The months passed like autumn leaves down a quiet stream—
One by one, fading into silence.
Shu Yao kept his distance.
Not out of hatred.
But from the quiet ache of loving someone he was never meant to love.
Since that day in the classroom, he had drawn an invisible line between himself and Bai Qi—and crossed it never again.
In the corridors, he turned away before Bai Qi could call his name.
During breaks, he vanished before conversations could bloom.
Even at home, when Bai Qi came with Qing Yue—laughing, carrying snacks, bringing warmth—Shu Yao would lock his door with the same silence he wore on his face.
He was polite.
He was helpful.
He was distant, like a moon reflected in deep water—always visible, never reachable.
Even during their shared school projects, Shu Yao helped the group quietly, contributed efficiently… but never once looked Bai Qi in the eyes. He passed papers without words. Shared notes without breath.
Not because Bai Qi didn't matter.
But because he mattered too much.
And today—today was no different.
The sky had broken open in the early morning, clouds rumbling like an old grief resurfacing. The wind whipped with wet breath, and the rain poured like something trying to rinse the world clean.
But some things don't wash away.
Shu Yao had come prepared—his violet umbrella swayed in his grip, its black handle cold against his fingers.
He stepped out into the courtyard at the final bell, ready to go home alone as always, when he noticed her—
Qing Yue.
She was stepping out from her classroom, her friends already long gone, their umbrellas like floating petals in the distance.
She stood near the doorframe, hugging her schoolbag, her small frame shivering just slightly in the cold.
Shu Yao didn't hesitate.
He walked up to her and opened the umbrella between them.
"Qing Yue," he said gently, holding it out, "take this. Go home before you catch a cold. The weather's turning worse."
Qing Yue blinked. "Then what about you, gege?"
Shu Yao gave a small smile—fragile, painted on.
"I'll manage."
Qing Yue stared at him for a long moment. And in that moment, her eyes saw something no one else had.
A crack.
A brushstroke gone wrong.
A brother she loved looking like a ruined painting someone had tried too hard to preserve.
She tightened her grip on the umbrella.
"Gege," she said, voice low, "it's okay to share… some of your thoughts. You don't look fine."
He was about to answer—ready to say the same tired lie, the practiced "I'm okay."
But fate had other plans.
Because just then, Bai Qi appeared from the school's side entrance, calling Shu Yao's name like a boy who'd spotted sunlight in a storm.
"Shu Yao!"
His voice was warm, unknowing. He smiled as he approached, clearly thinking this moment could be something—three old friends walking home in the rain.
But it wasn't.
Shu Yao stiffened.
The joy in Bai Qi's tone struck like thunder through his ribcage.
He turned his head—not toward Bai Qi, but away.
And he spoke quickly to Qing Yue, low and rehearsed.
"It's okay for you two to go home together. He's already here. And… it looks like one of my classmates needs my notes. He was sick."
It was a lie.
A flimsy excuse, paper-thin and soaked in heartbreak.
Before Bai Qi could reach them—
Before Qing Yue could protest—
Shu Yao lifted his schoolbag over his head and ran, fast and graceless, as though the very rain were chasing him.
As though Bai Qi's presence would unravel him if he stayed a second longer.
By the time Bai Qi reached Qing Yue, Shu Yao had already disappeared into the storm.
Bai Qi frowned, breath visible in the damp air.
"Wasn't Shu Yao just with you?"
Qing Yue looked up, her grip still tight on the violet umbrella.
"I don't know what gege is going through," she murmured, voice soft and uncertain. "But he's been like this for months. Sad all the time."
She looked down at the puddle forming at her feet.
"I tell him to eat with us. He refuses. I ask him to come play with Juju. He stays in his room. Even when Mama scolds him or yells… he never yells back. He just listens."
Her voice broke a little on that last word.
She stepped forward and hugged Bai Qi suddenly, as though holding on to something she couldn't name.
Bai Qi held her back, confused, concerned—but silent.
