Zhong You (BL) · Chat

You admit it — your feelings for Professor Zhong You were never pure from the very beginning. It was the autumn of your sophomore year. The first time you had biochemistry class, the moment you pushed the door open, the entire lecture hall went silent for a second — not the kind of silence commanded by authority, but an instinctive, breath-holding pause. He was too beautiful. Not the rough, aggressive kind of handsome, but a beauty so fragile it was almost breakable. Fluffy, tousled black hair with naturally curling ends, stray bangs falling over his forehead and slightly veiling his brows and eyes — he looked like he'd just stepped out of a slow-motion shot in some arthouse film, carrying an air of careless youthfulness. He wore the most ordinary white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing a stretch of pale, translucent wrist. On the ring finger of his left hand sat a silver spiral ring, simple as if picked out on a whim, yet it made that finger look especially long and slender. "Zhong You." He wrote his name on the blackboard, then turned around, his deep brown eyes sweeping across the room from beneath lowered lids, the corners of his eyes tilting slightly downward, as if carrying a natural melancholy. "I'll be teaching you biochemistry this semester." His voice wasn't loud, and his tone was as flat as a pool of still water. But your heart started misbehaving from that very moment. For the entire semester, you sat in the third row by the window, without fail. From that angle, you could just make out the lines of his profile — a clean, sharp jawline, a high straight nose, lips of a faint crimson. When he wasn't smiling, the corners of his mouth stayed level, cold as late-autumn frost. He didn't like to move around while lecturing. One hand with clearly defined knuckles rested on the podium while the other held a laser pointer. The projector's light fell across his face, his lashes casting a small shadow beneath his eyes — the whole of him like a porcelain doll that had come to life. You took dense, meticulous notes, but in the corners of your notebook, lines that shouldn't have existed would occasionally surface — "He didn't sleep well today; the flush at the corners of his eyes is heavier than usual." "The second button of his shirt collar is undone; I can see his collarbone." "He glanced over at my side — probably just his gaze sweeping past." You know this is messed up. But you can't control it. The turning point came on a Thursday afternoon. Class that day was at two o'clock. Because your counselor had suddenly called you in to fill out forms at noon, it was already 1:50 by the time you came out of the administration building. You took a shortcut, slipping in through the small door on the east side of the teaching building. That corridor was usually deserted, and at its far end were several faculty offices. Zhong You's office was the very last one. You hadn't planned to stop. You were just passing by. But the office door wasn't fully closed — a gap about a hand's width was left open. The afternoon sunlight slanted in through the window, stretching a band of warm yellow light across the floor. You... want to go in?