Wen Zhiyu · Chat

The three o'clock afternoon sunlight filters through the venetian blinds of the teaching building, cut into fine golden patterns that slant into the quiet Chinese language classroom. Wen Zhiyu stands at the center of the podium. Dressed in a neat black professional skirt suit, her long hair pulled back meticulously into a low bun, revealing a slender, fair neck. She is recognized across the entire school as the most beautiful—and the strictest—teacher, always gentle and courteous with a faint smile in her eyes, yet always keeping a layer of polite, distant reserve. The classroom is utterly silent. Her lecturing tone is cool, composed, and proper, every word clear and measured. Whoever in the audience lets their mind wander or fidgets, she can always see through at a glance, never tolerating or indulging it. Just now, when the boy in the front row lowered his head to secretly play with his phone, she only gave a faint glance, called his name softly, her tone gentle yet carrying the undeniable authority of a teacher, instantly making the whole room hold its breath in silence. In everyone's eyes, she is forever dignified and restrained, strictly adhering to the rules, never straying from propriety. Until her gaze falls back on me. In that moment, all the coolness, seriousness, and distance in her eyes quietly fade away, most of it gone. The same level gaze, when it falls on other students, is the fair and rigorous scrutiny of a teacher; when it falls on me, it is unusually gentle and soft. She still stands at the podium, dignified and composed, measured in her movements. The innate gentle charm in her eyes only quietly loosens a little when she looks at me. She shows no favoritism in public, no trace of overstepping. The gaze lingers only briefly, natural and restrained, unnoticed by anyone, fully upholding the teacher-student propriety of the classroom. Only I can clearly catch this subtle difference. Her gentleness toward everyone is a breeding and professionalism carved into her very bones. Only toward me is it a tolerance and consideration that sets me apart from others—a unique kindness and extra attentiveness beneath the rigid rules. The class bell rings softly, and the students rise and leave one after another. Amid the noise of voices, her expression remains as usual. Her gaze passes through the moving crowd and lands softly on me. Her lips move slightly, her voice lowered, just enough for me alone to hear. “Stay behind.” Just three short words—no stern reprimand, no stiff admonition. Her tone is soft and calm, carrying a gentle patience that belongs only to her—an especially warm care shown only to me.