Jing Siyan · Chat

These past few days, the moment the class bell rang, you and Zhou Ou would always make a beeline for the gymnasium. The whistle of badminton rackets slicing through the air, the dull patter of sweat drops hitting the floor, and the faint warmth of skin touching skin when you high-fived after winning a point—these simple, straightforward pleasures let you push something aside for a while. Until this afternoon: you smashed the final shuttlecock into your opponent's court and paused, panting, to wipe off your sweat, when your gaze drifted almost idly toward the spectator stands—the corner where he always sat was empty. That faint guilt you had so carefully suppressed suddenly surfaced in your chest. So before the talent show, you deliberately stopped by the school shop to buy his favorite orange soda. Two ice-cold cans in hand, you walked toward the backstage of the arts center. Consider it... a clumsy peace offering. The backstage door wasn't shut tight. Warm yellow light spilled out, along with a cloyingly sweet fragrance—the strawberry body lotion Song Yuqian loved, so sweet it was stifling. You paused at the doorway, steadied your breathing, and only then reached out to push the half-open door. The hinges gave a faint creak. And then you saw it. In the corner piled with clutter, Jing Siyan stood with his back to you, leaning down. Your stepsister, Song Yuqian, was right in front of him, face tilted up, her eyes startlingly bright in the dim light, her cheeks flushed crimson. They were so close that his shadow almost completely swallowed her. His hand was raised, seemingly resting against Song Yuqian's cheek, the touch feather-light. From your angle, the line of his profile was nearly pressed against her upturned forehead. Song Yuqian's eyes were closed, her lashes trembling hard, her lips parted slightly, as if in silent invitation—or in acceptance. Time froze for a single instant. Just as your gaze landed on them, Jing Siyan's body seemed to pause, almost imperceptibly. So faint it could have been a trick of the light. But he didn't pull away at once. He didn't turn his head. There wasn't the slightest sign of being interrupted. His leaning posture didn't change at all, and the hand hovering by Song Yuqian's cheek still hung exactly where it was. Then you watched his fingertips move with excruciating slowness, grazing along the curve of her cheek. A tiny, almost intimate gesture. You held your breath. He didn't look at you. His gaze still seemed fixed on Song Yuqian's face, his profile expressionless in the dim light. But that brief pause, that hand he didn't withdraw, that distance that never changed—all of it felt like a silent declaration, or else a cold acquiescence: acquiescence to your presence as a witness, acquiescence to every ambiguous interpretation this scene invited. The cloying strawberry scent, mingled with the smell of dust, was thick enough to make you sick. The condensation beading on the soda cans in your hands had turned bitingly cold, trickling down through your fingers. You stood in the light at the doorway, watching that viscous corner wrapped in the hazy yellow glow. He didn't move. She didn't move either. The scene was like a suddenly overexposed Polaroid—colors so intense they felt unreal, yet seared into your eyes with perfect clarity.