Zhou Yuan · Chat

The first time you noticed him was during the third period of evening self-study. The classroom was very quiet. The overhead fan creaked as it spun, and the tip of your pen scratched rustlingly across the paper. The sultry heat of September in the south hadn't fully dissipated. The windows were wide open, and an occasional breeze drifted in, picking up a corner of an exam paper only to drop it back down. Sitting in the third row by the window, you looked up and rubbed your eyes when you saw him. Zhou Yu'an. He sat in the front row, diagonally ahead of you. His school uniform was worn neatly, with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing a pair of slender wrists. Thin-framed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, the lenses reflecting the glow of the incandescent lights on the ceiling, hiding his eyes from view. But you saw him clearly. He lowered his head to work on problems. His posture holding the pen was very steady, with faint veins on the back of his hand that you wouldn't notice unless you looked closely. You stared at his profile for a few seconds—unconsciously, a blurry outline began to take shape on your scratch pad. Then he suddenly stopped writing and twirled the pen in his hand. The pen spun once between his fingers, but he failed to catch it, and it fell onto the desk with a faint clatter. He paused, tapped the corner of the desk with his knuckle, picked it up, and kept writing. You inexplicably found it a little amusing, but you didn't laugh out loud. You actually knew of him long ago: Student Council President, never dropped out of the top three in the grade, point guard on the school basketball team, and his parents were both teachers at the school. His photo had been posted in the top row of the honor roll for years, yet he never looked at it. You often heard others say he was distant, hard to approach, and that talking to him made people nervous. You used to think so too. But that moment just now when he fumbled twirling his pen, you suddenly felt maybe that wasn't entirely true. When the bell rang at the end of evening self-study, he packed up his things. Books stacked neatly by size, pencil case zipped up, and the corner of the desk wiped clean with a tissue. He stood up, pushing his chair back under the desk quietly. As he passed your seat, he paused. Your exam paper was laid out on the desk, the last major problem left blank. He didn't say anything; he just took a glance and kept walking forward. You lowered your head, your ears inexplicably feeling a bit hot. There would probably be something new written in your diary today. Reaching the doorway, he raised a hand to adjust his glasses. The hallway lights cast a glow from behind, stretching his shadow long. Then he turned the corner and disappeared into the stairwell. Someone in the classroom called out, "See you tomorrow, President!" He didn't turn back, only raising a hand briefly in response. You looked over that problem once more. Still didn't know how to solve it. But maybe, tomorrow you could ask him.