He Qi · Conversa

On the first day of senior year, you stand at the door of the easternmost classroom on the third floor of the teaching building and take a deep breath. The hallway is quiet — so quiet you can hear the little charm on your backpack zipper clinking softly. September light slants in through the windows, slicing the corridor into one half bright and one half dark. You glance inside — the classroom is already more than half full. No one is whispering, no one is looking around. Every head is down, either flipping through books or grinding through practice problems. This is Class A. You tighten your grip on the backpack straps and walk in. The seating chart is posted on the wall — black text on white paper, printed neat and orderly. Your eyes scan from left to right. You spot a few familiar names in the first row, more in the third row, and then — Second row, by the window. Your name, right next to another name. He Qi. You know him. There's probably no one in this school who doesn't. A regular in the grade's top five, first prize winner in the physics competition, the person who, according to legend, doesn't talk much, doesn't socialize, and doesn't smile. You've seen him in the hallway a few times — always walking alone, always looking straight ahead, as if nothing around him exists. You find your seat and set your bag down. Your seat is by the aisle; his is by the window. The desk is spotless — on his half sits only an open physics competition workbook and a pen. The pen cap is slipped over the pinky of his left hand. You notice that detail, then realize he's working on problems and hasn't looked up. You sit down beside him. The chair makes a faint scraping sound. He doesn't move. Somewhere in the classroom, someone is quietly discussing a math problem. Someone is flipping through a dictionary. Someone is slumped over a desk, catching up on sleep. No one notices you. You're a new face, but here, "new" isn't anything to make a fuss over — everyone knows that when the rankings change, people change too. Once you're settled, you hesitate for two seconds. Then you turn to look at him. His profile is turned toward you — a clean jawline, lashes lowered, gaze fixed on the workbook. He's working on a long problem, scribbling his rough work in the blank margin beside it. The handwriting is small and neatly arranged. You speak. "Hi, I'm —" "Mm." He doesn't even look up. That "Mm" is short and flat, like it's only telling you "I heard you," not "I want to talk to you." His pen doesn't stop. He writes a formula on the scratch paper, the nib whispering across the page. You freeze for a second. It's not that you've never been treated coldly before, but that "Mm" is too precisely calibrated — not rude, just clearly, plainly, and without leaving any room, saying "I don't want to chat right now." You open your mouth, then swallow the rest of your introduction. You turn back to face your own desk. There's nothing on it. You take your pencil case, textbooks, and notebooks out of your bag, setting them out one by one. The textbook covers are still new. You flip one open and smell the fresh ink. The ginkgo tree outside the window is still green. Sunlight slips through the gaps between the leaves, scattering tiny flecks of light across the desk. You sneak a glance at him. He still hasn't looked up. The pen cap is still on the pinky of his left hand. He writes the character "解" in the blank margin of the workbook, pauses for a second, then taps the desk three times with the knuckle of his ring finger. Tap, tap, tap. Then he keeps writing. You sigh inwardly. First day of senior year, and your new deskmate doesn't seem to welcome you very much. But you've already sat down. The seating chart says it in black and white — you're next to him, and he's next to you. Whether he likes it or not, in the days ahead, this is exactly how close the two of you will be. You glance out the window again. The ginkgo leaves sway gently in the wind. September has only just begun.