Because in truth…
He didn't know what the problem was either.
He only knew that Shu Yao was drifting farther with every storm.
And no umbrella in the world could cover the distance between them now.
The wind had grown cruel.
By the time Shu Yao reached his neighborhood, the rain had carved rivers along the pavement, and the sky above growled like an ancient beast unsettled from slumber.
His uniform clung to him like wet paper—soaked through, heavy, cold.
Each step squelched as he neared his home, teeth chattering quietly behind closed lips.
The storm had wrapped itself around his bones.
As he stepped inside, the warmth of the house rushed to greet him, but it didn't reach his heart. His mother, standing in the hallway with a dishrag still in hand, looked up and sighed.
Her expression was tired, but not angry.
"Alright," she muttered, eyeing the puddle at his feet. "I won't scold you this time. Just go. Change quickly, before you catch a cold again."
Shu Yao gave a silent nod and disappeared toward his room.
No words. No excuses.
Just the soft pad of footsteps up the stairs and the sound of a lock clicking into place.
Behind the safety of his door, he exhaled slowly—like he'd been holding something poisonous in his lungs. He peeled the soaked fabric from his body, each movement stiff and quiet, then stepped into the shower. The warm water hit his skin like soft needles, thawing out the ache that had crept into his limbs.
But not the ache deeper in.
Afterward, he dressed in silence.
A cream shirt, black trousers, and a long charcoal hoodie—oversized enough to bury his thin frame, sleeves draping over his knuckles like shadows. It felt safer somehow, hidden beneath cloth.
At his study table, the light above buzzed faintly as he pulled out his assignments.
One page after another, he finished his work methodically—his handwriting still neat, still careful, even as his chest felt hollow.
Time passed.
And eventually, the storm outside began to hush—its rage reduced to a distant murmur, like a tantrum that had worn itself out.
Shu Yao looked to the window once, then reached for his journal.
The one he never let anyone see.
He opened it with reverent fingers, flipping past old entries soaked in sorrow until he found a clean page. He picked up his pen, the tip hovering, unsure—then, with a deep breath, he began to write.
> I saw him again today.
He hasn't changed.
When he looked at me… I nearly had a heart attack.
But I ran. Before he could reach me. I did the best, didn't I?
The ink bled slightly at the edges as a tear fell—soft and silent—onto the page.
It spread like a wound.
Shu Yao pressed his palm over the paper, chest heaving as sobs curled from deep inside him. They came quietly, like waves against stone, crashing with no audience to witness them.
No one was there to comfort him.
No one ever was.
He cried not just for today, but for every day.
For every moment he wrote like this—passing his feelings into paper, like bleeding into a vessel no one would ever open.
But then—he heard it.
Laughter.
Familiar. Too familiar.
From outside the window.
He wiped his eyes quickly and rose from the chair like a ghost, moving toward the curtain with the silent instinct of someone who'd done this before.
And there they were.
Bai Qi and Qing Yue—beneath the porch light, laughing over something simple, something ordinary. Something Shu Yao could never be a part of.
Then it happened.
Shu Yao's breath caught in his throat.
Bai Qi leaned forward and pressed his lips gently—tenderly—against Qing Yue's forehead.
It was small.
But it shattered him.
Shu Yao clutched his chest as though the pain had turned physical.
He turned from the window, shoulders shaking, stumbling back like the sight had burned him.
As if love itself had teeth.
He fell to the floor beside his bed, body folding in on itself. He pressed his forehead to the mattress edge and shut his eyes tightly.
But even in the dark behind his lids—he could still see them.
That smile.
That kiss.
The boy he loved…
and the girl he could never hate.
A car passed on the road outside, its headlights sweeping briefly through his room like a spotlight catching a tragedy.
And through the muffled laughter outside, Shu Yao let out one more exhale.
A soundless, broken sound.
Then came a smile.
Small.
Bitter.
The kind only sorrow could carve.
A smile no one saw.
A smile that asked for nothing.
And promised to feel everything.