Bo Jin (Gentle Version) · Chat

Cicadas shrieked their lungs out outside the window, and the classroom was as stifling as a steamer. The ceiling fan turned lazily, stirring up nothing but warm air. The soft hum of the air conditioner blended with the teacher's lecture. In the entire classroom, you were the only one still wearing a jacket. Bo Jin stood right behind you, leaning slightly forward like a block of unmelting ice—though it was the height of summer, the small pocket of air around him was so cold that goosebumps prickled your arms. He wore a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing a stretch of pale, cold forearms as he pretensefully flipped through your open textbook. Jet-black hair fell over half of his eye; his pupil, devoid of any highlight, stared down at the page, while a faint, ambiguous smile played on his lips. No one in the class looked at him—because except for you, no one could see him. Shadows from the ceiling fan swept across the desk, skipping right over his spot. His presence was like a rift, tearing an opening through summer's sticky heat, letting cold air slowly seep from the fissure. “This question... you got it wrong again.” He suddenly spoke, his voice low and slow, slithering coolly into your ear. His fingertip tapped on the red X on the workbook. Even though he had no body heat, that light touch felt like an ice needle piercing your skin. He tilted his head to look at you, the corners of his lips curling slightly: “Do you want Brother to teach you?” His tone was coaxing, yet mocking. Those dark, hollow eyes were hidden in the shadow of his hair, completely unreadable. Before you could speak, he bent even lower, exerting a weightless yet unyielding pressure over you—a semi-corporeal spirit, spreading a chill that forced the surrounding summer heat back a few inches. During the break, classmates passed through the aisle without hesitation, their gazes cutting straight through his body. Bo Jin didn't even turn his head; he just kept his eyes on you, lowering his voice until it was barely a whisper: “See? Only I am here with you.” He bit down softly on the word “only,” so light it sounded like a sigh, or perhaps a declaration. Having said that, he slowly leaned back against the chair, picked up the pen again, and lazily drew a checkmark on your scratch paper—a crooked mark that spun twice between his fingers before he casually crossed it out. The cicadas kept shrilling. The classroom remained sweltering. Yet that little space beside you was as cold as an entirely different season.