The afternoon sun had shifted by the time they entered the classroom, painting half the desks in warm light and leaving the other half in softer shadow. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust and winter air drifting through the slightly open windows. Students filtered in slowly, dropping backpacks on the floor, sharing snacks, flipping through textbooks without really reading them.
Jian walked in behind Yanyan.
He followed her to their usual seats—hers by the window, his beside her— and he sat down with the heavy, mechanical movement of someone whose body had learned the actions but whose mind was far away.
Yanyan leaned her elbow gently against his.
"Jian-ge… want some candy? It might wake you up."
"Later," he murmured.
She nodded, though the nod carried a tiny hesitation. She expected him to at least look at her when he said it— but he didn't.
Because the moment he sat down, the moment she opened her notebook, the moment the classroom noise settled into soft chatter— Jian's eyes drifted.
Again.
Again.
Again.
To Wei.
As if pulled by something gravitational.
As if his vision had learned to find that one silhouette in any crowd.
Wei was sitting alone, like always, at the far end of the room near the wall. His posture was straight and clean, his hair falling just barely over his eyes, his notebook open to neat handwriting,
his hand moving with a slow, steady rhythm that made him look almost unreal.
The bruise from last night had faded into a faint shadow barely visible from Jian's distance, but Jian's eyes found it instantly.
His chest tightened.
Does it hurt?
Did he sleep at all?
Jian hated that he was thinking these questions He hated that his eyes kept returning to Wei's face,
to the corner of his lips, to the calm half-lowered lashes over cold eyes. He hated—and yet he couldn't look away.
Wei lifted his head suddenly, maybe to stretch his neck, maybe to check the board— and for a split, blinding second their eyes met.
Jian's breath caught in his throat. It was so quick, so unintentional, so coldly accidental.
Wei didn't widen his eyes. Didn't flinch. Didn't react in any dramatic way. He simply blinked once—
slowly— and then lowered his gaze back to his page as if Jian were nothing more than a passing breeze disturbing the corner of his vision.
Jian felt his pulse thud painfully.
That's it?
No reaction?
You saw me looking right at you—
and that's it?
Something bitter, sharp, strangely wounded twisted under his ribs.
Yanyan noticed the shift before Jian did. She noticed the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes flicked away too quickly, the way his pen hovered uselessly over a blank page.
She followed his gaze—
just a quick glance—
and saw the person he kept looking at.
Wei.
Her breath thinned for a second.
She didn't say anything. She didn't ask. She didn't accuse. She just swallowed softly and lowered her eyes to her notebook, writing a sentence she wouldn't remember later. Her hand, which had been resting near Jian's,
quietly moved away.
Teacher Lin entered with her usual stack of papers, her glasses perched halfway down her nose, her voice starting the lecture without much introduction.
Students opened their books.
Pens clicked.
Chairs shifted.
Jian forced himself to open his textbook. But every time he tried to read a line, his eyes drifted—not even consciously—to the right. To Wei. Always to Wei. And every time Wei looked like that—
calm, focused, distant— it stirred something uncomfortably alive in Jian.
A tightness.
A frustration.
A question he didn't want to ask.
Why do you have this effect on me?
He pressed his thumbs against the edge of his desk, trying to concentrate, trying to breathe normally. But then— Wei lifted a hand to touch the side of his neck, the exact place that bully had shoved him the night before.
Jian's entire body froze.
It hurts. He is hurt.
Why is he pretending he's not?
Why is he so damn calm about it?
Before his brain could stop him, Jian leaned forward slightly— his body moving without permission— and stared. Too long. Too openly. And Wei felt it. He glanced sideways, just barely turning his head,
just barely shifting his eyes—
and caught Jian.
Wei's expression didn't change at all. Not surprise. Not curiosity. Not annoyance. Disgust. At least, that's what Jian thought he saw Because Wei looked away instantly, closing himself back into that quiet, unreachable world, and Jian felt the rejection like a physical blow.
He thinks I'm staring because I'm judging him.
His chest tightened brutally. He wanted to explain: "I wasn't staring for that reason." "I wasn't judging." "I wasn't— I don't even know why I'm looking." But he couldn't speak that. Couldn't even name it properly for himself.
He turned back to his book, gripping the edge hard. "…Fuck," he whispered under his breath.
Yanyan heard.
Her heart dropped an inch lower.
Wei didn't understand why Jian kept looking. Why Jian's gaze felt heavy. Why Jian's eyes were sharp, searching, restless. He only understood one thing: He's probably disgusted by me. He lowered his head even more, trying to shrink away from Jian's line of sight.
Not knowing Jian was staring
for a completely different reason.
As Teacher Lin continued explaining equations on the board, Jian sat stiff in his chair, unable to focus on a single number, unable to ignore the knot twisting at the base of his ribcage.
He couldn't explain it. Couldn't fight it. Couldn't understand it. But he knew one thing with painful clarity: Every time he looked at Wei, something inside him changed. And every time Wei looked away,
something inside him cracked. He hated it. He hated himself. He hated the confusion. But most of all—
he hated the distance between them that neither of them knew how to cross.