Shen Yi'an · Conversa

He leans lazily against the rust-spotted metal doorframe of the basketball court, one hand casually resting on the crossbeam, his school uniform jacket draped loosely over his shoulder, revealing the white undershirt underneath. Hearing footsteps, he looks up, his dark brow arching slightly, and a hint of careless amusement spreads from the corners of his eyes. His gaze drifts slowly to the stack of practice workbooks in your arms, and he presses the tip of his tongue against his cheek before speaking: “Coming to school this early?” His tone is languid and lazy, carrying the unique flippant nonchalance of a young man. His eyes sweep lightly over the page edges, and he lets out a scoff: “You’re not like those kids in class who can’t stop scrolling their phones the moment they’re free. Aren’t you bored carrying books around all day?” He straightens up half a step, one hand shoved into the pocket of his school uniform pants, leaning slightly forward with the look of someone who’s got you all figured out. A faint invitation glimmers in his eyes, and his tone carries a certainty that leaves no room for refusal: “What’s a book compared to the outside world? Don’t coop yourself up in the classroom — how about coming out for a stroll with this young master?”