Chapter : 4 "Always The Watcher Never The Chosen"

The final bell echoed like a sigh across the school grounds.

Students spilled into the corridors with sudden energy, laughter clattering off the walls, backpacks flung over shoulders, plans whispered like secrets. The air buzzed with the familiar thrill of endings—summer was near, and freedom was already tugging at their sleeves.

But Shu Yao moved differently.

With quiet precision, he closed his journal. The sound was soft, like the final page of something sacred being folded shut. His hand lingered a second longer before he slowly zipped the back of his worn leather bag. The movement wasn't rushed—no gesture of his ever was. He slung the strap across one shoulder, the bag hanging like a weight he'd grown used to carrying.

Outside, the sky had turned the color of old ink—bruised and brooding.

He paused beneath the rusting school gate, watching the sky tremble with wind. Somewhere ahead, he knew Qing Yue had already left, likely in Bai Qi's company. Their laughter had faded with the crowd, and now the world felt like it belonged only to him and the wind.

Shu Yao walked, slow and solitary, the collar of his uniform brushing his jaw as the breeze grew stronger. He didn't look up when the first raindrop struck his temple. He didn't flinch when the second followed.

By the time he reached home, the bruise on his cheek had darkened like a secret trying to bloom.

The door creaked open. His mother stood inside—arms crossed, brow already furrowed.

"What is this now?" she snapped, her voice sharp as stormlight. "What have you done to your face?"

Her eyes narrowed on the bruise, and her hands, flour-dusted from the kitchen, clenched tighter.

"Are you hanging around with those rascals again? I've told you—"

But Shu Yao said nothing.

No defense. No confession. Just the familiar weight of silence resting on his tongue like a stone too heavy to spit out.

He turned, walked past her without a word, and disappeared into his room. The door closed behind him—not slammed, not locked. Just quietly closed, like someone placing a lid on a box they could no longer bear to open.

Outside, the rain grew louder. So did his mother's voice.

"Shu Yao!" she called from the kitchen. "Go get some vegetables. We're out of fish too!"

Still in his uniform, he stepped out again. No umbrella. No complaint.

The store was a fifteen-minute walk, but it felt longer with the wind pressing against him like a warning. softly with each step, echoing the steady rhythm of approaching rain.

By the time he reached the shop, the storm had broken free.

Raindrops struck the roof in hurried patterns, slapping the cement like small, insistent palms. He stood at the edge of the awning, plastic bag in hand, the vegetables packed, the fish wrapped tight. He could already hear the voice that waited at home, sharp with impatience.

Still, he didn't move.

He watched the rain blur the streetlights into halos, watched bicycles abandon their riders and dogs scatter beneath awnings. The sky was weeping in earnest now, and Shu Yao—still, still, always still—stood with water running from his lashes.

If I go home like this, he thought, she'll be angry.

But if he stayed, what difference would it make?

He couldn't wait forever. And he couldn't stop the rain.

So he stepped forward.

Into the downpour, into the ache in his cheek, into the quiet fight no one ever saw.

He didn't run.

He simply walked—shoulders hunched, hair soaking, eyes half-lidded—until the world forgot he was there.

He was nearly home.

The familiar bend in the alley curved just ahead, the brick walls slick with rain and the sky split open in steady sobs. His shoes were soaked, water squelching with every slow step. The fish in the bag thudded against his thigh like a heartbeat. His breath fogged the air in short, shivering clouds.

And then—he heard it.

A laugh. Light. Unbothered. Male.

Shu Yao stopped mid-step. His fingers curled slightly against the handles of the plastic bag. Even drenched as he was, he recognized that voice.

Him.

He moved fast—no thought, only instinct—and ducked into the shadowed corner beside the neighboring gate. The rain fell in silver sheets now, blurring the world like a dream beginning to dissolve.

From the hazy path, he saw them: his sister, walking under an umbrella. And beside her—the boy he couldn't stop loving.

