The school gates yawned open like the threshold of a stage, sunlight spilling across polished tiles and crisp uniforms. Students filtered in like drifting clouds—some in pairs, some in loud packs—but none shining brighter than Qing Yue, whose laughter already rang out ahead.
She stepped past the threshold and vanished into her orbit of friends—hair bouncing, charm swinging, voice light as petals.
Shu Yao watched her disappear, fingers brushing absently against his bag strap. He was about to enter too when a sudden shift in the atmosphere caught the breath of the crowd.
Gasps rose like a wave. Then murmurs.
Then something close to reverence.
Shu Yao turned—and the world around him slowed.
A black, shimmering car had pulled up to the curb, sleek as a shadow carved from obsidian. The driver moved with practiced precision, opening the rear door.
And then—he stepped out.
Bai Qi.
The crisp lines of his school blazer framed his tall frame, the first buttons of his shirt casually undone. A rich, woodsy perfume laced the air around him—expensive, quiet, unforgettable. His hair, tousled just enough to look wild on purpose, gleamed under the rising sun, and those sharp black onyx eyes scanned the crowd like he already owned the day.
And then that smirk—dangerous, slow, impossibly smooth—rose to his lips.
God descended, someone whispered.
Shu Yao's heart stammered violently in his chest.
He turned quickly, cheeks flushing with color.
His steps quickened.
Don't look. Just walk. He won't—
"Shu Yao."
The voice struck behind him. Clear. Confident.
Shu Yao kept walking.
But footsteps approached.
And then—an arm draped gently over his shoulders, warm and annoyingly effortless.
Bai Qi's voice lowered beside his ear. "You're pretty tough, huh? How'd you recover so quickly?"
Shu Yao's pulse nearly jumped from his throat.
Bai qi turned his head slightly. "You should be resting," "And still… you came."
Bai Qi leaned a little closer, teasing. "By the way—if you're already here…" He slipped something into Shu Yao's hand. Not a letter. Not quite a code.
Just a folded scrap of paper, worn from his fingers.
Words scribbled in familiar ink:
Be there on time. —Canteen.
Shu Yao stared at it. His fingers closed tightly around the message.
Why… is my heart…?
He clutched his chest lightly, whispering under his breath, "Stop beating like that… He'll hear you…"
And then Bai Qi was already walking ahead, hands in pockets, breeze catching the hem of his blazer like a curtain rising.
Shu Yao stood there, heat still clinging to his cheeks.
Eventually, he made his way to class—legs too fast to be casual, too slow to be confident.
When he entered the room, Bai Qi was already sitting at his desk, leaning back with that same maddening smirk. His hair caught the light again, and his fingers drummed once—just once—against the side of the chair before he turned to look over his shoulder.
"Don't be late," he said simply.
Shu Yao stiffened.
He sat down. Eyes low. Shoulders tense.
What's happening? Did he find out?
Did he… know I love him?
He stared down at the woodgrain of his desk, as if it held the answers. His chest pounded again—not from panic, not from shame. From something more fragile. Something far more dangerous.
Is this really happening? Will he…? No, don't think like that…
But still, his thoughts wouldn't quiet.
Until—he remembered the messages.
The ones Bai Qi sent Qing Yue this morning.
He saw her blush. He saw the screen.
His smile faded.
Of course. He loves her.
He lowered his gaze, pulling the folded paper from his blazer pocket again. He looked at the words.
Be there on time.
And yet—he couldn't let it go.
As if this scrap of paper were his last fragile hope. His last thread in the weave of a daydream he wasn't ready to wake from.
So he folded it again.
Pressed it close to his heart.
And waited.
The final bell before break echoed like a quiet drumbeat, vibrating through desks, chatter, hearts. The classroom stirred with soft chaos—zippers unzipping lunchboxes, chairs scraping back, voices bubbling with plans of shaded trees and sunlit benches.
But for Shu Yao, none of it mattered.
Not the food.
Not the friends.
Not the breath of freedom outside those classroom walls.
Because in his chest, something else was ringing. Not a bell—
A pulse.
A trembling rhythm of fragile, aching hope.
He stood slowly, trying not to draw attention. His fingers brushed his blazer pocket where the note still slept, warm against his heart.
He exhaled, calm on the outside—only on the outside.
Each step toward the canteen felt deliberate. Sacred. Like walking toward something that might shatter or save him.
And then he reached it.
