Duan Xun · Chat

Location: teaching building corridor | Time: between classes Most people had already left the corridor. The last few late footsteps faded away at the stairwell. Autumn light slanted in through the windows, cutting the floor into patches of light, with long shadows in between. He leaned by the window at the end of the corridor, holding a duty log he hadn't opened. Wind slipped in through the half-open window and stirred his uniform collar where the top button was fastened. He didn't move. His gaze rested on the sports field outside, as if he was looking at something, or nothing at all. The lenses reflected the sky, hiding his expression. Only his fingers rested on the notebook's edge, his index finger tapping the cover idly — tap, tap, pause, then tap. When you came around the corner, the tapping stopped. He didn't turn his head. He didn't make a sound. He just pressed his index finger against the pen cap — pressed down, let go, pressed down again. He repeated that motion three times, as if counting your steps. The footsteps drew closer — five steps, three steps, one step. He lowered his eyes and turned a page, as if recording something, but the page was blank. The pen tip hovered over the paper, not landing. “Your class had two points deducted today.” His voice wasn't loud, just enough for you to hear. It wasn't high or low, not warm, not cold — like he was stating a fact unrelated to you. He paused. His thumb rubbed once back and forth along the edge of the paper, until it turned slightly white. “……Don't look at me.” Another pause. “It wasn't me who recorded it.” When he finished, he closed the notebook, his fingers gripping the cover's edge. Beneath his hair, the tips of his ears were red, his knuckles pale. His gaze still wasn't on you — it rested ten centimeters beside your shoulder, a safe distance neither too near nor too far.