The sun shone brighter than it had all year, gilding the bricks of Astaria High, a school where memories were planted like seeds and now—on this final day—they bloomed in full color.
Laughter echoed through the wide courtyard, mixed with the flurry of tossed caps, flashbulbs, and joyful tears. The gate bore a banner that swayed in the breeze: Congratulations, Class of Astaria High.
No more uniforms.
No more bells.
No more sleepy mornings or late-night cram sessions.
"We're free!" one boy shouted, flinging his blazer in the air like a bird breaking from a cage.
Another laughed and threw an arm around his friend. "Hey! It's our freedom, right? No more school forever!"
"Freedom, you fool?" piped in a bespectacled classmate, adjusting his glasses with a dry sigh. "It's not freedom—it's the beginning of work."
The laughter was instant.
"No way!" the sleepy one cried dramatically. "I just wanna sleep all day, man! That was my dream!"
"Bohhoo!" he fake-sobbed into his sleeves.
Smack!
"Ow! Ow! That hurts!"
"You'll wake up to reality soon," the one with glasses muttered, rolling his eyes.
Their laughter lifted into the air like confetti. It was infectious, bright, unforgettable.
But not everyone laughed.
Sitting quietly on a bench beneath the flowering magnolia tree was Shu Yao. The petals drifted around him like slow-motion snowfall, but his eyes were far away.
A classmate approached, brushing his robe from the grass. "Hey, Shu Yao. What are you planning after this?"
Shu Yao didn't answer. His lips remained sealed, eyes flickering faintly but never lifting.
Another chimed in. "You're smart, dude. You'll definitely land a job at some big company. You've got the grades. Probably already accepted somewhere, right?"
Still, silence.
His hands were folded gently in his lap. His back straight. His expression unreadable.
As if he had already graduated not just from school, but from everything he used to dream of.
Across the field, another scene played out—one loud, theatrical, and shimmering in the sunlight.
Bai Qi was trying to survive the chaos that was his mother.
She stood beside him, draped in elegance. Her black silky hair fluttered in the breeze like a royal flag, and her onyx eyes—sharp and proud—glittered like polished obsidian.
"Mr. Photographer!" she called sweetly. "Just one more shot of me and my son—wait, wait, tilt the angle… Bai Qi, fix your collar!"
"It's been more than one shot, Mom…" Bai Qi mumbled under his breath, cheeks flushed.
Click. Flash. Click.
Even the cameraman looked ready to resign.
From a short distance away, Qing Yue covered her mouth to stifle a laugh, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Bai Qi caught her gaze helplessly and pointed as if calling for rescue.
Help me!
Qing Yue stepped forward, her graduation robe swaying with elegance. But before she could speak, Bai Qi's mother spotted her and beamed.
"Ohhh, you should've come earlier!" she said with theatrical delight. "Come, come—join us! You look so lovely today!"
Before Qing Yue could protest, she was gently pulled into the frame, and the three of them stood together—mother, son, and girl—with laughter caught between the camera shutters.
Bai Qi's cheeks turned even redder. Qing Yue giggled, and his mother teased him relentlessly.
"You're blushing, Bai Qi! Oh, look at you! Just like your father when I first—"
"Moooom!"
Their laughter spilled into the crowd like sunlight through stained glass.
But someone else was watching.
From beneath the tall, ivy-covered pillars of the courtyard gate, a boy stood silently.
Hair the color of aged chestnut—longer now, brushing just past his shoulders. His brown eyes held something quiet and deep, like a fading star clinging to the sky at dawn.
Shu Yao.
He watched them—watched him.
Watched Bai Qi blushing under the weight of laughter. Watched Qing Yue glowing beside him. Watched a moment that should've made him smile… but didn't.
Because none of it was his.
None of it had ever been.
He took one last glance, letting the moment etch itself into memory like a pressed flower in a journal.
And then he turned.
The great iron gates of Astaria High stood open, as if awaiting the next chapter. Shu Yao walked toward them, every step quiet, deliberate. His figure grew smaller as he passed through, swallowed by the light.
And he never looked back.
He disappeared from the school grounds with a heart heavy as stone,
each step like letting go of something no one else knew he was holding.
Bai Qi never saw him leave.
Never turned.
Never took that single glance.
And that—
more than words,
more than silence,
more than a thousand heartbreaks—
was what hurt the most.
The walk home felt like a slow unraveling.
Each step Shu Yao took was careful, measured—
as if walking too quickly might fracture the earth beneath him,
as if gravity might give up and let him float into a sky he no longer trusted.
His graduation robes fluttered faintly with the breeze,
but there was no triumph in his stride.
Only silence.
By the time he reached his gate, the sun had softened—
its golden light brushing gently across the tiled rooftops and his slumped shoulders.
The front door creaked as he pushed it open, and there she was—
his mother, tying a ribbon around a gift bag, her earrings swaying as she turned.
She looked up, expecting no one?.
But it was him.
A pause.
"You're home?" she asked, surprised. "I was just about to leave for the school"
Her voice held no scolding, only mild confusion, as she approached and looked at him closely.
He wasn't that taller, older perhaps, but still carrying that same quiet sadness that had never quite left him.
She placed a hand on his shoulder, her fingers gentle.
"I was coming, so why did you come back so early?"
Shu Yao didn't answer. He couldn't. His mouth stayed shut, like the truth was glued behind his teeth.
His mother exhaled softly. There was no anger—just the weary tenderness of a parent who had long stopped trying to decode the storms inside her son.
"It's alright," she said finally. "I won't scold you like this."
She stepped away, brushing invisible dust from her sleeves. "Just go. Wash your hands. Eat your meal. But warm it first, okay?"
He nodded.
