Chapter : 3 "The Nurse office"

The nurse's office smelled faintly of eucalyptus and soft bandages.

A quiet hum of the fan overhead.

The light filtering through the blinds was a muted gold—too gentle for the ache sitting in Shu Yao's chest.

He sat there quietly, back straight, eyes cast downward as the kind school nurse dabbed antiseptic to his bruised cheek with tender care. Her hands were warm, practiced—soothing in a way nothing else had been today.

"Poor thing," she murmured, half to herself. "You should've come in sooner. My boy"

But Shu Yao didn't respond.

He was lost somewhere behind his lashes, his thoughts circling one image:

Bai Qi's back,

turning away.

Not even a glance.

The nurse was still speaking gently, but her voice became background noise to the pounding in his head. Not just from the bruise… but from something deeper, older, lonelier.

Then the door creaked open—

a voice rang out, light and hurried.

"Gege?! Are you here?"

It was Qing Yue.

The moment she stepped into the room and saw his face, her expression cracked. Her polished calm dissolved.

Her bag dropped from her shoulder.

"Gege… what happened to your face?!"

She ran across the room like the floor was on fire and flung her arms around him—only to pause when she saw the dried blood, the swelling, the limpness of his limbs.

And then the tears came. Big, helpless sobs that poured down her cheeks like she'd been holding them back since birth.

She turned suddenly—

And leaned into Bai Qi, who had quietly followed her in, his tall frame a steady pillar behind her.

Her head pressed to his chest as she cried. Loudly. Dramatically. Desperately.

"They hit him! Those three rascals—how dare they hit my only gege—my kindest gege!"

Her words broke in the air like shattered glass.

And Shu Yao—

still seated, still breathing in silence—

felt the walls close in.

The air in the room grew too thick.

Too loud.

Too... not his.

He stood, quietly.

Lifted his bag.

Didn't say a word.

Just moved past them like a shadow. Qing Yue didn't notice. Bai Qi didn't stop him. The nurse called his name, but too softly.

Outside the room, the hallway was quieter, colder.

But not empty.

Because he paused—just beyond the door—and heard everything.

Qing Yue still sobbing.

Bai Qi's voice, calm and dangerous.

"They insulted my goddess," he said. "They'll regret it. I'll have my father suspend them all. Nobody lays a finger on her and walks away."

Qing Yue sniffled. "Yes… please. Do it."

And Shu Yao, listening, felt something inside him shrink.

Not rage.

Not jealousy.

Just... a slow curling ache in the hollow beneath his ribs.

But he didn't cry.

Not here.

Not in the hallway, where the world could see.

So he began walking.

The classroom door opened with a soft creak, and the chatter quieted.

He stepped in, eyes to the floor, wound blooming dark and violet across his cheek. The teacher glanced at him and said nothing—just gave a slight nod. Everyone in the room already knew.

Shu Yao moved to his seat like a drifting leaf.

Sat down.

Opened his book.

The words swam on the page.

The teacher resumed the lesson.

But Shu Yao?

He wasn't there.

Not really.

He was somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere where boys didn't bleed for protecting sisters.

Where hearts didn't fold in silence.

Where one glance—just one—might have been enough.

But that was a place he'd never been allowed to live.

And so he sat, surrounded by the scrape of chalk, the shuffle of notebooks, the hum of voices.

And drowned in the noise no one else could hear.

The classroom door swung open a second time—

quiet, deliberate.

Not rushed.

Not guilty.

Bai Qi stepped in.

His presence didn't demand attention.

It commanded it.

Every pair of eyes turned toward him,

not because the teacher paused,

but because the room itself seemed to notice him before anyone else did.

His steps were measured, confident, unfazed—

like nothing could touch him.

Like he hadn't just witnessed Shu Yao being hit.

Like he hadn't heard the boy's breath hitch under pain,

or seen the blood that marred his cheek like a question no one answered.

He didn't look at Shu Yao.

Not even a flicker of the eye.

Not even a glance sideways.

