Chapter One: The Last Row by the Window:
The bell rang with a dull metallic echo, vibrating through the classroom like a reminder no one could escape.
Lin Zhi'an closed his notebook slowly. The page was filled with neatly written formulas, each line straight, each number precise—just like him. Outside the window, cicadas screamed endlessly, their sharp cries mixing with the thick June heat that pressed against the glass. The classroom smelled faintly of chalk dust, sweat, and the cheap lemon-scented cleaner the janitor used every morning.
June meant only one thing for third-year students.
The gaokao was less than a month away.
"Zhi'an."
He looked up.
Xu Wanqing leaned toward him, her elbow resting on a stack of mock exam papers already worn soft at the edges. Her school uniform was slightly wrinkled, and the red ribbon at her collar sat crooked, as if she had tied it absentmindedly. A loose strand of hair had escaped her ponytail and brushed against her cheek.
She tapped her pencil against the corner of the math worksheet. "Can you explain this problem again? I've looked at it three times, and it still doesn't make sense."
Her voice was low, careful not to draw attention. The class monitor had already warned them once about talking.
Zhi'an glanced at the problem. Quadratic functions. Not difficult—but tricky enough to confuse someone rushing under pressure.
He turned the paper sideways, shielding it from view. "You skipped a step here," he said softly. "If you substitute too early, the whole thing collapses."
He wrote slowly, deliberately. His handwriting was calm, steady, as if untouched by the anxiety filling the room. Wanqing leaned closer, her eyes following every movement of his pencil.
"Oh," she murmured. "So that's why."
She smiled—small but genuine.
Zhi'an felt a sudden tightness in his chest. He looked away almost immediately, pretending to check the time on the clock above the blackboard. It had always been like this. He noticed things too clearly, felt things too deeply, and then pretended none of it mattered.
They sat in the last row by the window, a seat most teachers forgot existed. From here, the world felt slightly removed—like watching life through a thin layer of glass. Outside stood the old plane trees that had been there longer than any of them, their leaves coated with dust from the nearby road.
Zhi'an had sat here for three years.
Wanqing joined him only this semester, after her previous deskmate transferred schools to prepare for the gaokao elsewhere. At first, they barely spoke. Then came borrowed erasers, shared notes, quiet questions after class.
Somewhere between spring mock exams and late-night study sessions, things changed.
"Are you nervous?" Wanqing asked suddenly, flipping her pencil between her fingers. "About the gaokao."
Zhi'an paused.
"A little," he said.
It was a lie.
He was terrified. Terrified of failing expectations, of disappointing his parents, of wasting the sacrifices that had been made for him. But fear was not something he allowed to show. It never had been.
Wanqing sighed softly. "My mom keeps saying this exam decides everything. Like if I mess it up, my whole life is over."
Zhi'an knew that tone well. His mother said the same thing—except hers carried more weight.
You're the eldest. You have to do well. Your younger sister is watching.
"You won't mess it up," he said. "You always improve at the end."
Wanqing laughed quietly. "That's because you keep tutoring me."
She tilted her head slightly, eyes curved with warmth. "You're basically saving me."
Zhi'an's hand stilled.
Saving her?
Before he could respond, the Chinese teacher cleared her throat sharply at the front of the classroom. "Everyone, open your textbooks to page 112. This will be the last classical essay we review before the gaokao."
A wave of groans rippled through the room.
As the teacher began reciting Su Shi's prose, her voice steady and rhythmic, Wanqing scribbled notes in the margins of her book. Zhi'an stared at the blackboard, but the characters blurred together.
Saving you.
He had never thought of it that way.
To him, explaining math to Wanqing was easier than explaining his own thoughts. Easier than admitting that her presence made the long days lighter. That when she wasn't there yet in the morning, he found himself glancing at the door without realizing it.
Outside, a breeze finally stirred, lifting dust and sunlight into the air. Chalk particles floated lazily when the teacher erased the board, glittering for a brief moment before settling again.
The bell rang.
Metal chairs scraped loudly against the floor. Students rushed out in clusters, comparing scores, complaining about pressure, discussing weekend tutoring classes and lucky charms their parents had forced them to carry.
Wanqing packed her bag and stood. "Are you going to the study room tonight?"
"Yes," Zhi'an said. "Until ten."
"Me too," she replied easily. "Let's go together."
They walked side by side through the corridor. Red banners hung overhead, their slogans bold and urgent: Fight for Your Future. One More Point, Defeat Thousands. Someone had taped a small golden good-luck talisman near the stairwell, its paper already curling at the edges.
In the courtyard, the sun dipped low, bathing the school buildings in warm orange light. A group of students gathered near the flagpole, taking photos in their uniforms, laughing too loudly—like they were trying to convince themselves this was happiness.
Wanqing suddenly slowed.
Zhi'an stopped as well. "What's wrong?"
She tightened her grip on her bag strap. "After the gaokao… you're going to Shanghai, right?"
"Yes," he answered.
He had been accepted through early admission. The teachers praised him. His parents told everyone. There was no room for doubt.
"That's really far," Wanqing said quietly.
Zhi'an nodded.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
From the security guard's booth nearby, an old pop song played softly on the radio. Beyond the school gate, the smell of fried skewers drifted in from the street vendors setting up for the evening.
"Good luck," Wanqing said at last, forcing a smile. "With everything."
"You too," he replied.
She turned and walked away, her ponytail swaying gently as she merged into the crowd.
Zhi'an remained where he was, watching her disappear.
He told himself there would be time.
After the gaokao.
After graduation.
After life became less demanding.
He didn't know yet that some words, once delayed, would wait years to be spoken.
And some feelings, once buried beneath chalk dust and exam papers, would follow him far beyond this school—into cities filled with neon lights, and nights that felt unbearably quiet.