The sky above Linjiang City was overcast, covered in a soft blanket of grey clouds. A quiet drizzle had been falling since early morning, leaving everything damp and smelling faintly of wet cement and tree bark. The rain didn’t fall hard. It was light, almost lazy — the kind of rain that lingered, soaking through your uniform without you realizing.

It was the second week of the new school year at No. 4 High School.

The bell rang with its usual dull echo, ringing out from the school’s old, wall-mounted speakers. It was a sound that marked the start of another class, another routine. A few students rushed into Class 2-3, laughing breathlessly, their shoes squeaking on the wet floor.

At the very back of the classroom, near the window, sat Yichen.

His desk was clean and quiet. A notebook opened neatly in front of him, mechanical pencil resting perfectly along the crease. Outside the window, the school yard was nearly empty — only a few students crossing between buildings under their umbrellas. Rain tapped gently against the glass beside him, a soft rhythm that almost matched the ticking clock.

Yichen liked this seat. It was far enough back that teachers rarely called on him, and the view gave him something to focus on when the noise in the room became too much. His classmates were chatting loudly, moving chairs, swapping pens and snacks. It was normal. He didn’t mind the noise, but he didn’t join in either.

His gaze wandered downward, toward the school courtyard. The puddles shimmered with reflections of the pale sky. He wondered if the rain would stop by lunch.

“Yichen!”

A familiar voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He turned just as Suyin rushed in, almost slipping on the wet tile.

“I told you to wait for me!” she said between breaths, sliding into the seat next to him. Her short hair was a little damp, sticking to her forehead. The strap of her canvas bag was falling off her shoulder, and her uniform blazer was slightly wrinkled from running.

Yichen blinked once. “It’s raining.”

“Exactly!” she huffed. “You were supposed to wait with me so we could use my umbrella!”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked down at her umbrella — it was still folded and dripping, hanging from her wrist. Then he looked at her shoes. Soaked.

“You didn’t even open it,” he said, quietly.

Suyin gave him a sheepish grin. “Yeah… I kind of forgot.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small packet of tissues, patting her face. Then she turned to him again, brushing her damp bangs aside.

“You’re so calm all the time. I bet if a typhoon hit the school, you’d just sit here and keep writing your notes.”

Yichen didn’t smile, but his lips twitched slightly. That was enough for her.

She leaned over and peeked at his notebook.

“So neat again. I don’t get how you do it. I swear your handwriting’s better than mine.”

He didn’t say anything, just flipped to a new page. But something about her voice — warm, teasing, light — made his heart shift. Not fast, not suddenly. Just… like a leaf turning in the breeze.

Their homeroom teacher entered the room moments later, clapping his hands for attention. Chairs scraped. Conversations quieted. The old ceiling fan above them spun slowly, creaking at every turn.

As roll call began, Yichen glanced sideways. Suyin was tapping her pen against her desk, quietly humming the chorus of a song. He recognized it — an old JJ Lin track, probably one she downloaded off QQ Music. She had a habit of doing that — humming at random, writing lyrics on the corners of her notebooks, daydreaming mid-lecture.

It was part of what made her... her.

In front of them sat Chen Ruoyu, already half-asleep with his head resting on his arms. His uniform was perfectly ironed, his bag placed squarely beside his chair. He looked peaceful, like he belonged in a place much quieter than this noisy classroom.

Two seats away, Lifen sat upright, already flipping through her textbook. She had her hair in a low ponytail and wore a simple black hair tie on her wrist. She glanced at Ruoyu, then lightly tapped his desk with her pencil. He stirred a little but didn’t open his eyes.

Their interaction was quiet — the kind of moment most people wouldn't notice. But Yichen did. He always noticed small things.

The class continued, dragging itself through grammar exercises and textbook reading. Suyin whispered to Yichen once in a while, asking what page they were on, or what the last answer was. He answered with a nod or a soft reply. Sometimes, she doodled in the margins of his notebook — hearts, stars, smiley faces — and he let her.

Outside, the rain softened into mist.

When the break bell rang forty-five minutes later, half the class jumped out of their seats. Students swarmed toward the back of the room or ran out into the hallway. Lifen walked to the front to ask the teacher something. Ruoyu leaned back in his chair, stretching.

Suyin turned toward Yichen again.

“Wanna go to the canteen?” she asked, swinging her bag over one shoulder. “They probably have those hot buns today. The red bean ones.”

He hesitated. Normally he stayed in his seat during break, reading or reviewing the next lesson.

But before he could say no, she added, “C’mon. You can read your book while you walk. I’ll even get you a cold drink.”

He stood up.

They walked down the hall together, the floor still slightly wet. The school smelled like damp books, steamed buns, and cheap soap. Around them, other students laughed and talked loudly. But for Yichen, the sound faded into the background.

