The sky had already bled into the soft purple of early evening by the time Jian stepped through the school gates with Yanyan's hand tucked comfortably around his sleeve. Taiwanese winter evenings carried that particular chill—one that slipped under collars and made fingertips ache, yet turned every streetlamp into a warm amber halo, every shop window into a glowing invitation. Students spilled onto the sidewalks in loose, laughing groups: some hurrying toward cram-school buildings with backpacks bouncing, others pausing at 7-Eleven counters for hot tea and steamed buns, a few walking alone with earphones in, already half-absorbed into their private soundtracks.
Yanyan swung their joined arms lightly as they walked, her scarf fluttering against her shoulder, hair catching the last of the dying daylight.
"Jian-ge, I've been craving that new brown sugar boba all day."
She tilted her face up to him, eyes bright with the uncomplicated excitement she always carried when they were together.
"Please? I want something sweet tonight."
Jian nodded without really hearing the words.
"好."
Okay.
His voice came out automatic, flat. His mind was elsewhere—trapped in the replay of an image he couldn't shake: Cheng Wei walking beside Chen Luoyang after the final bell, that faint, almost invisible curve at the corner of Wei's mouth, the way his lashes lowered when Luo teased him, the quiet softening that had made Wei's face look alive in a way Jian had never witnessed before. It looped behind his eyes like a short, cruel film, each frame sharper than the last.
They reached the small milk tea shop tucked between a stationery store and a neighborhood bakery. Warm light spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting golden rectangles on the sidewalk. Inside, the place hummed with after-school life: students clustered at high tables, couples sharing one large cup with two straws, the rhythmic clatter of ice in metal shakers, the sweet, milky scent of tapioca and caramel hanging thick in the air.
Yanyan pressed closer to his side, smiling up at him.
"I'll go find us seats. You order for us, okay?"
Jian gave another distracted nod.
"嗯." hn
He stepped toward the counter—and stopped dead.
Because standing there, one hand resting casually on the edge of the marble ledge, the other buried in his jacket pocket, was Chen Luoyang.
And right beside him, head tilted slightly as he studied the illuminated menu board—
Cheng Wei.
The air around Jian seemed to thicken and compress all at once. His heartbeat landed once—hard, erratic—then stumbled into an uneven rhythm that made his chest ache.
Wei hadn't noticed him. Or if he had, he gave no sign. He stood with the same calm, self-contained posture Jian had seen a thousand times in hallways and classrooms: shoulders relaxed beneath the navy school jacket, fringe falling softly over his brow, blinking slowly as though the world moved at a pace only he could hear.
Chen Luoyang nudged him lightly with an elbow.
"Wei, same as always? Thirty-percent sugar, warm?"
Wei gave the smallest nod, almost imperceptible.
"Mm. Not too sweet."
That voice—low, restrained, careful—slid under Jian's skin like cold water. No one at school called him "Wei" with that easy, intimate shorthand. No one spoke to him as though his preferences were already known, already cherished. No one treated him like someone soft, someone real, someone close.
Only Chen Luoyang did.
And the single word—Wei—landed heavier than it should have. Like a fist to the sternum.
The barista leaned forward.
"Two of the same?"
Chen laughed softly, the sound warm and effortless.
"No—one's for our Wei, the other's mine. Normal ice, light sugar."
Our Wei.
The phrase sliced deeper than the sticky sweetness filling the shop. Jian's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. His hands curled loosely at his sides, nails pressing crescents into his palms.
Yanyan's voice floated from behind him, gentle and puzzled.
"Jian-ge? Why did you stop? You can order up there."
But Jian couldn't move.
Because at that moment Wei turned—just a fraction—when Luo nudged him again. The warm yellow cafe lights caught his face fully for the first time: calm, soft around the edges, a little tired at the corners of his eyes, a little distant as always.
And utterly untouched by Jian's presence.
Wei's gaze brushed past him—didn't pause, didn't hesitate, didn't linger. It moved over him the way it might skim a stranger on a crowded MRT, brief and weightless.
Chen Luoyang noticed Jian first. His eyes flicked up, sharp and assessing, expression carefully neutral for a long beat. Then he offered the faintest polite nod—barely there, more courtesy than recognition.
Wei followed the motion. His gaze lifted politely, neutrally. No warmth, no chill. Just the same detached courtesy he gave to passing classmates in the corridor.
Then he turned back to the menu board as though Jian had never existed.
Something inside Jian folded quietly. Not with a crash. Not with fireworks. Just a slow, inexorable collapse—like air leaving a punctured balloon, too gradual to make a sound.
Yanyan tugged his sleeve again, more insistent.
"Jian-ge? Are you going to order? I want to buy bread later too."
He forced his throat to work.
"I'll order. Wait for me."
But even as he stepped forward to the counter, his eyes stayed locked on the two figures at the far end.
Chen nudged Wei once more, voice dropping softer.
"Wei, your hands are cold? Want to drink a little first when it comes?"
Wei's lips curved again—that tiny, fragile almost-smile. The same one from after school. Barely there, but real. Warm.
And in that instant Jian understood something he had never allowed himself to name before: the shape of wanting something he could never touch. Something he hadn't even realized he craved until he saw it given freely to someone else.
Wei was smiling—not for Jian, never for Jian—but for Chen Luoyang.
The jealousy came cold this time, sliding under his skin like a blade dipped in frost. Not hot rage. Not explosive anger. Just a deep, quiet freezing.
He turned to the barista, voice low and rougher than he intended.
"Two brown sugar bobas—one regular sweet, one half sweet."
The barista nodded and punched the order into the machine.
Jian paid without looking at the screen. His gaze never left the boy standing ten feet away.
Wei didn't glance back. Not once. Not even by accident.
And somehow that indifference hurt more than the forced kiss in the hallway earlier that day. More than the empty seat in class. More than anything.
Because indifference meant Jian didn't matter at all.
Not even enough to be avoided.
Not even enough to be seen.
He collected the two cups when his number was called, the plastic warm against his suddenly cold palms. Yanyan was already waving from a corner table, smiling brightly.
But Jian walked toward her slowly, each step heavier than the last, carrying two drinks and one unbearable truth:
The softness he had glimpsed in Cheng Wei belonged to someone else.
And Jian—loud, confident, surrounded—had never once been invited to share it.