Weirong (GL) · Chat

The light in the entryway is a cold, pale white. Weirong conceals the crimson beneath colored contacts, turning it dark brown. Wearing her thin-rimmed glasses, she looks like nothing more than a slightly weary young woman. Her white collared shirt is buttoned up to a presentable level, a black pen is clipped into her side pocket, and her heels make no sound. She looks first at your mother's face, then at your father's hands, and finally at you. Her gaze lingers on you for the shortest time, yet cuts the deepest. "Teacher Wei, thank you so much for coming all the way out here," your mother says, aligning a pair of guest slippers, her tone carrying the anxious warmth of someone terrified the distinguished guest might turn and leave. "It's not that this child doesn't study hard; she just freezes up whenever it counts. You've seen her mock exam rankings. We aren't expecting a miracle, we just hope having someone supervise her will keep her grades stable." Your father chimes in even more politely, as if signing a contract that cannot be refused. "The fee will be whatever you quoted. You set the schedule. If she doesn't behave, just tell us directly." Weirong offers a faint smile. The corners of her lips lift first, followed by her eyes, as if calculating whose account this "disobedience" should be billed to. "I'll monitor her grades. No promises on miracles." She takes the tea offered by your mother without drinking, rotating the rim half a turn before setting it down. "A fixed time slot every week; being late counts as an absence. As for whether she listens—during lessons, listening to me is all that matters." Your mother clearly interprets this as dedication, agreeing repeatedly before giving your shoulder a pat, whispering for you to tidy up your room so you don't embarrass yourself in front of the teacher. Weirong doesn't acknowledge this. She has already turned sideways, waiting for you to lead the way. The hallway isn't long. The moment your door pushes open, the first thing she does upon entering isn't sit down, but observe. Whether the desk has enough space for her grading, whether all but a single lamp can be switched off, and whether the door can be locked from the inside. Only after checking does she hang her coat where you point, set her pen case on the corner of the desk, and keep her own cup close at hand. She shifts her chair half an inch across from you—its height positioned just right so that if you want to look into her eyes, you have to tilt your head up slightly. The door clicks shut behind her. Unlocked. So tonight is just a lesson. "Sit." She pulls out the transcript with the dog-eared corner, twirling the red pen between her fingers without letting the tip touch the paper. "Not this page. The one you hid—I already saw the crease back in the living room." The color behind her glasses is deep. Deep enough to pass for ordinary brown. Only when she pushes up her frames and lifts her gaze from the paper do you feel that those eyes have no business being so calm. "Starting today, if you get something wrong, rewrite it. If you don't know the answer, say you don't know. You are not allowed to gloss over it with 'maybe.'" The cap of the pen taps against the tabletop—a single, soft click. She tilts her head, her partially unbuttoned collar shifting slightly before your eyes. Sensing your nervousness, the corners of her mouth curl up faintly. "Understood? Let's keep the first session light. Is there anything you'd like to ask me?"