The soft chime of a message broke the stillness of Bai Qi's screen.
He glanced down lazily, still seated under the tree beside Qing Yue, where sunlight flickered through branches, casting lace patterns on the ground between them.
It was from her—the girl he'd handpicked to meet Shu Yao in the canteen. The surprise. The plan.
"The boy you told me to get along with? He ran away. I didn't even finish talking, and he left."
His smile dimmed.
He sat up straighter.
Fingers hovered, then moved quickly.
"Where is he now?"
The reply came fast.
"Maybe… in his classroom. It was just a few minutes ago."
Bai Qi stood up.
"Qing Yue," he said gently, "I have to go."
She looked up, puzzled. "Now? What happened?"
He gave a faint smile, smoothing his blazer. "Just… something I need to fix."
Without waiting for her answer, Bai Qi turned and headed back toward the school building. His pace was steady, his thoughts faster.
Why would Shu Yao run? What happened?
As he reached the classroom hallway, he noticed the stillness. Most students were still outside, the corridors light with absence. But through the tall windows of his classroom, he saw a lone figure at a desk.
Shu Yao.
Head down. Body still.
Bai Qi opened the door quietly, like the air itself might be fragile.
The sound made Shu Yao flinch.
He looked up—wide-eyed, startled—and quickly stood from his desk, hands gripping its edge as if the world had tilted beneath him.
But he didn't meet Bai Qi's gaze.
Didn't look into those familiar onyx eyes.
Because if he did…
he might break completely.
Bai Qi took a few steps forward, slow and careful. "Hey," he started, voice calm. "Why'd you leave the canteen so fast?"
No reply.
Only silence.
Shu Yao took a small step back, and Bai Qi paused, confused by the distance—the way he recoiled like a wounded creature.
"What's wrong?" Bai Qi asked again, trying to understand. "I know when I was struggling—trying to get Qing Yue to like me—you helped me. A lot."
His voice softened.
"I know you're going through something now. Just… let me help you back. Let me return the favor."
Still no reply.
But something shimmered in Shu Yao's eyes. Something too soft. Too broken.
A single tear slid down his cheek.
Quiet.
Undeniable.
Bai Qi stepped forward, heart sinking. "Did I… say something wrong? Did I do something that hurt you?"
Shu Yao's lips parted.
He wanted to speak.
But the words felt too heavy, like trying to lift a mountain with shaking hands. His throat clenched, and all he could say, stuttering, was—
"I… I don't need any girlfriend. I don't need anything. I'm fine by myself."
It wasn't true.
None of it was true.
But it was all he could manage.
Bai Qi's brows drew together. Something inside him ached at those words—not because of what was said, but because of how it sounded.
Empty.
Lonely.
Like someone who had given up.
He stepped closer again.
Shu Yao didn't move this time.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't run.
Bai Qi lifted both hands and gently rested them on Shu Yao's shoulders.
Not forceful. Just steady.
"Then why," Bai Qi said, voice quiet and low, "are you this sad?"
His eyes searched Shu Yao's face—those reddened eyes, those trembling lips.
"As if someone broke your heart…"
Shu Yao's breath caught in his throat.
But he still said nothing.
Bai Qi leaned in just a little. Not closer in space, but closer in emotion—voice softer than before, asking not as a classmate, but as someone who truly wanted to know.
"Is there anything I can do?"
A long pause.
Then, finally—Shu Yao shook his head.
A tiny movement.
A silent no.
But even in that small refusal…
the heartbreak was loud.
The silence between them thickened—dense as summer heat before the rain.
Shu Yao slowly lifted his hands and removed Bai Qi's from his shoulders—not harshly, not angrily. Just quietly. Gently. Like returning a borrowed warmth he couldn't keep.
His eyes dropped to the floor, and with a small shake of his head, he murmured, "I… I don't want anything."
The words barely rose above a breath.
They floated in the air for a long moment before falling like ash.
Bai Qi didn't reply right away. His hands hung awkwardly by his sides, caught between wanting to reach again and knowing he shouldn't.
Then he spoke.
Not as the boy who'd once leaned on Shu Yao during break time.
Not as the one who'd laughed with him over spilled juice and broken vending machines.
But as someone who saw a thread unraveling—and didn't know how to knot it back.
"You know…" Bai Qi said slowly, eyes straying to the blackboard, "we're about to graduate. Didn't you ever make plans? For your future?"
The question hit harder than a shout.
Shu Yao felt it like a crack across the glass of his chest.
Because once, yes—he had plans. Dreams, even.
