Chapter : 8 "He Didn't Say So No One Asked"

The teacher didn't ask again.

She simply placed a gentle hand on Shu Yao's back and whispered, "You can rest your head. Just until the bell."

He obeyed.

Not because he wanted to—but because his body had begun to shake. The fever had wrapped itself around his spine like a second spine—rigid, hot, relentless. He laid his cheek against the cool desk, eyes fluttering shut.

The classroom blurred around him.

Whispers passed between students like small winds, but no one dared to speak too loudly. Not with the way the teacher lingered beside him, her arms crossed, her eyes narrowing at any smirk that dared to appear.

Then—

"I can take him home."

Bai Qi's voice cut across the silence, sure and calm.

The teacher turned. "You?"

"I know where he lives," Bai Qi said simply. "I'll call my driver."

"No," Shu Yao murmured, eyes still closed. "I don't need—"

"Hush," the teacher said gently, patting his head like one might calm a skittish bird. "You're going home. No arguments."

Shu Yao's eyes opened—glassy, heavy. There was protest in them, a quiet rebellion, like something caged too long.

But the teacher just smiled softly and turned to Bai Qi, who had already pulled out his phone. "He'll be here in five."

She knelt and began placing Shu Yao's things into his worn leather bag—his notebook, his pencil case, the small journal tucked carefully beneath. "You're not coming back to school until you recover, okay?" she said.

Shu Yao didn't answer.

But his fingers tightened around the edge of the desk like it was the only thing holding him to the earth.

Moments later, a quiet buzz hummed through the classroom window.

Bai Qi looked down at his phone and said, "He's here."

The teacher nodded. "Good. Help him out, please—"

"I can walk," Shu Yao said quickly, pushing himself up from the desk. His knees nearly gave, but he steadied.

He didn't look at anyone.

He didn't want to see pity, or worse—amusement.

He moved like fog—soft, slow, vanishing at the edges—toward the hallway.

But before he could make it through the classroom door, the walls tilted again. His vision blurred like a smudged window. His hand shot out, bracing himself against the wall outside the classroom.

And behind him—

A shadow approached.

Taller. Broader. A familiar scent of cedar and cologne.

"Shu Yao," Bai Qi's voice was quieter now, laced with something like concern. "You're burning alive. If you keep pushing like this, you'll collapse."

He reached out.

But Shu Yao, trembling, shoved his hand away—not harshly, just… desperately. Like touch itself was a wound.

Bai Qi blinked, confused. "Why won't you let anyone help?"

Shu Yao didn't answer.

He couldn't.

His throat was thick with fever and shame and the lingering taste of a dream where Bai Qi had kissed someone else under a halo of applause.

His voice would have cracked if he tried.

So instead, he pressed his hand harder against the wall, blinked the haze from his eyes, and took one more step forward. Silent. Proud. Breaking.

Shu Yao didn't speak as they walked to the car.

He didn't stagger, didn't lean, didn't even glance at Bai Qi. His steps were slow, steady—like someone walking a tightrope stretched between dignity and collapse. When the driver opened the door, he slipped into the backseat without a word, clutching his bag against his chest like armor.

Bai Qi followed and sat beside him.

The car door shut with a soft thump, and the silence inside was different. It wasn't awkward—it was something older, something thicker, like a hush inside a church just before confession.

The engine purred to life. Rain began to mist against the windows, thin and fine.

Shu Yao rested his head against the seat, face tilted toward the glass. His eyes closed, lashes trembling with fevered exhaustion. One hand remained looped tightly around the strap of his bag, fingers pale and taut, as if afraid to let go of the only thing that still belonged to him.

He didn't speak.

Didn't sigh.

Didn't flinch when the car turned corners.

Just breathed.

Shallow, slow.

Beside him, Bai Qi turned his gaze—curious at first. Then still.

He looked at Shu Yao properly, maybe for the first time.

The boy looked even smaller in stillness. His long brownish hair brushed against the collar of his uniform, slightly curled at the ends from the morning's fevered sweat. It was longer than Qing Yue's now, Bai Qi realized—longer, softer, the kind of hair people reached for and never touched.