The canteen door stood ahead, ordinary in its shape, but monstrous in meaning.
He reached out.
Pushed.
The door creaked open.
Darkness.
Not pitch-black—but dim, unnatural. The lights were off, and there was no crowd. No sound of trays or laughter.
No Bai Qi.
Instead, a single figure stood there.
A girl—smiling in a way that didn't match the silence.
Her smile curled mischievously, confidently, as if she already knew what Shu Yao didn't.
He hesitated at the threshold.
She took a step forward.
"You're Shu Yao, right?" Her voice was honey dipped in vinegar—sweet, but not soft.
He took a step back, eyes narrowing. "Don't come near me."
She tilted her head. "Oh, but why not? Someone told me a quiet gentleman would show up here… so I came."
Shu Yao's breath caught.
His heart lurched.
No.
No.
He didn't answer.
Just turned. Fast.
The canteen door flew open as he shoved past it, and he ran. Past the corridor, past the soft calls of classmates, past the edges of the hope he still clung to.
He didn't know where he was going—only that he had to get away.
And then, by accident or by cruel design, he passed a window.
And there—
Outside in the garden under the jacaranda tree—
Bai Qi.
Sitting beside Qing Yue.
Their lunchboxes open.
His chopsticks lifting food to her lips.
Her laughter bubbling, bright and soft.
Their knees almost touching.
The scene moved slowly.
Too slowly.
Shu Yao's breath shattered.
He turned away before the tear could fall—but it was too late. His eyes were already glistening.
He ran again.
Back to the classroom. Back to the empty, echoing desk where he always sat quietly—where no one would look.
He dropped into his seat, breath uneven, chest clenched so tightly it felt like his ribs would snap.
And then, slowly…
He folded forward.
Arms cradling his head.
Face hidden.
And he let himself cry.
Not loudly.
Not messily.
Just silent tears slipping into sleeves.
He didn't want to make a sound.
Didn't want anyone to see the way his heart had broken in real time—so quietly it was almost poetic.
He wiped his face quickly when the tears slowed, but his eyes still burned.
Then he reached for his journal.
That quiet place.
The only place that never judged his truths.
He flipped to a clean page, his fingers trembling just slightly.
And he began to write—slowly, carefully, like each word had weight.
> I thought it was real. That maybe… something in him saw me the way I see him.
But I was just something to use.
A name. A moment. A game.
He said "be there," and I was. I always was.
But he never was—for me.
He carried me when I was burning alive… but I guess it was just something to do. Just a thing to forget.
I wanted to believe.
I wanted to believe… maybe he could love me too.
But now I know: I was always standing alone at the edge of something that only looked like love.
He closed the journal softly.
Pressed it to his chest.
And whispered, "I should've never hoped at all."
The classroom hummed faintly in the distance—soft murmurs echoing from corridors, laughter carried on wind, the faraway clink of lunchboxes and forks. But within the walls of this quiet room, Shu Yao sat still as breath before a sigh.
His tear-streaked cheeks had begun to cool, the flush of heartbreak softening into silence.
His eyes dropped slowly to the scrap of paper still resting on the edge of his desk. The one with Bai Qi's handwriting.
So simple.
So casual.
"Be there on time — Canteen."
And yet… it had carried so much weight in his chest this morning. So much quiet, reckless hope.
He picked it up, the edge now slightly crinkled from the grip of trembling fingers. He looked at it for a long time—like someone studying an artifact from a dream that was never real.
Then, without a word, he opened his journal again. The pages were still heavy with pain—still warm from the confessions inked moments ago.
He slid the paper inside, pressing it gently between two pages like a withered flower he couldn't bring himself to throw away.
A paper promise.
A final keepsake from a moment that never bloomed.
He closed the journal carefully—almost reverently—and wiped away the last remnants of his tears. Not because he was done hurting… but because there was nothing left to cry.
No one to listen.
No hand to hold.
The tears had no place to bleed.
He placed the journal back into his bag, zipping it shut with fingers that moved like quiet rituals—folding pain into something pocket-sized. Something he could carry, even when it hurt.
Then, slowly, Shu Yao rested his head on the desk.
His cheek met the cool wood, and for a moment, the silence felt merciful.
His eyes fluttered once.
Then closed.
And in the hush of a fading heartbeat, he let the world blur behind his lashes—
carrying with him nothing but the sound of a name
and a wish that never had a chance to speak itself aloud.