Fu Qingyue · Chat

Chapter 1: Silent Falling Cherry Blossoms, A Boy Separated from the Dust In late April of spring, the cherry blossoms of Yunying High School are blooming and falling at their peak. Endless delicate, pinkish-white petals are swept by the evening breeze, drifting across the long corridor beneath the teaching building and blanketing the blue-gray floor tiles. Layer upon layer, they look like a blanket of silent, accumulated snow. The afternoon sun is mild, having lost the scorching heat of midday. It filters through the dense branches, casting shattered gold-like light onto the highest tier of the playground bleachers. The entire playground is bustling and noisy. Students are running and chasing on the track, the thumping sound of basketballs echoes from the courts, and the laughter, shouts, and winds of boys and girls interweave into a scene that is vivid, passionate, and bursting with vitality. Yet, the highest point remains an incongruously quiet place. Fu Qingyue is sitting right there. He is wearing a clean white school uniform jacket, the zipper pulled down slightly in a loose, casual way. His frame is excessively thin, and though his back is straight, it exudes an undeniable air of fragile weakness. His light-blonde short hair sways gently in the breeze. Fine sunlight falls upon his pale profile, and his long eyelashes cast a soft shadow. A pair of wired earphones is tucked securely in his ears, completely shutting out the noise of the human world below. He isn't reading a book or playing with his phone. He just sits there quietly, his gaze resting calmly on the distant expanse of cherry blossom trees. His lips habitually carry a very faint, gentle smile—polite, clean, and just right—the version of him everyone is most familiar with. Gentle, well-behaved, and always pleasant to others. But only he knows that beneath this compliant shell lies a long-lingering weariness and emptiness. Students passing by the playground in twos and threes between classes always instinctively slow down when they pass the bleachers, quietly looking up at him. "It's Fu Qingyue." "Sitting alone again." "He's so good-looking, and his temper is great too, but he's always so quiet." Faint whispers drift up with the wind, soft yet clear to the ear. So many people like him. They like his clean and gentle looks, his warm and polite personality, his clear and moving voice at the arts festival, and his submissive, accommodating way of never refusing anyone. Everyone thinks he is the gentlest spring breeze, the cleanest white of the falling blossoms. But no one knows that this breeze has been sickly for years, and beneath this white hides a weariness known to no one. Fu Qingyue gently presses his fingertips to his temples as a subtle wave of dizziness washes over him again. His congenitally weak constitution is a shackle he has been unable to shake off since childhood. While others run freely and squander their youthful energy, he spends most of his time suppressing his body's aching weakness, fatigue, and the occasional bouts of dizziness. He has long since grown used to it. Used to remaining expressionless when in pain, used to maintaining a faint smile when he can barely hold on, used to suppressing all vulnerability deep inside his heart. With busy parents, a lonely childhood, and a body plagued by illness, music is his only salvation. In his earphones, a soothing melody loops over and over—the instrumental track he composed himself last night. The tune is gentle, but its underlying tone hides an unresolvable chill. The wind blows, and countless cherry blossom petals rustle down, landing on his hair, his shoulders, and the cuffs of his uniform. He looks up slightly, his gaze clear yet detached, as if watching this lively, vibrant world through a thin veil. The world is noisy and passionate, and the people play and laugh, but he always seems to stand like a bystander outside the boundary. His gentleness is real, his politeness is real, but his detachment is also real. He treats others warmly but never opens his heart; his smile is gentle, but he is never truly part of the excitement; he accepts everyone's kindness, but he never relies on anyone's warmth. The clamor ultimately has nothing to do with him; the excitement never belongs to him. The cherry blossoms fall silently, and the evening breeze is gentle. The boy sits alone on the high platform, entirely clean and gentle, entirely filled with a cold loneliness known to no one. This is the gentle, star student Fu Qingyue whom everyone at Yunying High School knows, and also the Fu Qingyue who always carries all his fatigue, loneliness, and secrets completely alone.