The dream did not end.
It unraveled.
Slowly. Softly.
And when Shu Yao opened his eyes, the world was grey again—quiet, dim, and unbearably still.
His pillow was damp.
So was his face.
Tears, it seemed, did not care whether one was dreaming or awake. They had slipped down his cheeks in sleep, carving silent trails over his skin. His breath was shallow. His head throbbed with a dull, heavy ache, and his body pulsed with something deeper—fever, like fire wrapped in ice.
He blinked against the morning light seeping through his window.
His hands moved slowly as he sat up, brushing strands of brownish hair from his damp forehead. He felt flushed. Cold. Weak.
But he moved.
Because love had made him endure worse.
He stood and walked to the mirror—the one above his dresser, half-cracked at the edge. And the boy who looked back at him… wasn't the same.
His brown eyes were ringed in violet shadows. His cheeks were pale, save for the faint, fevered flush blooming under both. The bruise on his face had deepened overnight, blooming like a stormcloud beneath porcelain skin.
His lips were cracked. His collarbones sharp.
Still, he stared. No flinch. No sigh.
Only a quiet nod, like he was acknowledging someone he once knew.
Then, he turned.
In the bathroom, he peeled off his clothes—slowly, like removing armor after a long war. The shirt clung to his back, cold, and the fabric peeled away from his skin like a second layer of grief.
He turned the shower on.
Cold.
The water struck his shoulders in a sharp, silver stream. He didn't move.
He simply stood there, arms limp at his sides, head bowed, letting the water numb his body even as his thoughts continued to burn. The bruised cheek, the fevered eyes, the dream still echoing in his ribs—none of it mattered.
He had already decided.
Even sick, even hollow, he would go to school.
Because vanishing hurt worse than showing up empty.
He changed into his uniform again—white shirt, buttoned neat; tie knotted with slow fingers; blazer draped over shoulders that trembled faintly. His steps out of the room were quiet, but the weight of them could've cracked stone.
In the dining room, his mother was cleaning the table.
She didn't look up as she said, "Qing Yue already left with Bai Qi. They took his car. You're late."
He paused. Said nothing. The air smelled of soy and oil, warm rice, and something too familiar to comfort.
"Sit and eat," she said next, setting a dish on the counter without looking at him. "Even if you're late. No excuse to go hungry."
But Shu Yao tightened his fingers around the strap of his bag.
"It's too late now," he said softly, voice thin, like wind through leaves.
"Then at least take your lunchbox."
He hesitated.
"I'll eat at school," he murmured. "In the canteen."
His mother clicked her tongue, not unkindly, just tired. "Suit yourself," she muttered and disappeared into the kitchen again, the sound of running water rising behind her like another barrier.
He stood alone for a moment.
The warmth on the table untouched. The rice steamed. The egg yolk glistened.
But none of it tasted like anything anymore.
---
Outside, the sky had brightened into a sullen silver. The kind of morning that made no promises.
Shu Yao walked.
One step at a time.
His legs ached. The fever coiled behind his eyes like smoke. His fingers tingled with cold. Every few paces, he had to blink hard just to stay steady, just to remember where he was.
But the dream… the dream walked beside him.
Its weight was heavier than his bag.
Would they notice if I just disappeared?
Would they keep laughing, still happy, while I vanished quietly from the world they never saw me in?
He didn't answer himself. There was no point.
He reached a wall just before the last turn toward school.
Pressed his hand to it.
Steadied himself.
The stone was cool beneath his palm—rough, real. He drew in a shallow breath, blinked until the street stopped spinning, and pushed forward again.
His uniform clung slightly with sweat.
But his posture stayed straight.
Even now. Even broken.
And finally—
He reached the school gates.
The school gates stood tall and indifferent.
Shu Yao stepped through them like a ghost returning to familiar ruins.
His footsteps were slow, steady, as if walking through water. The air buzzed with the chatter of students and the shrill shrieks of a morning bell already fading. Laughter echoed down the corridors. Shoes scuffed against tile. And yet—he moved alone, untouched by the noise.
The halls blurred at the edges.
Fever swam in his vision.
But still, he walked.
He reached the classroom just as the first lesson had begun. The door creaked softly as he opened it. The teacher, mid-sentence, looked up.
A pause.
Then a curt nod.
"Take your seat."
Shu Yao bowed his head slightly in apology, the motion making his vision flicker with white. He didn't speak—just moved to his seat at the back of the room, placing his bag down with slow, deliberate care, as if even the sound of it hitting the floor might shatter him.
Ahead of him sat Bai Qi.
Perfect posture. Easy confidence. His ink-black hair neat, the slope of his neck visible above the collar.
He leaned back slightly in his chair and spoke just above a whisper.
"You're late."
Shu Yao didn't look at him.
Couldn't.
