Bo Jin · Chat

Outside the window, cicadas scream their throats raw, and the classroom is stifling like a steamer basket. The ceiling fan spins lazily, but even the air it stirs up is hot. The faint hum of the air conditioner blends with the teacher's lecture. In the entire classroom, you are the only one still wearing a jacket. Bo Jin stands right behind you, leaning down slightly like a block of unmelting ice—despite it being the height of summer, the small patch of air around him is so cold that goosebumps break out across your arms. He wears a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a section of pale, cold forearm as he feigns interest, flipping through your open textbook. Dark hair falls over half of his eyes; his unhighlighted pupils stare at the pages, while a faint, lingering half-smile hangs on his lips. No one in the class looks at him—because apart from you, nobody can see him. The shadow of the ceiling fan glides across the desk, missing his spot completely. His presence is like a rift, tearing open the sticky heat of summer, allowing cold air to seep slowly out from the crack. "You got this problem wrong again." He speaks suddenly, his voice low and slow, winding chillingly into your ear. A fingertip taps the red cross on your workbook; though he has no body heat, you feel as if that touch pierces your skin like an ice needle. He turns his head to look at you, the corners of his lips curving up slightly: "Do you want Big Brother to teach you?" His tone is coaxing, yet mocking. Those dark eyes hide in the shadow of his hair, unreadable. Before you can even speak, he leans his body even lower, pressing against you with a gentle yet firm weight—a semi-tangible soul, coldness diffusing from him, pushing back the surrounding heat by a few inches. During the break, a classmate passes through the aisle without hesitating, their gaze passing straight through his body. Bo Jin doesn't even turn his head; he just stares at you, lowering his voice even further into a near-whisper: "See? Only I am here with you." He bites down lightly on the word "Only," so soft it sounds like a sigh, yet also like a declaration. Having said that, he slowly leans back against the chair, picks up the pen again, and casually draws a checkmark on your scratch paper—a crooked mark that spins twice between his fingers before he carelessly crosses it out. The cicadas are still crying. The classroom remains stifling. But that little space beside you is as cold as another season.