The moment Wei walked past him—blood still trailing thinly from his forehead, his bag clutched tightly against his chest, his steps quiet and painfully steady—Jian felt something inside him lurch so violently it was as if the ground beneath his feet had shifted. The sensation was sudden and disorienting, like balance itself had abandoned him.
He didn't remember dropping his bag.
He didn't hear Yanyan calling his name behind him, nor did he register the fading laughter from the locker room echoing in the distance. All he could hear were Wei's footsteps ahead of him—soft, even, steady—carrying a kind of silence that felt far too heavy for someone their age.
Jian followed.
He wasn't running this time.
He was following—slowly, carefully—like someone approaching a wounded animal, afraid that even the slightest sudden movement might cause it to retreat further into pain.
Wei turned the corner at the end of the hallway.
Jian turned after him.
Wei entered the old bathroom near the back staircase—the one most students avoided because every sound echoed too loudly against the tiled walls and the air always carried a faint, stubborn scent of bleach. The place felt forgotten, detached from the rest of the school, as if even noise hesitated before stepping inside.
Jian stopped at the doorway.
For a moment, he simply stood there, breathing hard, his hands trembling slightly at his sides while his heart slammed violently against his ribs, as though it were trying to break free from his chest. The world outside felt distant now, muted and irrelevant.
He pushed the door open quietly.
Inside, the bathroom felt cold in a way that seeped into the bones—cold tiles beneath dim shoes, cold mirrors stretching along the wall, cold fluorescent lights casting a pale, unforgiving glow over everything. The buzzing hum of electricity filled the silence.
Wei stood at the far end in front of a cracked mirror, his back turned to the entrance.
With slow, tired movements, he rolled up one sleeve, reached forward, and turned on the faucet. Cold water ran over his fingers before he lifted them gently to the cut on his forehead, pressing lightly as if the pain no longer surprised him.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't hiss or curse at the sting of cold water touching broken skin. He simply breathed—quietly, softly—as if this were something he had done too many times before to react to it anymore. As if pain had long since stopped surprising him.
A few thin drops of blood slipped from his forehead, mixing with the running water before trailing down his cheek and falling soundlessly into the sink.
Jian's chest tightened so sharply that he had to grip the doorframe to steady himself, his fingers curling against the wood as though it were the only solid thing left in the room.
Wei didn't look at his reflection in the cracked mirror. He didn't check whether the wound was deep or serious. He didn't even bother cleaning it properly. Instead, he pulled out a damp handkerchief and pressed it gently against his forehead with slow, practiced movements—movements that spoke of someone who had long ago grown used to tending to his own injuries in silence.
Like a boy who had learned there would be no one else to do it for him.
In that moment, Wei looked unbearably small.
Small and breakable in a way that made Jian's chest ache, as if the boy standing under the harsh fluorescent light had been quietly carrying more weight than anyone had ever noticed. He looked so painfully accustomed to being hurt that the idea of someone offering care might not even register anymore—like he wouldn't know what to do with it even if it were placed gently in his hands.
Jian stepped forward, his voice catching somewhere between his throat and his ribs.
"Wei…"
Wei didn't turn. He continued pressing the damp cloth to his wound while cold water dripped slowly down the side of his face, disappearing into the sink below.
Jian swallowed and tried again, his voice unsteady this time. "Why didn't you fight back…?"
Wei's shoulders stiffened—just for a second—before slowly lowering again. He still didn't turn around. He didn't answer.
Jian took another step closer, the distance between them shrinking but feeling impossibly wide. His breath trembled as the words began to spill out.
"Wei… I—I didn't know. I didn't know they'd… I wasn't there. I should've— You shouldn't have been—"
The sentences collapsed into each other, tangled and incomplete, as though his heart had rushed ahead of his mind and was now stumbling over itself on the way out.
Wei finally spoke.
When Wei finally spoke, it wasn't loud, and it wasn't angry.
It was cold.
Cold enough to make the entire room feel as though the temperature had dropped several degrees in an instant.
"You weren't supposed to be there."
Jian's breath caught sharply in his throat.
Wei lowered his hand, and faint drops of red began blooming across the damp cloth pressed against his skin. He didn't turn fully, but he spoke again, his voice flat and steady—more dangerous in its calmness than any shout could have been.
"You can leave."
Jian swallowed hard, his throat tightening painfully. "Why would I leave? I'm not—I'm not just going to—"
Wei cut him off.
His next words were soft, almost quiet enough to miss, but they struck with a sharpness Jian had never experienced before.
"Don't pretend to care."
The sentence didn't explode.
It didn't need to.
It landed like a blade placed carefully against exposed skin—not swung in rage, but positioned with terrifying precision.
Jian stood there, stunned, as the silence that followed pressed in from all sides.
Wei continued cleaning the wound with steady, unhurried movements, his expression unreadable and his voice even colder this time.
"You don't have to explain anything," he said calmly. "You don't owe me anything. I don't expect anything from you."
Then, for the first time, his gaze lifted—meeting Jian's eyes through the cracked mirror.
And that single glance—cold, exhausted, stripped of all pretense—felt like winter itself. Not loud. Not violent. Just mercilessly distant.
"You don't look at me any other day," Wei added quietly. "Don't start now."
Something inside Jian cracked.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't visible. Just a small, quiet fracture spreading somewhere deep in his chest—but deep enough to hurt.
He stepped closer anyway, even though his voice betrayed him when he spoke.
"I am looking now."
Wei reached forward and turned off the faucet with a soft click. The sound echoed faintly in the empty bathroom, final and clean.
He didn't look impressed.
He didn't look moved.
Wei looked tired.
Not just physically—but tired in a way that settled into his posture and hollowed out his eyes. Tired of being hurt. Tired of being misunderstood. Tired of expecting nothing from anyone… and always being proven right.
He lifted the edge of his sleeve and gently dried the cut on his forehead. The blood smeared faintly across the fabric, staining it darker, but he didn't seem to care.
And then, without giving Jian another chance to speak, he said the words that carved straight through him.
"Please don't make my life harder than it already is."
Jian froze.
The sentence echoed inside his head, and for a split second, the world tilted again—but this time, not from panic. From recognition.
Because those were words he had once said to someone else.
Carelessly.
Coldly.
Not understanding how deeply they might cut.
And now, standing there in the pale fluorescent light, watching Wei walk away from him, Jian finally understood what those words felt like from the other side. How they didn't just sting—they hollowed something out. How they told a person they were not comfort… but burden.
Wei walked past him, steps soft, shoulders stiff, one hand clutching his bag tightly against his chest again as if it were armor. He didn't hesitate.
The bathroom door closed behind him with the quietest click.
But to Jian, it sounded deafening.
Loud enough to echo through his bones.
Loud enough to hurt.