By the time Lin Yanyan tugged him back toward the classroom, Jian's pulse had finally eased from its frantic rhythm. Yet his chest remained tight, as though an invisible weight had lodged between his ribs and refused to shift. The hallway still carried the faint echo of that earlier moment—the frozen glance, the desperate kiss meant to erase it—but now everything felt muted, off-balance.
Yanyan walked close beside him, her fingers looped lightly through his arm in that casual, familiar way. Her voice flowed soft and melodic, the same tone that usually calmed the storm inside him.
"Jian-ge, let's get milk tea after school, okay? I'm craving brown sugar boba…"
He nodded absently, the motion automatic. But his eyes weren't on her. They kept drifting forward, toward the approaching classroom door, searching for something he couldn't name.
When they stepped inside, his heart dropped like a stone.
The seat beside his—the one Cheng Wei had quietly claimed earlier that day—was empty. No backpack slung over the chair back. No neatly stacked books. No trace of him at all.
Yanyan didn't notice. She chattered on to a friend across the aisle. His usual group laughed about something irrelevant. But the absence struck Jian with a force that stole his breath.
Where the hell is he?
Still hiding in the library? Had he skipped the last period entirely? Left school early? Or—worse—was he deliberately avoiding Jian after what happened in the corridor?
His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag until the fabric bit into his palm. He didn't sit right away. He simply stood in the doorway, staring at the back row. The empty space looked colder than it should, louder in its silence than any shouting match or basketball court brawl he'd ever been part of.
Yanyan tugged gently at his sleeve.
"Jian-ge? Sit down."
He blinked, forcing his gaze away.
"Mn."
The sound was barely audible. He dropped into his chair, but his focus refused to settle. Not on Yanyan's light touches, not on the surrounding chatter, not on the crackling announcements over the speakers about club sign-ups and upcoming exams.
His eyes flicked to the door again and again—subtle glances, habitual now, almost involuntary. Every time someone entered, his pulse spiked, only to crash when it wasn't Wei.
Cheng Wei never appeared.
Not during the final lecture wrap-up.
Not when the teacher packed up.
Not even as the minutes ticked down.
The end-of-day chime rang out—three familiar tones that usually meant freedom. Laughter erupted around him. Chairs scraped back. Bags unzipped in a chaotic symphony. Students surged toward the exit like water breaking free.
Yanyan squeezed his arm.
"Let's go. We'll wait for the girls downstairs."
Jian nodded on autopilot and followed her out. But even in the crowded hallway, his gaze kept scanning—frantic beneath the surface, searching for that one quiet figure he told himself he didn't care about.
Where is he?
They descended the stairwell amid the press of bodies—friends shouting plans, complaints about homework, bursts of laughter. Yanyan kept talking, her voice a gentle stream beside him, but the words blurred into white noise.
Then, just as they reached the bottom landing—
He froze.
Through the wide glass doors and the flood of students pouring into the courtyard, two figures emerged from the side corridor leading to the library.
One tall and slender, posture straight as always.
The other slightly shorter, relaxed, easy.
Cheng Wei.
And beside him—Chen Luoyang.
Wei held his literature book pressed to his chest like a shield, expression calm, composed. But something was different. A faint shift at the corner of his mouth. A tiny upward curve—so subtle anyone else would have overlooked it entirely.
Jian didn't.
He saw it clearly, painfully.
A smile.
Not broad, not forced. Just the smallest softening, a quiet warmth that lit his usually blank features from within. Chen Luoyang leaned in slightly, saying something low and teasing. Wei's gaze dropped to the ground, lashes shadowing his cheeks, and the warmth deepened. The faintest exhale that might have been the ghost of a laugh.
It was the first time Jian had ever seen Cheng Wei look anything other than distant, guarded, untouchable.
And it wasn't for him.
It wasn't because of him.
It wasn't even in his direction.
A violent rush surged through Jian's chest—jealousy sharp as broken glass, confusion twisting like smoke, hurt he had no name for. Something darker coiled beneath it all, hot and unfamiliar, making his fingers curl into tight fists at his sides.
Yanyan glanced up at him.
"Jian-ge? Why did you stop walking?"
He couldn't speak. Couldn't move.
He stood frozen on the landing, watching the boy he didn't understand walk away—not alone in silence, but side by side with someone else, wrapped in a gentle ease Jian had never witnessed.
Chen Luoyang murmured something else. Wei responded softly, voice too quiet to carry, but the shape of it felt warm, intimate.
Jian felt something inside him collapse—quiet, inward, like snow sliding off a fragile branch under its own weight.
He didn't know why it hurt so much.
Didn't know why his throat closed tight.
Didn't know why, in that moment, he suddenly wished Wei would look up—just once—across the crowded courtyard, straight at him.
But Wei didn't.
He continued walking with Luoyang, steps unhurried, conversation soft and private. They disappeared around the corner toward the school gates.
Jian could only watch from the distance he himself had built.
Yanyan tugged his sleeve again, more insistent.
"Jian-ge? What are you looking at?"
He swallowed hard. His voice emerged low, raw, almost foreign to his own ears.
"…Nothing."
But his eyes stayed fixed on the empty space where Cheng Wei had been, long after the boy was gone.