Suyin walked slightly ahead, her voice drifting back as she spoke about a drama she watched last night. Yichen didn’t know the show, but he listened anyway. Not to the story, but to the way she told it — how her eyes lit up, how her hands moved when she got excited, how she stopped mid-sentence to fix her hair and then forgot what she was saying.

He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to.

Being next to her was enough.

The school canteen was half full by the time Yichen and Suyin arrived.

The smell of steamed rice, fried tofu, and sweet buns hung thick in the air, clinging to their uniforms. Students huddled in groups near the serving counter, shouting orders over the glass as the kitchen aunties moved quickly behind it, scooping ladles of soup and stuffing buns into wax paper bags.

Suyin tugged at Yichen’s sleeve, pointing at a tray of red bean buns steaming in the corner.

“See! I told you they’d have them today.”

She darted ahead, almost slipping again on the wet floor tiles. Yichen followed a few steps behind, watching her interact with the lunch lady like she’d known her for years. She always talked like that — friendly, warm, like everyone was a familiar character in her story.

She came back with two buns and a cold milk tea, offering one to him.

“For you. No need to thank me.”

“I was going to,” he said, taking it gently.

They found an empty seat near the back, by the window. A round, plastic table — scratched from years of students carving doodles and initials into it. The window beside them was fogged with condensation, but the faint view of the gray sky and dripping trees outside remained.

Suyin took a bite of her bun and sighed happily.

“It’s too good. I could eat ten of these.”

Yichen quietly peeled the wrapper on his. The warmth of the bun felt comforting in his hands.

She leaned her elbow on the table and looked at him with mock seriousness.

“So,” she said, “how come you never talk about yourself?”

He paused mid-bite.

“I do,” he said simply.

“No, you don’t. You always answer things like, ‘It’s fine,’ or ‘I don’t know.’ Like… if I asked what kind of music you like, you’d say ‘anything.’”

He looked at her for a moment, then lowered his gaze to the table.

“…I like piano music. The kind they use in video game soundtracks.”

Suyin blinked. “Seriously? That’s actually kind of cute.”

“It’s not cute,” he said, ears turning slightly red.

She laughed — not loudly, just a soft, happy laugh. “Okay, fine. It’s interesting. Better?”

He didn’t reply, but her smile lingered in his mind longer than the taste of the bun.

The lunch period passed slowly, the way Yichen liked it. The buzz of other students faded as he focused only on her voice — the way it rose and fell as she talked about the newest TV drama, the girl who broke up with her boyfriend in Class 2-5, or how her umbrella kept flipping inside out on her way to school.

Suyin talked like life was made of small things, and Yichen realized, for the first time, that he didn’t mind listening.

When they returned to class, most of the students were still outside, lingering in the halls or crowding the front steps. Rain still clung to the windows, but the light was changing — it had that soft yellow tint of early afternoon.

As they walked back to their seats, Suyin suddenly stopped.

She pointed at the windowsill by her desk.

“Hey… who took my eraser?”

Sure enough, the little blue eraser she always used — the one with the cartoon bear on it — was gone. In its place was a folded paper crane.

Suyin picked it up, puzzled. Then her eyes widened slightly.

“…I think I’ve seen this kind of crane before.”

Yichen stayed silent.

She turned it over, unfolding the paper carefully. There was a message inside.

“A smile like yours shouldn’t belong to just anyone.”

She stared at the words for a moment, then gave a tiny, surprised laugh.

“Wow… that’s cheesy. Who writes stuff like this?”

Yichen looked away, pretending to check the time on his watch.

She turned the paper over again. “No name. Huh. Do you think it’s from someone in our class?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe it’s from Chen Ruoyu,” she joked, loud enough for Ruoyu — now back at his seat — to hear.

He raised an eyebrow lazily. “Not me. My handwriting’s better.”

Behind him, Lifen let out a tiny breath that might’ve been a laugh. Her eyes flicked to the crane once, then back to her textbook.

Suyin kept examining the note. “It’s probably from a junior. Or someone random who passed by our classroom.”

“Do you like it?” Yichen asked quietly.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s kind of sweet. But also weird. I don’t like not knowing who it’s from.”

He nodded slowly, and said nothing else.

But later, when the class had settled again, and the teacher was explaining something about poetry, Yichen glanced sideways.

Suyin had smoothed the paper crane back into shape and placed it gently beside her pencil case. Her fingers tapped it lightly, like she was still thinking about it.

Yichen turned back toward the window. Rain was still falling — thinner now, quieter.

It was strange, he thought. How something so small could make you feel so much.

The day wore on.

In the last period before the final bell, students grew restless. Pens tapped. Feet shifted. A few kids near the back whispered jokes and passed notes. The teacher, old and half-balding, didn’t bother trying to control them.

Yichen stared at the blackboard, but he wasn’t really listening. He was thinking about the paper crane. About how Suyin had laughed. About how her smile had looked softer than usual — like it meant something, even if she didn’t say so.

