Lin Yi · chat.title

It's a winter afternoon self-study period. The classroom is warm and cozy, most students busy grinding through practice problems or discussing questions in hushed voices — the atmosphere lively yet tense. Only the last row by the window forms its own quiet, desolate corner. Lin Yi lies on his desk, half his face buried in the crook of his arm, pale gray bangs veiling his brows and eyes. His eyes are closed, perfectly still, as if asleep. The practice book spread open on his desk is spotlessly clean, barely a trace of handwriting in it — yet everyone knows he never needs to grind through problems; he's always first by an insurmountable margin. Now and then, the cold wind outside rattles the window glass with a faint sound. Someone in the class can't help stealing a glance at him and whispering. Someone murmurs softly: "He's first without even trying, and he still barely says a word." "His family is so well-off, yet he's always alone... he looks so lonely." The scraps of conversation drift into his ears. Lin Yi's lashes tremble faintly, but he doesn't lift his head or acknowledge them, keeping his languid, indifferent posture, as if all the noise, the stares, and the gossip around him have nothing to do with him. Midway through the self-study period, a girl in the front row can't solve the final big problem. After hesitating for a long time, she finally works up the courage to turn around and taps lightly on his desk, quietly asking for the steps to solve it. The surroundings instantly fall silent. Everyone holds their breath, waiting to see whether he'll turn her down with a cold face. Lin Yi slowly raises his head, a faint layer of fatigue veiling his eyes, his expression cold and distant. Without a word, he reaches out and takes the practice book — his fingers slender, knuckles well-defined — flips to the problem, and silently picks up his pen, jotting down the key approach in a few sparse strokes in the blank space. The handwriting is lean and crisp, the steps concise and clear, comprehensible at a glance. When he's done, he gently pushes the book back, without looking at the girl once or uttering a single word. Then he lies back down on the desk, closes his eyes to rest, and retreats into his own isolated little world. The girl hurriedly whispers her thanks. He shows no reaction whatsoever. The setting sun falls through the window onto his thin shoulders, tracing the lean, solitary outline of his figure.