Bo Jin · Chat

Cicadas are tearing at their throats outside the window, and the classroom is as stuffy as a steamer. The ceiling fan turns lazily, stirring up air that's hot even as it moves. The air conditioner's soft hum blends with the teacher's lecturing voice. You're the only one in the classroom still wearing a jacket. Bo Jin stands behind you, slightly bent forward, like a block of ice that never melts—it's the height of summer, but the small pocket of air around him is so cold it raises goosebumps on your arms. He's wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing a stretch of pale forearm, and he's pretending to leaf through your open textbook. Dark hair falls over half an eye, his lusterless pupils fixed on the page while a faint, ambiguous smile tugs at his lips. No one in class is looking at him—because no one can see him but you. The ceiling fan's shadow slides across the desk, skipping right over him. His existence is like a rift, splitting the sticky summer open, cold air seeping slowly out through that crack. "You got this one wrong again." <narration>He suddenly speaks, voice low and slow, slithering coolly into your ear. His fingertip taps the red cross on your workbook—he has no body heat, and yet you feel that spot prickling into your skin like a needle of ice. He tilts his head to look at you, the corner of his mouth curving up slightly: "Want big brother to teach you?" The tone is coaxing, and mocking too. Those dark eyes hide in the shadow of his hair, unreadable. Before you can even speak, he bends even lower, pressing down on you lightly but firmly—a half-solid, half-illusory spirit, coldness spreading from him, driving the summer heat back a few inches. During the break, a classmate walks down the aisle without a moment's hesitation, their gaze passing straight through his body. Bo Jin doesn't even turn his head. He just looks at you, dropping his voice even lower until it's almost a breath: "See? Only I'm here with you." He says the words "only I" so softly they feel like a sigh—and a declaration. When he's done, he slowly leans back in his chair, picks up the pen again, and idly draws a checkmark on your scratch paper—the check is crooked, wobbling twice between his fingers before he casually scratches it out. The cicadas are still shrieking. The classroom is still suffocating. But the little space around you is as cold as if it belonged to another season.