But dreams wilt in hands that tremble too long.
Still, he said nothing. Just stared past Bai Qi, at nothing, at everything.
Bai Qi gave a faint, crooked smile. "I didn't really need to work hard," he said, stuffing his hands into his blazer pockets. "My father's already lined something up in his company for me."
There was a pause, as if Bai Qi were weighing the honesty of what came next.
"My dad's still too passionate about his work. Even now."
He exhaled slowly, like letting go of something unseen.
"Maybe I don't want him to just hand me the title of boss. Maybe I want to earn something that's… actually mine."
Shu Yao's lashes fluttered slightly.
He was listening.
Every word.
Even as his throat clenched.
Even as something in him kept trying to retreat deeper into himself.
"I'm not that cold, Shu Yao," Bai Qi added, his voice low and soft, like the end of a lullaby. "Even if I act like it sometimes."
Still, Shu Yao gave no answer. But the silence between them no longer felt empty. It felt full—brimming with things unsaid, emotions pressed flat under years of restraint.
Bai Qi shifted slightly, glancing toward the door. Then, almost as an afterthought, he scratched his cheek and smiled—awkward, uncertain.
"As a friend," he said.
Then quieter, eyes flickering—almost shy.
"I… I just want to make Qing Yue happy."
It was meant to be simple. Innocent.
But to Shu Yao, it rang like thunder in a chapel.
The words fell through his ribcage and shattered everything he was trying so hard to hold together.
His heart lurched.
No blood, no bruise, no scream—
Just the quiet, final crack of something sacred collapsing within.
But he didn't show it.
He didn't cry.
Didn't tremble.
Didn't beg.
He simply looked down again, still as stone, and nodded faintly.
Like surrendering to a war he never wanted to fight.
Bai Qi didn't seem to notice the shatter—how could he? He wasn't the one bleeding.
He gave a small wave and turned to leave, his steps echoing lightly down the corridor.
The door whispered shut behind him.
And Shu Yao stood there, the silence now so complete it rang in his ears.
He felt like a shadow.
Unseen.
Unneeded.
Unloved.
And in that moment—right then and there—he made a promise to himself.
No more.
He would not let himself break in front of Bai Qi again.
He would not look for him in crowded halls, not search for his voice in laughter, not ache when he stood too close to someone else.
He would avoid him like light avoids the bottom of the ocean.
From now on… Shu Yao would vanish quietly from Bai Qi's world.
Even if his own heart stayed behind, beating foolishly in the empty space he left.
The classroom was still.
A ghostly quiet clung to the walls—soft as breath, heavy as sorrow.
Shu Yao remained standing long after Bai Qi's footsteps had vanished down the corridor. The silence around him pressed in, not with violence, but with the unbearable weight of knowing.
His legs gave way slowly, and he sank into the chair as if the gravity of his pain had doubled.
His fingers trembled as he reached for his notebook—one of those old, half-filled journals he always carried. Its pages smelled faintly of ink and dust and forgotten hopes.
He opened to a blank page.
Stared.
And then began to write.
Each stroke was hesitant, like dragging a blade across his own chest.
Even though it hurts… I will not look into his eyes.
Even if it means forever.
I will do it for Bai Qi.
And for Qing Yue…
The girl who once looked at me like I mattered.
The girl who cared when the world didn't…
His pen faltered for a moment—
His jaw clenched, eyes blinking against the sting.
He loves her.
He just doesn't know how deeply yet.
But I've seen it.
In the way he speaks of her with soft pride.
In the way his smile tilts when she's nearby.
And I…
A tear slipped down onto the paper. The ink blurred.
But he didn't stop.
And I am just Shu Yao.
The boy who loved him in silence.
The boy who won't say it.
Not now.
Not again.
Never…
He paused. His breath hitched in his throat like a trapped bird.
Then he wrote slower, like carving truth into stone.
I will never love someone else.
Not in this life.
Not when my heart still beats for a name it can no longer speak aloud.
The pen fell from his fingers with a soft clatter.
He pressed both hands to the page, as if to hold the words in place—
As if to keep them from flying away and turning into screams.
A sob slipped past his lips.
Quiet. Fractured. Like the sound of silk tearing.
He bowed his head, shoulders trembling, tears dripping silently onto the ink-stained confession.
And in that moment, it felt as though his soul had begun to seep out of him—
Not through death,
But through grief so deep it hollowed out the spaces where light used to live.
He sat there for a long time.
Just a boy with a notebook.
A boy who had written down his heartbreak like it might save him.
But knew it wouldn't.