The moment she turned her head—Jian slipped away.
His steps began hesitant, uncertain. He wasn't running. He wasn't even walking quickly. He simply moved… toward him. Without conscious decision. Without any internal command.
The crowd around him blurred into noise—students laughing, grumbling, shoving one another in playful jostles—but Jian's gaze remained locked on the figure ahead.
Wei.
From behind he looked so fragile. So small against the flow of bodies. So quiet. So utterly alone.
Jian watched the slight slump of those narrow shoulders, the way each footfall seemed to carry an invisible burden.
Why does he always walk like the world is pressing down on him?
Wei never lifted his eyes from the ground. Head bowed, steps measured, as though looking up might cost too much.
Why does he never look up?
The questions rose unbidden in Jian's mind, sharp and insistent.
Why does it bother you so much?
His own heartbeat answered with a strange, unsteady rhythm.
Why are you following him?
He had no reply. No excuse. Only the pull—quiet, constant, inexplicable.
What are you even looking for?
Still, his feet kept moving. Closing the distance step by careful step through the shifting sea of uniforms and voices. Not close enough to be noticed. Not far enough to lose sight.
Wei remained unaware, a solitary silhouette drifting forward, carrying questions Jian hadn't yet learned how to ask aloud.
And Jian followed.
Jian pressed his tongue hard against the back of his teeth, irritation coiling tight in his chest. At himself. At the relentless buzz inside his head that refused to quiet. At how easily his feet had carried him here, trailing after someone who never once looked back.
Wei slipped into the small school stationery shop—the cramped, dimly lit corner most students ignored unless they were desperate for last-minute supplies. Jian halted a few paces outside, leaning casually against the wall. He pulled out his phone, thumb scrolling aimlessly across the screen, but his eyes never left the glass. Through the faint reflection in the vending machine beside him, he watched.
Wei approached the counter, voice so soft it barely carried over the hum of the old fan.
"Auntie… bandages. And the small ointment, please."
The elderly shopkeeper nodded without question, already reaching under the counter. Jian's brows knit together, a sharp line forming between them.
Bandages. Again.
His stomach twisted. The same request. The same quiet tone. How many times had he overheard this—or caught the edge of a bandage peeking from Wei's sleeve?
You're still hurt?
The question clawed up his throat, unspoken.
Is it because of today?
The memory of the hallway shove flashed—quick, casual, cruel. Or maybe yesterday's muttered insult in the stairwell. Or the day before that. Or the one before.
Before that?
Jian's grip tightened on his phone until the case creaked. He told himself he was just curious. Just passing by. Just happened to notice.
But the lie tasted bitter.
Wei accepted the small paper bag with both hands, murmured a thank-you too quiet to hear clearly, and turned toward the door.
Jian quickly looked down at his screen again, heart thudding too loud in the sudden silence of his own thoughts.
He didn't move. Not yet.
He waited until Wei stepped back into the corridor, small and solitary once more, before following at a careful distance.
The auntie behind the counter chuckled, soft and familiar.
"You should be more careful, boy. You always buy the same thing."
Wei dipped his head a fraction lower, cheeks faintly flushed with embarrassment.
"I'll be more careful."
His voice was barely above a whisper. He opened his palm and counted out the coins one by one—slowly, deliberately—as though each clink might disturb the quiet shop. Jian stood just outside the doorway, half-hidden by the frame, watching every careful movement. The sight made something in his chest clench tight, painful and unfamiliar.
Why are you apologizing for existing?
Why do you shrink like you're afraid of taking up space?
Who taught you that you're a burden?
Was it the hallway shoves? The snickers behind your back? The way everyone pretends you're invisible until they need someone to push around?
Was it… us?
The thought landed heavier than he expected.
…Was it me?
Wei murmured a final thank-you, so quiet it almost vanished into the hum of the fan, then slipped the small paper bag into his pocket. He stepped out of the shop without looking up, shoulders curved inward like he was trying to disappear into the corridor.
Jian waited three heartbeats before following.
Not too close. Not obvious. Just near enough to keep the slight figure in sight as Wei drifted down the emptying hallway.
The questions in Jian's head had grown quieter now, almost ashamed of themselves, yet they refused to leave.
Do you need help?
Do you need someone to stand between you and whatever keeps breaking you open?
…Do you need me?
He didn't know the answers. Maybe he never would.
But his feet kept moving anyway, matching Wei's slow, careful pace through the fading afternoon light.
He hated how his chest warmed at that last question—Do you need me?—like something soft and dangerous had taken root there. Jian clenched his jaw and forced his gaze away, but it was already too late.
Wei pushed through the door of the boys' locker room. Jian's heartbeat slammed against his ribs—too loud, too sudden. He froze at the threshold, fingers curling around the cold metal frame.
Don't go in.
Why would you even go in?
This is stupid. None of your business.
Walk away, Jian. Just walk away.
But his body betrayed him. One reluctant step. Then another.
Inside, the room smelled of old sweat and disinfectant. Wei sat alone on the farthest bench, shoulders hunched. He tore open the small paper packet with careful fingers, pulling out the bandage and ointment like a quiet ritual.
Jian moved closer without sound, slipping past the row of lockers. Wei didn't notice—head bowed, focused only on his task.
Jian's stomach twisted into knots. Fear? Guilt? Or something heavier he refused to name?
He stopped a few paces away, hidden in the shadow of an open locker door, watching the careful way Wei dabbed ointment onto a raw scrape that peeked from beneath his rolled-up sleeve. Another mark. Another silent proof of whatever kept happening when no one was looking—or when everyone pretended not to look.
The questions rose again, softer now, almost desperate.
Tell me… what do you need?
Why do I feel like I… I need to know?
He didn't speak them aloud. Couldn't. The words stayed trapped behind his teeth while his pulse roared in his ears.
Wei finished wrapping the bandage, smoothing the edge with the pad of his thumb. He exhaled once—small, tired—then stood, gathering his things.
Jian stayed motionless, breath held, until Wei walked past him toward the exit, close enough that Jian could have reached out.
He didn't.
But he followed the echo of those footsteps anyway, out into the emptying corridor, carrying the weight of everything he still hadn't said.