Because Bai Qi already had someone in his heart—

a girl with soft hands and tearful eyes,

a goddess in his story,

even if her brother sat only two desks away in that same room,

quiet and unreadable.

Shu Yao didn't look at him either.

His eyes were cast down, fixed on the page before him.

A page that had stopped making sense fifteen minutes ago.

His cheek still stung,

the handkerchief folded neatly in his desk drawer—

as if tucking the pain away could erase it.

But it didn't.

He could feel Bai Qi's steps echo near him as the boy passed,

felt the brush of wind from his coat sleeve,

but Shu Yao didn't flinch.

Didn't blink.

He just kept pretending to read,

eyes locked on the ink that blurred

the more he tried to forget what he'd heard outside the nurse's office.

> "They insulted my goddess…"

> "I'll have my father suspend them…"

> "My goddess…"

Not even once did Bai Qi say,

"Your brother."

The silence between them now was like glass—

invisible, fragile, sharp at the edges.

And though no one else noticed,

Shu Yao could feel every crack.

Behind him, Bai Qi slid into his chair.

The whispers faded.

The teacher resumed.

And class went on like nothing happened.

But for one boy,

each second felt like a bruise.

The bell rang—not loud, not jarring.

Just enough to remind everyone:

It's lunchtime.

Desks scraped gently against tile.

Laughter bloomed like wildflowers across the classroom.

The scent of rice and warm soup began to mix with sunlight filtering through dusty panes.

But Shu Yao…

he didn't move.

His hand pressed quietly against his temple,

not in pain—

but as if trying to hold something inside

before it leaked out.

He blinked at the inside of his desk,

then remembered—

he forgot his lunch.

Not that he cared.

Not that he could've eaten anything even if he brought it.

His throat was too tight,

his stomach already clenched from something deeper

than hunger.

Outside the classroom window,

beneath the shade of the cherrywood tree,

they sat.

Bai Qi and Qing Yue.

The sun loved them.

The wind was kind to them.

And their laughter—it hurt.

He couldn't hear much,

but the bits he could

fell like needles into his chest.

> "Your mom's cooking is dangerous," Bai Qi was grinning.

"I swear I'm marrying into this family just for her food."

Qing Yue rolled her eyes,

but her smile was soft like clouds.

> "Is that how it is?" she teased.

"What about my cooking, huh? Not good enough for your royal standards?"

> "N-no! I mean—it's edible! No, no—wait, it's lovely! I swear!"

Bai Qi grabbed his own ears in mock punishment, bowing toward her knees,

grinning even as she crossed her arms.

Shu Yao turned away from the window.

Quickly.

Before his reflection could show him crying.

He pressed a knuckle to his mouth,

not to stifle a sob—

but because that's what you do

when your heart suddenly feels too heavy for your ribs.

Because watching someone get scolded lovingly

was worse than being punched.

Because Bai Qi's laugh had a different tone when it was for her.

Softer.

Warmer.

More real.

Because their mother—his mother—

was kind to them in ways

he didn't even believe she could be.

> For them: homemade bentos, meat buns, compliments over rice.

> For him: silence. Comparisons. Disdain.

He rose from his seat.

The class was mostly empty now.

Only a few students lingered, heads bent over lunch or whispered gossip.

Shu Yao walked down the row of desks,

backpack slung low,

steps soundless.

He didn't know where he was going,

but he had to move.

Anywhere but here.

Because there's a kind of hunger that food can't fill.

And his had grown sharp enough

to leave scars.

And then he wrote.

But he looked away.

He returned to the page, his handwriting neat and deliberate. Ink trailing like a secret across the surface. No sigh escaped him. No complaint formed on his lips. He simply recorded the day as it was: the silence, the moment, the ache that arrived without asking.

Even his stillness was elegant.

And though no one saw him then, seated on the desk, cloaked in silence and pale fabric—the wind did. It moved gently around him, as if to ask: Do you wish to be carried away?

But Shu Yao only wrote on.