Lunch break ended. Students shuffled back toward the classroom block like wounded soldiers, their footsteps echoing through the corridors. The lively cafeteria noise had faded, leaving only tired sighs and half-hearted laughter.
Jian walked slower than the rest. His chest still felt tight and restless. The image wouldn't leave him: Wei under the bare winter tree, gently feeding the stray kitten, whispering to it so softly… and then mentioning Jian's name in that quiet, indirect way.
And then Jian—idiot that he was—had whispered back:
"…Wei."
Too loud. Too obvious. The word had slipped out before he could stop it. Heat rushed to his face even now. He wanted to disappear into the school grounds forever.
He rubbed a hand over his face, took a shaky breath, and forced his legs to move. Next period was science lab.
Ms. Zhang was waiting.
The teacher whose single glance could silence even the ghosts haunting the hallways.
Jian pushed open the door, heart still pounding from something he couldn't quite name.
The instant Ms. Zhang stepped through the door in her crisp white lab coat, the room fell silent, as if someone had dropped a hammer on the chatter. Her presence alone seemed to freeze the air.
"Good afternoon," she said, voice cool and precise.
The class answered in perfect unison, like trained soldiers: "Good afternoon, Ms. Zhang…"
Her sharp eyes swept the room from behind thin glasses. "Today we study lens refraction. Groups of four. Move. Carefully. If you break anything, I will break you."
A nervous ripple passed through half the class; several students visibly swallowed.
She began assigning groups in her flat, no-nonsense tone. When she reached the third one, her voice rang out clearly:
"Group 3: Yanyan… Jian… Cheng Wei… and… Li Jun."
Li Jun—the quiet boy who always sat in the second row. Harmless. Never spoke unless necessary. No drama. No outsiders. No Chen. Just the four of them.
Jian exhaled quietly. Safe.
Across the room, Wei rose slowly from his seat. He didn't glance toward Jian—not once—but as he stood, his fingers caught the hem of his own sleeve twice, tugging it down in that small, unconscious way he had when he needed to steady himself.
Jian noticed. Of course he noticed.
The tiniest movements from Wei always drew his gaze like gravity. Every hesitant breath, every fleeting touch of fabric, every avoided glance—it all pulled at something deep in Jian's chest, tightening the invisible thread stretched between them.
He forced himself to look away, gathering his notebook and pen. The distance between their desks felt wider today than ever before.
The four of them gathered around the lab table. Yanyan bounced into place beside Jian, her ponytail swinging.
"Jian-ge, we're together again~!" she giggled, clapping her hands.
Jian managed a weak smile, but his eyes drifted immediately to Wei.
Wei set his things down in silence—using only his left hand. His right stayed carefully hidden behind the notebook, the long sleeve pulled down to completely cover the bandage.
Jian's chest tightened at the sight. …Still hurting……you're hiding it again.
He wanted to reach out, to ask, but the words stayed trapped in his throat.
Ms. Zhang's sharp clap cut through the air like a whip.
"Begin."
The room exploded into chaotic noise—glass clinking, chairs scraping, voices overlapping as groups dove into the refraction experiment.
Jian forced himself to focus on the lens in front of him, but every few seconds his gaze flicked back to Wei's hidden hand. The distance between them felt heavier than ever, even though they stood shoulder to shoulder.
Li Jun reached for the convex lens, his fingers clumsy. It wobbled dangerously on the edge of the table.
Wei reacted first—snatching it with his left hand before it could fall.
The lens tilted in his grip.
Jian moved on instinct, reaching out to steady it.
Their fingers brushed—just for a second.
Wei froze.
Jian's heart slammed against his ribs, loud enough he was sure the whole lab could hear it.
Wei yanked his hand back as if the touch had scorched him. He kept his eyes fixed on the lens, refusing to look up. Not once.
Jian swallowed hard, throat tight.
"…Did I make you uncomfortable?" he whispered, barely audible over the classroom noise.
"…Or are you just scared I'll notice your wrist?"
He didn't know which it was. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Wei stayed silent, fingers curling protectively around his hidden sleeve.
The space between them felt wider than the entire lab table.
Yanyan leaned in too close, her elbow jostling Jian's side. To make space, he shifted—and his arm brushed against Wei's shoulder as he reached for the protractor on the table.
Wei stiffened instantly. A tiny, visible shock ran through the line of his back, shoulders drawing tight.
Heat surged up Jian's neck, burning his ears.
"Ah—sorry," he muttered, the words tumbling out on reflex.
Wei shook his head, just a subtle motion.
"It's fine," he whispered.
