The hallway was louder than usual during lunch break. Someone was blasting a song on a cracked phone speaker, bags slammed against lockers, girls giggled near the bulletin board about a new TikTok trend, and the sharp smell of spicy ramen filled the air from the cafeteria line.
Jian walked slowly, surrounded by his friend group, but his eyes kept flicking to the end of the hallway— the direction Wei had gone with his tiny lunch. Yanyan tugged his sleeve again.
"Jian-ge…" she said softly, "can we get bread today? The melon one? I've been thinking about it since morning."
Jian nodded without looking at her.
"Mm. Whatever you want."
One of the boys laughed loudly.
"Bro, you're whipped. Total simp. Yan says jump, you ask how high."
Yanyan blushed.
"Don't say that!"
Jian forced a half-smile.
"Relax. They talk like idiots."
His friend slapped his shoulder dramatically.
"Ayyy, don't pretend! We all know you're head over heels since middle school. Remember when you—"
"Stop," Jian muttered, eyes still distant.
Another boy nudged him.
"Speaking of weird childhood memories… did you guys see Cheng Wei leave again? Alone. As always. Bread and water like he's in some survival mode."
First boy snorted.
"Bro, I swear—if you gave him a whole buffet he'd still stand in a corner and eat by himself."
Second boy joined in instantly,
"And the way he walks? Like he sees dead people or something."
Laughter broke out.
Yanyan frowned a bit.
"That's mean. He's just quiet."
"He's weird quiet," one friend fired back.
"Like serial-killer-in-a-movie quiet."
Jian's fingers tightened slightly—
so slight even he didn't realize it.
Another friend spoke, louder:
"My cousin from Class 2 said Cheng Wei once broke a chair leg by accident. That guy's got issues. You can tell by looking at him."
Jian's eyes flicked up sharply. He didn't say anything— but something in him stirred uncomfortably.
The third friend said,
"Honestly Jian, how do you sit in the same room as him? He gives me the creeps."
Jian inhaled, but his mind wasn't in the conversation. He was replaying Wei's bruise flashing under the fridge light.
Replay.
Loop.
Replay.
His friend snapped his fingers in front of him.
"HEL-LO? Earth to Jian?"
Jian blinked.
"What?"
"Bro, we're asking you—doesn't he creep YOU out too? You sit near him sometimes."
Jian stared at the wall for a long second, eyes unfocused, thoughts drifting miles away. He wasn't thinking about their question. He was thinking about last night. The alley. Wei's voice. The terrifying calm.
The sadness under it.
His friend elbowed him again.
"Dude. Say something."
Jian exhaled, frustrated at his own brain, frustrated at the confusion inside him— and the words slipped out without direction:
"…he just makes everything complicated."
His friends exploded.
"AHAHAHAHAHA— I KNEW IT!"
"Even Jian hates him!"
"Broooo, we told you! He's weird!"
"Complicated, my ass—he's just psycho!"
"Oh my god, Jian, you're killing me—"
Another boy copied Jian's tone mockingly:
"'He makes everything complicated…'"
and everyone laughed even harder.
Yanyan looked uneasy.
"Guys… that's enough—"
But they didn't hear her.
One friend said loudly:
"He should just transfer out. Seriously, who needs that quiet freak?"
Another added:
"Yeah. People like him ruin the vibe."
And then—
everything froze.
Because someone was standing at the terrace door.
Wei.
The bread packet in one hand. The water bottle in the other. The metal door handle under his fingers. His posture still, quiet, almost elegant in its restraint.
He had heard every word.
Yanyan covered her mouth with her hand.
"Oh no…"
Jian's heart jolted painfully—
a sharp, sinking weight in his chest.
He opened his mouth—
"Wei—"
But Wei didn't look at him.
Not once.
He kept his gaze lowered, expression unreadable, as if he'd already built a wall faster than anyone could break. He didn't flinch. Didn't react to the laughter. Didn't show anger. Didn't show sadness.
That made it worse.
Jian stepped forward instinctively.
"Wait— I didn't— I wasn't talking about—"
But his voice tangled and collapsed. He couldn't form a proper sentence. His friends fell silent finally,
realizing too late that they'd been overheard.
One boy whispered awkwardly,
"…shit."