His skin was pale—almost translucent in the morning light. Like porcelain left out in rain. The bruise on his cheek had bloomed darker overnight, harsh against such delicate complexion. And beneath his eyes… those shadows.

Heavy. Hollow. Human.

Bai Qi's breath caught.

He looked like a boy who hadn't slept in days. Like someone who carried not just a fever, but every storm that ever passed through him. Someone who endured too much, too quietly, like pain was something sacred that only he was allowed to hold.

The guilt settled low in Bai Qi's chest.

Not just for watching him stand in class, shaking. Not just for the bruise, the fever, the silence. But for the way Shu Yao's mother had scolded him so fiercely—because she didn't know. Because no one told her.

Because Shu Yao never told anyone.

He had endured it all without complaint. Without breaking.

At least, not where anyone could see.

And that… that did something to Bai Qi.

He looked away, jaw clenched.

The car turned onto Shu Yao's street.

Still, the boy beside him didn't speak. Just clutched his bag strap tighter, like the silence had grown teeth.

The car stopped.

Shu Yao opened the door before it fully halted and stepped out with a quiet finality—like slipping away from a place he never meant to be. He didn't look back. He didn't wait. He just walked up to the gate, opened it with the practiced ease of someone who has done it countless times… and vanished behind it.

Bai Qi sighed, stepped out, and rang the bell.

Moments later, Shu Yao's mother opened the door, still wearing an apron, one hand dusted with flour, the other perched on her hip. Her expression pinched instantly.

"Did he forget something?" she asked curtly.

"No," Bai Qi said. "I brought him home. He has a high fever. He shouldn't have come to school."

Her brow lifted—not with worry, but with irritation. "He was fine when he left."

"He wasn't," Bai Qi replied, jaw tightening. "He has a bruise on his face because he got into a fight."

Her lips pursed. "I knew it," she muttered, folding her arms. "Running wild again."

"He was protecting Qing Yue," Bai Qi said quickly, firmly. "There were boys. He stepped in."

She didn't speak.

Didn't soften.

Just blinked, lips twitching with something unreadable. "Why didn't he say that earlier?"

"Because he never does," Bai Qi said. "You didn't let him."

Her gaze snapped to his.

But before she could bite back, she turned and marched down the hallway.

Upstairs, Shu Yao had only just set his bag down.

He sat on the edge of his bed, head low, breath shallow. His vision was blurry again. It wasn't just the fever—it was everything. His body had no strength left to pretend.

Then—

The door rattled.

"Shu Yao!" his mother's voice cut through. "Open this door."

He hesitated, knuckles white against the blanket.

The knob turned again.

He stood shakily and unlocked it.

She pushed it open fast. "Why didn't you tell me?" she snapped. "That you were protecting Qing Yue?"

Shu Yao leaned on the wall to keep from swaying. "You didn't ask," he murmured.

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't play that silent game with me again." She stepped closer, her eyes scanning his face. The fever, the bruise, the hollow cheeks.

"Look at yourself," she muttered, "burning like a stove. What are you trying to prove?"

He sat heavily on the bed, body folding like paper. "Don't call anyone," he whispered. "I don't want anyone to see me."

"Oh? You'd rather rot here in your own sweat?"

He didn't answer.

His mother turned toward the door, muttering under her breath, "Protecting your sister. Getting into fights. Skipping meals. Acting like a girl. What are you even trying to become?"

Shu Yao sat in silence. The heat in his face wasn't just from the fever—it was shame. Loneliness. The echo of dreams that kept coming back just to hurt him again.

The door slammed shut.

She didn't check his temperature again. Didn't bring soup. Didn't ask how long he'd been hurting.

She left him like she always did.

And the room fell quiet again.

Just the soft ticking of the clock.

Just his shallow breathing.

Just the boy on the bed, skin flushed, chest heavy, eyes stinging—not from illness, but from the ache of being invisible even when he was standing right in front of them.