Chapter 2 – A Seat by the Window

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.

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