The words were simple—casual, even—but they struck something raw. Something still bleeding. Behind his eyes, the dream flickered: the velvet cushion, the kiss, the applause, the way Bai Qi had looked at Qing Yue like she was the sun and Shu Yao was just a cloud passing by.
His fingers gripped the edge of his desk.
He kept his gaze down, eyes fixed on the blank page of his notebook, though the letters the teacher scrawled on the board were already becoming unreadable to him. The room swayed gently, like a ship at sea.
Still, he remained.
Still, he endured.
The morning passed slowly.
Minutes stretched like hours, the ticking clock a cruel reminder of how much more he had to survive. His body pulsed with heat, his hands cold, his uniform clinging slightly from sweat.
By the time the bell rang for break, the classroom scattered with noise again. Students surged toward the hallway, already laughing, already planning snacks and gossip. Chairs scraped. Bags rustled. Bai Qi rose from his seat, stretching lazily, and walked out without a glance back.
And Shu Yao stayed behind.
Alone.
The classroom door clicked shut.
Only then—only when the last voice faded—did he let his body fold.
He laid his head down on the desk, arms crossed like a shield beneath him, as if trying to hide from the weight pressing down on his shoulders. His breathing was shallow. His brow glistened with sweat, droplets sliding down into his lashes.
The fever was rising—slowly, steadily, a fire smoldering behind his skin.
His limbs ached with cold.
His hands trembled with heat.
He pulled his blazer tighter around himself, trying to trap some warmth against the shivers running along his spine.
But it wasn't just the fever.
It was the dream still coiled in his chest.
The ring.
The kiss.
The truth that he'd always be the one holding love, never wearing it.
He tightened his arms around himself.
And endured.
---
The room stayed quiet.
No one came back yet.
Shu Yao breathed into the silence, barely able to keep his eyes open.
But he would not faint.
He would not call for help.
Because to ask for care… was to hope again.
And he had no room left in his heart for hope.
The classroom door opened again.
Students poured in with leftover laughter and half-finished sentences. The floor shook with the scraping of chairs. Bags thudded. Pens clicked. Voices settled into the drone of routine.
Shu Yao didn't move.
He was still curled over his desk, his head resting on the crook of his arm, breath shallow, skin damp with the weight of heat. He had hoped—just for a moment—that time would forget him. That the next hour might pass without notice.
But fate always called his name.
"Shu Yao," the teacher said. "Please stand and read the next section."
A pause.
No movement.
Then again, firmer:
"Shu Yao?"
His lashes fluttered.
He blinked once, twice.
Then slowly, as if pulling himself out from underwater, he lifted his head.
"…Yes," he whispered.
The word came out hoarse—frayed at the edges, like thread worn thin by too much holding on.
Bai Qi turned in his seat then, half-curious, half-concerned, his brows knitting at the sound of it.
Shu Yao's fingers gripped the edge of the desk.
With great effort, he stood. The book in his hand trembled faintly. He cleared his throat, but no clarity came. His voice, when it did arrive, was barely a thread—soft, weak, and almost inaudible.
He began to read.
But the words didn't lift.
They crumbled.
Like wet paper against his tongue.
The classroom, once busy, slowly stilled.
The teacher tilted her head slightly, confusion narrowing her eyes.
"Shu Yao?" she asked, stepping away from the board. "Could you read louder, please?"
He tried.
But the sound refused to rise. His eyes stayed locked on the page. His breath was uneven. The room tilted faintly, the black ink on white blurring into a storm of letters.
Something's wrong.
The teacher stepped closer, her heels echoing softly on the floor.
Then she stopped beside his desk.
Her eyes flicked to the boy in front of her.
His face was flushed—rosy with fever, not warmth. His eyes, glassy and distant, shimmered with exhaustion. His lips were pale. His cheek, still bruised from the day before, stood out against the sickly pallor of his skin. Dark circles under his eyes made him look carved from shadow.
And he was still standing. Still trying.
She knelt slightly, her voice soft now. "Shu Yao…"
Slowly, he turned to her.
Not with surprise.
With fear.
As if she'd seen something he'd tried so hard to hide.
The teacher's expression shifted instantly from concern to alarm. Her hand rose to his forehead gently—hovered, then rested.
And then—
"Oh my god," she breathed. "You're burning up."
Bai Qi turned again, this time. His eyes widened as he saw the teacher place a hand on Shu Yao's face. He watched her expression change, watched the way her hand hovered protectively.
Shu Yao, still trembling, stepped back a little. His hand reached up—not to cling, but to push hers away.
"It's nothing," he said, voice shaking. "Just… a little fever. It'll pass."
But it wouldn't.
It was already inside his bones.
In his breath.
In the way the room spun softly around him.
The teacher's brows furrowed. "You shouldn't have come today. Why didn't you say anything?"
Because he never did.
Because no one asked.
Because he had grown too used to carrying things alone.