The reply was quiet—barely audible over the clatter of lenses, rulers, and scattered equipment around the lab.
But Jian heard every syllable.
It landed heavier than it should have, sinking deep into his chest like a stone dropped in still water. That soft, careful voice. The way Wei kept his eyes down. The careful distance he maintained even now, inches away.
Jian's fingers tightened around the protractor. He didn't dare move again.
The space between their shoulders felt charged, fragile, and impossibly wide.
Wei reached for the heavier lens stand on the far side of the table. As he lifted it, his sleeve slipped back—just one inch. Just enough.
White bandage flashed into view. Beneath it, a faint, ugly bruise bloomed across his skin.
Wei's breath hitched—a tiny, sharp sound no one else noticed. In an instant, he tugged the sleeve down again, hiding everything.
But Jian had seen it all.
Something inside his chest twisted, sharp and painful.
"…You're pushing yourself even now."
"…Why won't you just rest your hand?"
"…Why does this hit me harder every time?"
The questions burned silently in his throat. He couldn't voice them—not here, not with Yanyan chattering and Li Jun carefully measuring angles. Not with Ms. Zhang's eyes sweeping the room like a hawk.
Jian gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles paled. Wei kept his gaze fixed downward, movements deliberate and guarded.
The invisible wall between them thickened with every careful breath.
"Jian-ge~!! Look at this line!! I don't understand!" Yanyan cried dramatically, throwing her arms around Jian from behind like she always did.
Jian stiffened instantly.
It wasn't new—Yanyan clung to him in every class, every break, giggling and playful. But today it felt wrong. Heavy. Out of place.
Because Wei was standing right there.
Wei's gaze lifted for just a second—long enough to register the closeness, the way Yanyan's arms wrapped around Jian's shoulders. Long enough for his expression to pause. Long enough for him to step back from the table slowly, silently.
He said nothing.
Jian felt something sharp and cold twist in his chest. Unfamiliar. Painful.
He reached up quietly and gently removed Yanyan's arms.
"Don't—not now."
She blinked, startled. "Huh? Why? I always do this."
"Just… working," he muttered, eyes flicking toward Wei.
But inside the questions burned: "…Did he misunderstand?""…Why do I care if he did?"
Wei had already turned slightly away—just a few inches. But those few inches stretched like miles between them, cold and empty, widening with every heartbeat.
Jian stared at the space where Wei's shoulder used to be, throat tight, unable to bridge the sudden, aching distance.
Li Jun fumbled the mirror. It slipped from his fingers and clattered against the table, making the whole setup wobble dangerously.
Wei reacted without thinking—steadying the edge with his left hand first. Then, instinctively, his right hand shot out to help brace it too.
Instant regret flashed across his face. For a microsecond his expression tightened, a sharp sting pulling at the corner of his mouth. He drew in a silent, pained breath.
Then, just as quickly, he tucked his right wrist back under the long sleeve, hiding the bandage again.
Jian didn't breathe for a full second. His eyes stayed locked on that fleeting moment of pain.
"…That hurt him…"
"…He's still trying to help even when it hurts…"
"…Why are you always like this?"
The questions weren't angry. They were soft, aching—twisting deeper inside Jian's chest with every heartbeat. He wanted to reach out, to stop Wei from pushing himself, but his hands stayed frozen on the table.
Wei kept his gaze down, movements careful now, as if nothing had happened. But Jian had seen the truth. The distance between them felt heavier, more unbearable, than ever.
The last measurements were finished. Yanyan and Li Jun gathered their sheet and hurried to Ms. Zhang's desk at the front, chatting lightly as they went.
Wei packed his things slowly, methodically. Left hand first—notebook, pen, protractor. Right hand stayed hidden, tucked carefully inside his sleeve. He never once looked at Jian.
Jian took a small, hesitant step closer. His mind roared with urgency: Say it. Ask him. Just ask if he's okay. Say anything.
But his throat felt locked, words trapped behind a wall of sudden fear.
Wei closed his notebook with a soft snap and turned to leave.
The lab's background noise blurred into nothing for Jian. Everything narrowed to Wei's retreating back.
"…Don't go."
"…Not like this."
He opened his mouth, voice cracking on the first syllable.
"Wai—"
But Wei had already slipped through the doorway, melting into the crowded hallway in seconds. Gone.
Jian stood frozen at the table, fingers trembling around the ruler he still held. His jaw clenched tight. His heart pounded harder than the experiment had ever demanded—sharp, unsteady, aching.
And he couldn't explain why. Not even to himself.
The empty space beside him felt colder than the winter air outside.