Another mumbled,
"Uh—maybe he didn't hear everything?"
But Wei had. His fingers tightened around the door handle with a tiny, tiny sound— a click Jian felt in his bones.
Then—
Wei pushed the terrace door open. The metal groaned under the pressure, echoing sharply through the hallway. He stepped outside, letting the cold winter air swallow him whole. The door swung shut behind him with a soft, final thud.
Jian reached it a second too late, his palm hitting the metal surface.
"Wei—
I wasn't—
That wasn't—
Damn it…"
His voice cracked on the last word. His friends exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Yanyan touched his arm gently.
"Jian-ge… you really didn't mean those words for him, right?"
Jian didn't answer. He kept staring at the door— as if staring hard enough might reopen it, as if Wei might return and give him a chance to explain the sentence he himself didn't understand.
The sentence that broke something fragile. And Jian whispered to himself, voice trembling with anger he couldn't place:
"…Why does this feel so wrong?"
He didn't know. But he would. Soon.
The terrace door closed behind him with a soft metallic thud, muting the laughter, the hallway noise,
the careless voices like someone quietly shutting the world out.
Wei didn't pause.
He stepped into the open space, where winter sunlight spilled over the cracked concrete floor and the wind carried the faint smell of chalk and old rain.
It was colder here. Always colder. The kind of cold that bit into the fingertips and settled deep into the bones without asking permission.
Wei sat down in his usual spot— far from the railing, far from the door, far from where anyone passing by might see him.
A place he had memorized years ago. A place no one else bothered to occupy. A place where being unnoticed felt safer than being noticed the wrong way.
He set down his small water bottle. Placed the bread beside it. Unwrapped it slowly. Not because he was savoring anything. But because there was no rush when you were the only person in the world who wasn't waiting for anything.
He took a bite. Chewed silently. Stared at nothing. Wind brushed his hair. A bird landed on the railing for a split second then flew away. Somewhere below, a teacher scolded a class for running in the halls.
Life moved.
Everything moved.
But he didn't.
His face remained calm— the same expression he wore in class, in hallways, in every place where people looked at him like he was something to whisper about. But inside— Inside, something twisted painfully. Not because of the bruise. Not because of the cold. Not because he was eating bread again.
It was the voice he couldn't unhear.
Jian's voice.
"…he makes everything complicated."
Wei closed his eyes for a moment. The sentence repeated softly, as if spoken against the inside of his skull.
Complicated.
Complicated, complicated, complicated—
He didn't know why that one word hurt more than every insult before it. He'd been called worse.
Cold.
Weird.
Freak.
Psycho.
He'd learned to walk through those words like they were air— expected, predictable, ordinary. But "complicated" …
That one landed differently. Because it wasn't shouted. It wasn't cruel. It wasn't even directed at him. It sounded almost— almost— like Jian had been talking about something inside himself. Something messy. Something unresolved.
It made no sense. So Wei dismissed it. He took another bite of bread. The crust scratched the inside of his mouth, but he didn't react. A gust of cold wind hit the side of his face, right where the bruise still bloomed faintly along his jawline.
He touched it lightly.
It stung.
A reminder.
He dropped his hand quickly, fingers curling into his sleeve. No one needed to know it hurt. No one needed to see he felt anything.
He ate in silence. Small bites. Slow, mechanical movements. Below him, someone laughed loudly. Footsteps ran across the pavement. A ball bounced somewhere in the courtyard.
The world below was warm.
Alive.
Loud.
Up here— only the winter wind answered him. For a moment, his breath trembled— just a little—
too little for anyone to notice. But enough for him to feel. He leaned back against the cold wall, tilted his head toward the pale sky,
and let out a breath that fogged in the cold air.
He didn't cry.
He never did.
Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt. Instead, he whispered to no one—
soft, so soft even the wind might not hear it:
"…It's fine."
A lie.
But the only one he allowed himself. He wiped a crumb from his lip, took a sip of cold water, and forced his heartbeat to steady.
He didn't look at the terrace door again. He didn't expect anyone to come.
Not a friend. Not Jian.
Especially not Jian.
Wei finished his bread, closed his eyes briefly, and let the cold swallow whatever was left of the ache. Because that was easier than admitting someone's voice had gotten under his skin.