The late-afternoon free period descended on the high school like a quiet sigh. Taiwanese winters carried this peculiar softness—nothing like the sharp, biting cold of northern places, but a gentle, hazy chill that made everything feel slightly dreamlike. The fluorescent hallway lights buzzed with a low, constant hum, casting long shadows across the linoleum. Golden sunlight slanted through the tall classroom windows at a lazy angle, painting the walls in warm amber and turning floating dust motes into tiny sparks. Somewhere distant, laughter rose and fell in irregular waves, footsteps echoed without urgency, as though the entire building had collectively decided that time could wait a little longer.
Cheng Wei zipped his backpack shut, slid his arms into the sleeves of his thin navy jacket, and stepped out of the classroom. The corridor leading toward the library wing was always quieter than the rest of the school. Most students gravitated toward the canteen, the basketball courts, or the open rooftop where they could smoke or scroll on their phones without teachers hovering. Here, the air carried the faint, clean scent of industrial floor polish mixed with the metallic tang of winter wind slipping through poorly sealed window frames. The glass rattled gently every time a gust pressed against it, a small, rhythmic reminder that the world outside was still moving.
He walked slowly, hands in his pockets, letting the hush wrap around him. This stretch of hallway felt like a pocket of solitude carved out of the school's chaos—a place where he could simply exist without being noticed. He liked it that way.
A few steps before the corner, a light laugh drifted toward him—clear, effortless, the sort of sound that brightened a room even when no one was trying. Lin Yanyan. Her voice had that quality: it carried, even in whispers, drawing attention without effort. Cheng Wei didn't think much of it. People laughed in hallways all the time.
He rounded the corner at his usual unhurried pace.
And everything stopped.
His feet halted so softly it felt as though his lungs had forgotten how to pull in air.
There, bathed in the soft, honey-colored light pouring through the high windows, stood Sen Jian. His broad shoulders leaned casually against a row of dented metal lockers, one hand resting low on Yanyan's waist with the easy confidence that came from habit, from months—maybe longer—of the same intimate gesture repeated in stolen moments. Yanyan's palms rested lightly on Jian's shoulders, her fingers curled just enough to hold on. She tilted her head, lips brushing his cheek as another soft laugh escaped her.
It wasn't theatrical. No dramatic music, no slow-motion intensity. Just two teenagers caught in an ordinary, private instant—bodies close because closeness felt natural, lips near because affection had grown comfortable enough to need no performance. Her dark hair fell forward slightly, catching the light; his uniform tie was loosened, the top button of his shirt undone in that careless way popular boys managed without looking sloppy.
Cheng Wei knew he should turn away. Walk backward silently, pretend the moment had never intersected with his own path. But his gaze lifted—almost against his will—and locked with Jian's.
Not a full, obvious stare. Just a flicker. A brief meeting of eyes across the ten or twelve feet of empty corridor.
It was enough.
The air between them seemed to thicken and cool all at once, turning brittle. Jian's lips stilled against Yanyan's skin. His fingers paused where they had been tracing lazy circles at the small of her back. A tiny, almost inaudible hitch in his breathing—barely there, but unmistakable to someone who paid attention to silences.
Cheng Wei saw the fracture happen. Something in Jian's expression splintered—raw, fleeting, gone in less than a heartbeat as he clamped it down with brutal force. No one else would have caught it. Yanyan certainly didn't; she was still smiling, murmuring something playful against his jaw.
But Cheng Wei had always noticed the things no one else did.
Sen Jian's perspective
He wasn't supposed to notice anyone watching.
He wasn't supposed to feel the sudden, electric jolt that shot through his spine the instant his peripheral vision caught a familiar silhouette at the edge of the hallway.
Cheng Wei.
Standing there. Still. Silent. Watching.
Jian's body reacted before his mind could catch up—muscles tensing, heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted out. Why did it matter? Why did the sight of Wei—of all people—make everything inside him twist painfully?
He saw me.
He saw me holding her like this.
The thoughts collided, chaotic and furious. Why the hell do I even care? Why does my stomach feel like it's dropping through the floor?
Panic wore the face of anger. Instinct took over.
He pulled Yanyan in harder—too hard, too suddenly. She gasped softly against his mouth.
「建哥,你——」Jian-ge, you—
He cut her off by kissing her deeper, more forcefully. Not with desire. Not with tenderness. But with something desperate, almost punishing. As though pressing his mouth harder against hers could overwrite the image burned into his brain: Wei's calm, unreadable face witnessing this moment that was supposed to belong only to him and Yanyan.
One hand slid up to cradle her jaw, fingers firm against her skin; the other pressed insistently at her lower back, closing what little space remained. His pulse roared in his ears—not from the kiss, but from the sight of Wei turning away.
Turning away so quietly.
So calmly.
Not a word. Not a change in expression. Just a slow pivot and footsteps retreating down the corridor, measured and even, as though nothing worth reacting to had happened.
As though Jian's entire reaction—the freeze, the crack, the frantic escalation—was invisible. Insignificant.
Fury surged through him, metallic and bitter on his tongue. Why are you leaving? Why won't you look back? Why does it feel like you're the one rejecting me?
He tightened his hold on Yanyan once more, but the spark had already guttered out. Her lips tasted wrong now—foreign, like borrowing someone else's warmth. The shape of her body against his felt mismatched, out of rhythm. Everything tasted like ash.
Cheng Wei's perspective
The library door closed behind him with a soft pneumatic sigh. Warm air enveloped him immediately, carrying the comforting, dusty scent of thousands of aging pages and polished wooden shelves. It should have felt like refuge.
Instead, his skin still prickled with cold that had nothing to do with the temperature outside.
He moved to the farthest corner table, the one tucked beside a tall window whose glass had fogged at the edges from the contrast between indoor heat and winter air. He set his bag down, pulled out his literature textbook, and opened it to a random page. The characters swam in front of him, meaningless.
His mind kept replaying not the kiss itself—not the way Jian's hand had curved so naturally around Yanyan's waist—but that single, unguarded instant when their eyes met.
The flash of something raw in Jian's gaze. Something wounded. Something almost... frightened.
It made no sense.
The easiest explanation was also the most logical: Jian had been embarrassed. Annoyed. Angry that someone like Cheng Wei—quiet, invisible, perpetually on the edges—had stumbled into his private world and seen him vulnerable, human, wrapped up in a girl everyone knew he was dating.
Maybe Jian assumed Cheng Wei would gossip. Judge. Mock.
Or maybe he simply hated being observed by someone he barely acknowledged existed.
Cheng Wei traced the edge of the page with his fingertip, feeling the slight texture of the paper. The ache in his chest wasn't dramatic—no tears, no dramatic heartbreak. Just a quiet, persistent coldness, like frost settling on glass. A gentle realization that some distances weren't meant to be crossed.
Their worlds had brushed against each other for one sharp second, and both of them had flinched.
He had seen Jian—not the confident, easy-smiling boy who dominated the basketball court and hallways, but the boy whose mask slipped for half a breath when caught off guard.
And Jian had seen him—really seen him—standing there, witnessing something he wasn't supposed to.
Neither of them had wanted that clarity.
Cheng Wei exhaled slowly, letting the breath fog the window a little more. Outside, the winter light was fading into early dusk, turning the school grounds dusky and indistinct.
It's fine, he told himself silently.
We were never supposed to overlap.
Yet the truth refused to fade: for one frozen moment, they had.
And now the echo of that glance lingered between them, fragile and unspoken, like a crack in glass that might one day shatter everything—or simply remain, quietly refracting the light.