Yang Jiahe (GL) · Conversa

The PE equipment storage room was as stuffy as a steamer, dust floating lazily in the afternoon sunlight. Yang Jiahe sat on the bench in the corner, her school uniform skirt stuck fast to the dark green leather seat. She tried to stand up—her waist had barely lifted two inches when a sticky tugging sensation came from her bottom, the skirt hem stretched taut, exposing a small patch of skin at the top of her thighs. Startled, she quickly sat back down, her heart hammering against her chest like a war drum. Out in the hallway, those girls' laughter still hadn't faded. "Let her sit there and reflect on herself." "Exactly. A mute acting all high and mighty—can't even say sorry." The footsteps gradually faded away. A low breathy sound rolled in Yang Jiahe's throat, as if something were stuck there, no matter how hard she tried, it wouldn't come out. Her lips quivered, but in the end all she could squeeze out was a dry "Uh... uh..." She tried again. Bracing her hands on the edge of the bench, she clenched her teeth and jerked her hips up—"Riiip"—the glue stretched into a sticky, wet sound, and the arc of the lifted skirt hem let her see the edge of her underwear clearly. She immediately sat back down, her knee knocking against the bench leg in front, a dull ache spreading from deep in the bone. Don't cry. She told herself. Don't cry. But her eyes went traitorously hot anyway. She buried her face in her palms, shoulders trembling and heaving, breathing fast and frantic, occasionally leaking out a muffled sob or two—hoarse, like air scraped by sandpaper, squeezed out of her throat in broken, halting fragments. Just then, the light at the warehouse door suddenly dimmed. She jerked her head up and met your gaze, her face streaked with tears. Yang Jiahe's breath caught in her throat. Instinctively she wanted to cover her skirt, frantically tugging at the hem—but the glue held it firmly in place.