His fingers curled slightly under the desk.

He never intended for her to find it.

Not yet.

After the final bell rang, the classroom erupted in motion.

Chairs scraped. Backpacks zipped. The air filled with the rustle of books being closed, snacks being unwrapped, and casual weekend plans being made. Outside the windows, the rain had finally stopped, leaving behind puddles in the concrete courtyard that mirrored the soft gold of the late afternoon sun.

Yichen remained seated, packing his things slowly. He wasn’t in a rush.

He never was.

“Let’s go!” Suyin said, appearing beside his desk. “If we don’t leave now, the shop near the school gate will run out of curry fish balls.”

Yichen looked up. “You just ate two buns earlier.”

“That was lunch. This is post-school snack time,” she said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

He stood without arguing, slinging his bag over one shoulder. The hallway outside was packed with students moving in every direction — some heading to clubs, others to tutoring, and some already halfway to the gates. It was noisy, but warm in a familiar way.

Suyin walked ahead, her bag bouncing lightly on her back. Yichen followed just behind, staying close enough to hear her but far enough not to get pulled into every conversation she started on the way.

They stopped briefly at the school store. It was a tiny booth wedged between two stairwells, manned by a sleepy old man and surrounded by rows of snacks, drinks, and pens with anime characters on them.

Suyin bought two sticks of curry fish balls and handed one to Yichen without asking. “You need to eat something spicy once in a while. Wake up your senses.”

He took it without replying, but the smell made his stomach flutter. Maybe it was the warmth. Or maybe it was her.

Outside, they sat on a low cement wall under the basketball hoop. The net was broken, hanging by one thread, and the court was still damp.

A group of boys from Class 3-2 were playing anyway, their sneakers squeaking loudly on the wet concrete. One slipped and laughed it off while another chased after the ball.

Suyin watched them for a moment, then turned to Yichen.

“So,” she said, mouth half full, “do you think I should find out who wrote that crane note?”

His fingers twitched slightly. “You’re still thinking about it?”

“Of course! Don’t you think it’s romantic?”

He stayed quiet.

She continued, “I mean, I don’t like not knowing, but it’s kind of fun. A secret admirer? Like, that only happens in dramas.”

Yichen looked down at his curry stick, poking at the last fish ball.

“What if they never tell you?”

“Then I guess… I’ll keep guessing.”

She tilted her head, thoughtful.

“But… I hope they do,” she added softly. “It feels… a little sad, otherwise.”

Yichen didn’t know what to say to that.

A gust of wind passed through, picking up a few fallen leaves. One landed near his shoe. He stared at it, heart heavier than before.

“Do you want it to be someone in our class?” he asked, voice low.

Suyin smiled. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.”

Her tone was too light, too open. And suddenly, Yichen realized something:

She wasn’t looking for him.

Not even a little.

He turned away before his thoughts betrayed his face.

They sat in silence after that. The sun lowered. The noise of the schoolyard faded as more students went home. Only the boys playing basketball remained, their laughter echoing through the emptying yard.

Eventually, Suyin stood and stretched.

“I have cram school,” she said, frowning. “It sucks. My mom signed me up without asking.”

Yichen stood as well. “Do you want me to walk you to the bus stop?”

She looked surprised, then nodded. “Yeah… if you don’t mind.”

They walked in silence for a while.

The streets around the school were always busy after class — vendors selling fried dough sticks and iced fruit tea, students in uniforms laughing with friends, older women riding by on motorbikes with giant umbrellas tied to the handles.

Yichen kept his hands in his pockets.

He wanted to say something — anything — but his thoughts kept curling inward like smoke. He had known her since their first year. They had sat next to each other since middle school. She borrowed his pens. She stole his erasers. She leaned on his desk when she was bored. And somehow, through all of that, he had never once told her how he felt.

Because some things… were safer left unsaid.

When they reached the bus stop, Suyin turned to him and smiled.

“Thanks, Yichen.”

He nodded.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He nodded again.

She waved before stepping onto the bus. He watched her through the window as she found a seat, pulling out her phone, her face glowing softly from the screen. A moment later, the bus pulled away, and she was gone.

Yichen stood still for a while.

The street lights flickered on, one by one.

Then he turned around and walked home, his heart heavier than his bag.

That night, Yichen sat at his desk with the lights off.

The only light in the room came from his small desk lamp, casting soft shadows across the pages of his notebook. His computer was on, the desktop showing a paused screen from an old pixel RPG game — a town square scene with cheerful music still playing faintly in the background.

He reached for a piece of paper, folded it into a small crane, and stared at it in his palm.

It was simple. Clean. Nothing special.

But to him, it meant everything.

He placed it gently in his drawer, closed it, and turned back to the screen.

The in-game bell rang in the background.

Ding dong. The town square clock strikes six.