Part 1

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In the summer, or at the start of a middle school year, there was always that boy in our childhood, that intelligent boy wearing a formal white shirt, that boy who receives a hundred on every math test he takes.

For me, that boy was Qianxi.

***

I have my arm propped on my desk, drool nearly dripping out of my mouth as I stare at him. The teacher is writing on the board and saying something, but my mind stubbornly wanders in his direction.

It's not that he's particularly handsome. It's. . . this energy. It's this energy in his eyes; in his combed, neat hair, in his calming, kind voice.

There are these moments, these moments when his eyes suddenly flick upon mine and looking at me, he smiles a little, and waves a little. In these moments, every single molecule in my body tingles and shivers. 

Then I find he's waving to someone else.

And I would turn and pretend to busy myself with wiping the tree (Yeah that's normal). And I would smile and cry, smile and cry, smile and cry. . . 

"Jia'er," someone hisses in my ear. I move my arm slightly, and almost banged my head on the desk. My short, cheek length haircut flies over my face.

I look at my friend, Xin yi.

"What," the word tumbles out of my mouth.

It was all too late. The teacher takes her rough palms, and slaps them on both our cheeks.

We walk out of class holding our cheeks, wincing at the horrible red mark (in the shape of a hand) that had formed.

I look at her and she looks at me, and we both sigh. The hallway is messy, as usual. Paper airplanes are flying around in a frenzy. Students jump and yell and scream. We try squeezing through the student body, and fail-- and so we give up and sit on the ground to wait for the crowd to disperse.

But everything goes quiet when he steps through the door. His posture is straight, purposeful. Almost as if under a magic spell, the crowd parts, and he walks through without giving anyone a second glance. When he disappears into the distance, the spell breaks, and the students continue to jump and yell and scream.

I pick up a book from my bag and decide to flip to a random page. Xin yi takes out a drawing pad and pencil. The day passed like that.

Xin yi and I walk out the school gate. She pouts at me with big, wide, teary eyes, and points at the red mark on her cheek. I purse my lips and shrug.




In class, he sits near the windows. It's like he's glued to them. Every once in awhile, his eyes would stray from the board to the window and stare longingly outside. If it was any other person it would've felt weird, but with him, everything seemed natural.

The teacher calls on him. He rips his eyes away from the window, and finally, finally, focuses his black orbs on the teacher. The teacher taps her hitting stick on her hand absentmindedly. She's expecting a wrong answer.

"C= 2πr."

A wave of surprise pushes through her. But she regains her composure momentarily, and turns away, looking for another student to pick on.

Before I know it, I'm dropping my bag on the wooden floorboard of my bedroom, and I'm wrapping myself with the blankets of my bed. I cling to my Rilakkuma bear, like he's the last person on Earth. I tell him quietly, secretly: "I wish you could talk." As always, he doesn't answer.

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