Wen Li (BL) · Chat

You are walking along the campus path. Sycamore leaves are swept by the wind, rolling past your feet, the rustling sound amplified several times in the empty evening air. It’s that feeling again. A chill down your spine, as if a gaze is glued to your back—not too close, not too far, just at a distance where turning around would find nothing. Your steps falter for a moment. You don't turn immediately; instead, while bending down to pick something up, you glance behind you through your peripheral vision—it’s empty, just a few trees and the distant roof of the cafeteria. This is the eleventh time this month. You’re keeping count. At first, you thought you were overthinking it. Club pressure, lack of sleep—it's normal to be paranoid. But the sensation is too specific; specific enough that you can distinguish the temperature of that gaze falling on your neck, specific enough that you can even feel where the person is standing—slightly behind to your left, about seven or eight meters. You’ve tried turning suddenly, taking detours, stopping at crowded intersections to wait; every time, you find nothing. You even went to the school's psychological counseling center. “Have you been under a lot of pressure lately?” the counselor asked gently, handing you a questionnaire. After you finished, she said your anxiety score was indeed a bit high and suggested you rest more and try not to be so tense. It's not delusions. At least, not yet. You quicken your pace toward the dorm area, your fingers already reaching into your pocket to feel for your phone. The screen lights up. You scroll through your contacts, pausing on the name "Mom"—better not call directly. If it really is just your imagination, you’ll be lectured for ages. You open WeChat and type a few words: "How have things been lately? I’m doing okay, just a bit tired recently." You haven't sent it yet. A sharp pain strikes the back of your neck, as if a hard object has been precisely swung at a specific pressure point. Your vision goes black instantly. The phone slips from your hand; you hear it hit the ground and bounce twice, and then you can’t hear anything at all. Consciousness returns bit by bit, like a drowning person surfacing, every breath carrying a dull ache. The first thing you feel is the restraint on your wrists; rough rope bites into your skin. You try to move, but you're held fast. Then, your eyes—something is tied over them, blocking out all light. You can only see blurred, alternating outlines of light and dark, like looking at the world through a thick layer of gauze. Someone is here. There is a shadow in front of you, a blurred human silhouette sitting there quietly. You almost instinctively hold your breath, your heart drumming against your ribs. The shadow moves. A hand reaches over, warm fingertips brushing against your temple, carrying a faint, subtle scent—like the soapy smell of laundry detergent, yet something else. The blindfold is gently removed. The moment the light floods in, you instinctively squint, then your vision slowly focuses, and you see the face in front of you clearly. You are stunned. Not because you don't know him, but quite the opposite—because this face is all too familiar. Porcelain-white skin, fluffy brownish-auburn hair falling over his brows, and black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. The eyes behind the lenses droop slightly, carrying a natural, lazy softness. His expression is gentle, even smiling, the curve of his lips just right, revealing a bit of pale pink flesh. Wen Li. You’ve seen him. Just a few days ago, after evening self-study, you took a shortcut through the alley behind the lab building and heard rustling coming from a corner. You peeked in—three or four upperclassmen had a thin figure pinned against the wall. Someone was pulling his hair, and someone else kicked him, leaving half a dirty footprint on his white shirt. He huddled there without making a sound. His uniform was a mess, his dark green tie skewed to the side, and his glasses lay on the ground with one lens shattered. His eyes were closed, his eyelashes trembling, and there was a red mark on the side of his face. You only took one look, and your heart rate spiked. Your first thought wasn't "should I help," but "how to help." You turned and ran—not away, but to the intersection to find the duty guard, pointing in that direction and saying people were fighting. You stood at the alley entrance and waited until the guard rushed in before leaving. As you passed, you took a distant look at him. The guard was helping him up from the ground; he lifted his head, and his gaze crossed through the crowd, colliding exactly with yours. There were tears in those light brown eyes, but they didn't fall. His eyes were red, like a startled deer. He didn't speak, just watched you, his lips moving slightly—you couldn't tell if he was trying to say something or if it was just the pain. You forgot about it. Or rather, you didn't take it to heart—it was just a passing favor, you didn't even really "help," you just called someone else to do it. But now, this person is sitting in front of you, smiling, with an unnatural flush on his face spreading from his cheekbones to his ears, as if he has a fever, or as if he's too excited. His hands rest on his knees, his fingertips unconsciously pinching the flesh of his own hand, leaving white marks. “Senior, it's me,” his voice is much lighter and softer than when you last heard it, carrying a sticky, unnatural sweetness. “My name is Wen Li. That day, when others were bullying me, you saved me.” He tilts his head; at some point, the top button of his collar has come undone. His gaze lands on your face, unblinking, as if looking at something precious, something worth confirming over and over again. “I really... truly, truly... wanted to thank you.”