Only once.
She smiled faintly, then grabbed her umbrella, slipping into her heels.
"Don't forget," she added, opening the door, "today is worth remembering."
And then she was gone.
The door clicked shut behind her.
And the silence that followed was not peace.
It was a vacuum.
Shu Yao stood in the foyer for a long moment, eyes tracing the empty air she'd left behind, then quietly turned the lock and slid the bolt into place—not for safety, but for stillness.
He didn't go to the kitchen.
Didn't reheat the food.
Didn't even glance at the table.
Instead, he climbed the stairs slowly, as if each one pulled him further from the world.
The weight of the day—of the months—clung to his back like a soaked coat.
In the bathroom, steam rose as he stepped into the shower. He let the water run over him, hotter than needed, letting it scald the places even tears couldn't reach.
And when he emerged, he dressed lightly—just a thin shirt and soft cotton pants. He didn't care for the mirror. He didn't look.
Back in his room, the air felt still. The curtains swayed just slightly from the fan. His bed waited, white sheets neatly pulled, untouched.
He crawled into it like a ghost returning to its grave.
And there—finally—he closed his eyes.
Not because he was tired.
Not because he wished to dream.
But because the world felt too loud, too sharp, too bright with things he didn't want to feel.
He closed his eyes
to forget that Bai Qi had never looked back.
He closed his eyes
to erase the sound of Qing Yue's laughter wrapped in someone else's arms.
He closed his eyes
to pretend that graduating from school meant graduating from this pain.
But the truth lingered behind his eyelids.
It didn't vanish.
It whispered in the corners of his thoughts,
curled beneath his ribs,
sank into his skin like old rain.
Because escaping the truth was never as simple as sleep.
And rest was not the cure for heartbreak.
The world stirred softly.
Shu Yao blinked awake to the faint creak of the ceiling fan and the faraway murmur of a voice calling his name.
"Shu Yao…? Shu Yao, where are you?"
His mother.
The syllables of his name drifted through the house like petals on wind—gentle, searching.
He sat up slowly, eyes adjusting to the dusk-softened light. His long hair, now brushing past his nape and curling at the edges, fluttered faintly with every movement, clinging to his cheek like fading memory.
Downstairs, the house had changed slightly—warm kitchen lights flickered on, the air smelled faintly of ginger and soy.
Descending the stairs, he found her standing by the refrigerator, now changed into her home clothes and apron, her back partially turned as she pulled open the fridge door.
Her hair was the color of sun-washed flax, coiled into a loose bun, and her eyes, when she turned, were the color of sweet latte—warm, tired, and unmistakably maternal.
She turned with a small frown.
"Shu Yao," she said, arms crossed with mock sternness. "What is this? Didn't I tell you to eat your meal?"
She held the untouched container in one hand like it was a forgotten promise.
"It's still in the refrigerator," she added, voice softening.
Shu Yao lowered his head slightly, strands of his dark brown hair falling forward like curtains of shame. "I'm sorry, Mother. I… forgot."
His voice was faint, like dust swept into corners.
His mother's brows drew together in a confused squint. She tilted her head, studying him.
"You… forgot to eat?" she said slowly, as if testing the words aloud. "I've heard of people forgetting many things, but never food."
She stepped closer, eyes narrowing just a little. "Wait. Are you mad at me?"
That question—so simple—struck like a match on wet wood.
Shu Yao lifted his gaze, his eyes finally meeting hers.
He opened his mouth to answer but couldn't speak fast enough.
She placed the container down, then touched his arm gently.
"I'm sorry, my child," she said, barely above a whisper.
And those words—
Those words shattered something inside him.
He hadn't heard them in years. Not like that. Not in the quiet of evening, not in a moment where the world wasn't demanding anything from him.
He didn't think.
He moved.
He stepped forward and folded himself into her arms.
She let out a soft gasp of surprise but immediately wrapped her arms around him, her cheek pressed against his shoulder.
Shu Yao was not tall, not really. But his mother was just a little shorter. And in that small embrace, he felt—for the first time in a long while—like someone's son again. Not just a student. Not just a brother. Not just a boy who carried too many feelings with nowhere to set them down.
"I'm sorry, Mom," he whispered into her shoulder. "I'm sorry…"
His voice trembled at the edges.
His mother gently patted his back, her touch steady, grounding.
"It's okay. You didn't do anything wrong, Shu Yao."
Those words sunk into him like warmth into frost.
After a long moment, Shu Yao stepped back and wiped his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, embarrassed by his own tears.
"I'll make something fresh for you," she said, already turning toward the kitchen.
But Shu Yao reached out quickly. "No, no—it's okay. The one in the refrigerator is fine."
She looked at him, surprised again, then smiled—a soft, knowing smile that said she saw right through him but would let it pass anyway.
"Whatever you like," she said warmly. "Go on, sit at the table. I'll heat it for you."
He nodded and moved slowly toward the dining table, sliding into the chair like he was afraid to disturb the peace they'd just carved together.
His mother disappeared into the kitchen, humming faintly under her breath, and the gentle hiss of the stove filled the space with something tender.
Shu Yao stared at the tablecloth, tracing invisible patterns with his fingertip.
Today, he felt something strange—an ache that wasn't just sorrow.
It was a quiet ache layered with something lighter.
His mother had called him my child.
A phrase so small, yet it lingered in his chest like a lamp left on in a dark room.
And yet—
Even with that light, something still flickered behind his ribs.
The memory of Bai Qi.
The way his name still hurt when it echoed in Shu Yao's mind like a bell that hadn't stopped ringing.
So today…
he was a little sad.
A little happy.
And a little empty.
Because some hungers aren't filled with food.
And some wounds… aren't visible at all.