Their steps matched like music. His sister's laughter chimed beside the boy's deeper, easy smile, and they shared the umbrella as if they'd done it a hundred times before. The boy said something that made her laugh again, her head tilting back, carefree.

Shu Yao stood motionless in the rain, watching through the curtain of water. The cold had sunk into his bones, but it was the ache in his chest that numbed him. He didn't cry. He simply watched—soaking, silent, invisible.

They passed.

The umbrella disappeared behind the door.

And he remained.

He waited a full minute more before stepping out from the corner, his soaked uniform clinging to his frame, his fringe plastered to his brow. Every drop of rain had become an echo in his body. His bruise throbbed in the cold like something punished for feeling.

When he finally reached the door, he found his mother in the entryway. She had just finished shaking the umbrella dry and setting it against the wall.

Her eyes fell on him, soaked and shivering, and narrowed instantly.

"Go change your clothes," she snapped, turning toward him fully. "You look pathetic."

She didn't ask why he was late. She didn't ask why he hadn't taken the umbrella meant for him.

"Can't you ever act like a normal boy and just take an umbrella? What's the point of sending you out if you come back looking like a drowned ghost?"

Shu Yao said nothing.

"And this?" she stepped closer, gesturing at the bruise blooming on his cheek. "When are you going to grow up? When will you stop making a fool of yourself like this? Look what you've made of yourself."

The words struck deeper than the cold ever could.

He didn't respond.

He couldn't.

Instead, he turned—slowly, woodenly—and ran to his room, the wet bag of groceries slipping from his hand in the hallway. The door slammed shut behind him like a gasp being swallowed.

Inside, he stood for a moment, his breath ragged, his heart thudding with exhaustion. His soaked clothes dripped onto the floor. His hair clung to his face. His hands trembled.

He didn't bother to change.

He simply sat—back against the door, legs drawn close, arms wrapped tight around his knees.

So sick of everything.

So tired.

So heavy with all the things he never said.

Inside his room, the silence grew thick.

Shu Yao sat with his back pressed to the door, still soaked through, the sound of the rain outside a dull roar now, like the world whispering just out of reach. The plastic bag lay forgotten in the hallway, its contents bruised and cold—like him.

And then—

The first tear fell.

Not sudden. Not dramatic.

Just a slow, quiet drop rolling down the side of his bruised cheek, vanishing into the wet fabric of his uniform like it belonged there.

Then another. And another.

Until they came freely, slipping down his face in rivers no one would ever see.

He didn't cry with noise. No gasps, no sobs—just the silent unraveling of someone who had carried too much for too long.

His arms remained wrapped tightly around his knees, but his heart—his heart was falling apart in quiet ruin.

Love that never returned. Words never said. Looks never held long enough. The way he had hidden behind corners, shadows, raindrops—always the watcher, never the chosen.

When his breath began to hitch, he stood up—slowly, shakily, like someone learning how to move again.

He stepped out of his room, the hallway light flickering once above him, and walked to the bathroom without a word. The mirror caught his reflection: eyes red-rimmed, cheeks blotched, hair soaked and clinging to his skin.

He didn't look away. But he didn't look long either.

He turned on the shower.

The water hissed to life, hot and sharp against the tiles. Steam rose into the air, curling around him like a veil. Shu Yao stepped in fully clothed, the door clicking shut behind him. The water struck his already drenched clothes, flattened his hair further, soaked his body.

And he sat.

Right there on the cold tile floor, knees to his chest again, beneath the torrent.

The sound of the water drowned out everything—the world, his thoughts, even his mother's distant shouting.

Here, he could sob.

Here, he could break.

The tears poured silently, mixing with the spray, invisible and endless. His fingers clenched the fabric of his sleeves. His shoulders trembled, but his voice never came.

Only the sound of water.

And the hollow ache of a love that bloomed like spring and died like winter—without ever being held.

He stayed there, curled beneath the shower like a broken vase someone had set down too hard and never picked up again. The warmth of the water did nothing to melt the cold in his chest.

And so he sat—between silence and sorrow, between rain and ruin—until the water turned cold.