familiar voice—
loud, irritated, already mid-complaint.
Sen Jian.
He was talking to his group, leaning against the railing, jacket half unzipped from the morning cold. His friends were gathered around him, their laughter echoing off the tile walls, their energy so bright and chaotic it almost hurt to step into its radius.
I hadn't meant to listen.
I simply happened to be walking by.
But some words land even when you don't want them to.
Jian's voice cut through his friends' chatter—sharp, frustrated.
"I swear, I can't do this. Why the hell did they put me next to him?"
A burst of laughter from his friends followed.
"Who? That quiet guy?"
"The one who never talks?"
"Oh god, bro, you're stuck with him till exams?"
Jian scoffed loudly, running a hand through his hair with that impatient, restless gesture he always seemed to carry.
"Exactly. Sitting next to him is—God, it's fucking irritating. It's like breathing next to a damn ghost."
Laughter again.
Someone slapped his back.
The words hit me like cold wind slipping under the collar of my shirt—
unexpected, sharp enough to sting.
But he wasn't done.
"It's so fucking awkward. He sits there silently, like—like I'm doing something wrong just by existing."
His friend cackled.
"He scares you or what?"
Jian snorted.
"No. He just—"
He paused, voice rough with something I couldn't identify.
"I don't know. He makes me feel weird. And I hate it."
Another burst of laughter.
Someone teased, "Bro's scared of the introvert."
Jian shoved him lightly but his face remained tense, unhappy.
"I'm telling you, I'm going to ask to change seats. I can't do this shit for weeks. I'm losing my mind."
His voice lowered,
as if he hated the admission itself.
"…I don't want to sit next to him."
A coldness slipped down my spine.
Not surprise.
Not disappointment.
Just confirmation of something I had already assumed.
I turned away before I could hear more.
Not because I was hurt.
Not because I wanted to flee.
But because I didn't want to be the reason for his irritation—not even unknowingly.
The thought of being a weight in someone's day,
a discomfort,
a presence that made someone restless…
I had lived quietly my whole life to avoid exactly that.
So I walked back to the classroom.
It was empty now, sunlight stretching across desks like long strands of gold.
The heaters hummed softly.
Snow outside fell in slow, drifting patterns.
I stared at my seat—the one beside him.
The place fate had tied us together just hours ago.
Then I walked past it.
Past the middle row.
Past the desks where conversations always bloomed.
Past every seat that offered noise and companionship.
And I stopped at the last row,
by the window.
The coldest seat in the room.
The loneliest one.
But it was quiet.
Peaceful.
Safe.
And it spared him the discomfort of sitting beside someone he didn't want near him.
I pulled out the chair and sat down,
placing my lunch box on the desk,
my gaze drifting toward the pale winter sky outside.
The world always looked softer from far away.
People too.
I rested my elbow on the desk, lowering my eyes to the soft shadows on the floor.
I didn't think of the conversation.
I didn't let myself replay his words.
I simply chose silence—
the same way I always did.
After a few minutes,
I heard familiar footsteps approaching.
Loud.
Heavy.
Uneven.
Jian.
He must have returned for something—maybe his wallet or phone.
I didn't move.
Didn't turn.
Didn't lift my head.
He entered the classroom with his usual force,
pushing the door open with his shoulder.
But then he stopped.
I sensed it rather than saw it
—the sudden halt of movement,
the sharp intake of breath,
the shift in air that happens when someone expects something and finds the opposite instead.
He had looked toward his desk first.
To the side seat beside him.
To the chair where I was supposed to be.
Empty.
And I could almost imagine the flicker of confusion crossing his face—
the way his brows might pull together,
the faint drop in his shoulders,
the strange pause that came when someone's expectations were quietly disrupted.
Maybe he thought for a moment that I went home early.
Maybe he felt relief.
Or disappointment.
Or nothing at all.
I didn't turn to check.
But then—
I heard his footsteps again.
Slow, hesitant, almost reluctant.
He walked forward,
and out of the corner of my eye
I saw him stop halfway down the aisle.
His gaze landed on me.
Sitting alone in the last row.
Head slightly bowed.
Lunch still untouched.
Back framed by the cold morning light.
And even though I didn't look up,
I felt something shift in the air between us.
Not anger.
Not annoyance.
Something heavier.
Something quieter.
Something confused.
He didn't speak.
He didn't walk closer.
He just stood there—
long enough that the cold draft from the window drifted between us like a thin curtain of air,
long enough for his breath to slow,
long enough for the moment to fill with something unspoken.
Then he turned away abruptly,
as if stepping back from a thought he didn't want to have.
He grabbed his wallet from his desk,
muttered something sharp under his breath,
and left the room with footsteps louder than necessary.
The silence that followed settled on my shoulders like soft snow.
I didn't move.
Didn't chase.
Didn't explain.
I simply lifted my lunch box,
opened it quietly,
and ate my food with the same calm pace as always.
Some distances protect.
Some distances misunderstand.
Some distances grow on their own
because neither person takes a step toward the other.
And that day,
I chose the easier distance—
the one that hurt less now,
even if it would hurt more later.