That night, the rain fell slow and steady, beads forming on the eaves, sliding down the awning to kiss the earth. The sound was soft, a gentle patter—perfect for sleep.
But Lu Yun could not sleep. He washed up, turned off the light, and lay down. No sooner had he drifted into slumber than Shan Jiqiu’s face appeared unbidden. She lay on her side beside him, one hand propping her cheek, gazing at him with deep affection. Her eyes were silky, her moist red lips curved upward, the color like apricot blossoms on a branch.
Every smile, every glance sent his heartbeat into chaos, igniting a blue flame. His chest tightened, his mouth went dry, his throat bobbed hard.
Like fire, like a volcano, a restless energy surged through him.
Startled, Lu Yun woke from the dream, eyes snapping open. Instinctively, he reached for the space beside him.
Empty.
He exhaled, sat up in the dark, flicked on the bedside lamp, and glanced at the clock.
Two in the morning.
Lu Yun buried his head under the blanket, rubbing his hair in frustration.
When the eyes close, hearing sharpens.
He heard the rain outside, clear as crystal, and the deafening tide surging in his chest. Lifting his head, he threw off the blanket and got out of bed. Since he couldn’t sleep, he might as well do something else to distract himself, to calm down.
Soon, the boy sat at his desk, pen in hand, its tip moving across an exam paper.
The desk lamp gilded his tousled black hair, while his deep, dark peach‑blossom eyes stared listlessly at the page. His gaze was vacant, his whole being adrift.
When he finally came back to himself, ready to focus again, his eyes fell on the paper—and his heart jolted. His right hand, pen and all, shook violently.
In the blank spaces meant for answers, three identical characters were scrawled again and again: 单季秋 (Shan Jiqiu).
The strokes were firm, each character, each line, each curve clamoring to declare the undeniable truth: Your heart, your eyes, your mind are full of—Shan Jiqiu.
…
The next morning, Lu Yun did something unprecedented: he didn’t wait for Shan Jiqiu to go to school together. Instead, he sent her a text, saying he had something to do and left first.
On the bus, Shan Jiqiu stared at the message on her phone again and again, her expression weary.
Though they had reconciled yesterday, she could clearly feel the atmosphere between them was different. In the past, even after worse quarrels, once they made up, it was as if nothing had happened—talking freely, no barriers.
But last night at home, the air had been stiff, awkward, tinged with politeness. When had he ever been polite with her? And now, he didn’t even wait to walk to school together.
Could it be… he really liked another girl? Was it “Cola” or “Pulse”?
So he had decided to start keeping his distance from her?
Sigh. She gripped the bus handrail with one hand, quietly letting out a breath. Her eyes followed the plane trees retreating past the bus window, their leaves yellowed and withered, branches mottled and bare—just like her heart at that moment.
The bus braked suddenly. Shan Jiqiu lost her footing and lurched forward, the force too strong. Her hand slipped from the strap; her steps faltered. At that instant, a strong hand gripped her arm firmly, pulling her back. Around them, passengers muttered in mild annoyance. She steadied herself and murmured, “Thanks.” Looking up, she broke into a smile: “Student Duan, how is it we always run into each other?”
Duan Boyi smiled, tugging her slightly to the side before stepping forward himself, half shielding her behind him. “Guess people are right—we’re fated.”
Shan Jiqiu reached again for the strap, holding on, then tilted her head at him with another smile: “More like ill‑fated.”
Duan Boyi shrugged. “Fate is fate, whatever kind.”
As the bus rolled on, Shan Jiqiu noticed the girls around them sneaking glances at Duan Boyi. Suddenly, Lu Yun came to mind—he too was always a striking presence on the bus. And now, she realized, their positions were almost the same. Lu Yun always stood like this.
Wait—why was she thinking of him again? He was already keeping his distance, and still she thought of him.
“When did you get on? I didn’t notice,” she asked Duan Boyi.
“I saw you looking at your phone, so I didn’t call out,” he replied with a smile.
“Oh.” She nodded. “So you take this bus too?”
“Mm. Telecom Road.”
“I go a few stops farther than you.”
“Is that so?”
And so they chatted idly, back and forth.
Shan Jiqiu: “Don’t you usually ride your bike?”
Duan Boyi: “Too cold. I stopped riding.”
“…”
Shan Jiqiu entered the classroom just as the morning self‑study bell rang. Her first glance went to Lu Yun’s desk—he was sprawled over it, fast asleep. She pressed her lips together, walked to her seat, and deliberately scraped her chair loudly across the floor.
The harsh sound of metal legs against the tiles cut through the quiet classroom, drawing several heads her way. She looked up, smiled apologetically, and they turned back to their own work. But from the moment she pulled the chair, her attention had been fixed on the boy beside her. He lay there as if lifeless, unmoving.
Shan Jiqiu sat down, pulled her homework from her bag, and stole another glance at him. So tired? In the past, even the slightest sound from her would wake him instantly, sharp as a dog’s ears. Today, her noise had drawn attention from the front row, yet he hadn’t stirred at all.
What was wrong with him today? Avoiding her was one thing, but this was too much.
Halfway through morning self‑study, Xu Zhi walked in. “Just two minutes,” he said, leaning slightly against a desk in the middle aisle. “This flu going around is pretty serious. You all need to take care—don’t just sit in the classroom doing exercises all the time. Go outside, get some exercise. Only with a strong body can you get good results.”
“And if you’re sneezing or have a runny nose, wear a mask so you don’t spread it. If it’s serious, don’t tough it out—ask me for leave and go to the hospital. Health comes first. Alright, that’s it, carry on.”
He finished and called the class monitor up to the podium to discuss something.
The classroom returned to normal—some drilling problems, some reciting texts.
Honestly, whether Xu Zhi was there or not didn’t make much difference; everyone was disciplined.
Shan Jiqiu went back to her exercises. Just as her pen touched the paper, she remembered Xu Zhi’s mention of the flu and turned her head toward Lu Yun. Last night she’d noticed his clothes were damp from the rain, his hair wet. Could he have a fever? No wonder he hadn’t reacted to all that noise earlier. Could he have fainted from it?
The thought made her drop her pen immediately. She reached out, eager to touch the bit of forehead still exposed. The moment her fingers brushed his skin, he shot upright. Like a startled deer, panicked, louder than her chair scraping earlier.
The classroom, which had been filled with the sounds of study and Xu Zhi’s conversation with the monitor, fell into sudden silence.
Every student, including Xu Zhi, turned to look at the last row—one standing, one sitting, eyes locked.
Shan Jiqiu hadn’t expected such a dramatic reaction. She froze, her hand suspended awkwardly in mid‑air. Her clear black eyes held confusion and surprise as she stared at the boy before her. “What are you doing?” she asked once she found her voice.
“What are you doing?” Lu Yun shot back, leaning slightly against the window frame, hands behind his back.
“What are you two doing?” Xu Zhi demanded from the podium.
Only then did both turn toward the class. Every gaze was fixed on them, expressions varied.
Shan Jiqiu withdrew her hand, looked at Xu Zhi, and explained: “You just mentioned the flu. I wanted to check if Lu Yun had a fever.”
After speaking, she deliberately glanced at Lu Yun. And indeed, his face was a little red.
Her words drew muffled laughter from the class. No one dared laugh loudly under Xu Zhi’s authority and Lu Yun’s presence, so they covered their mouths and snickered.
Xu Zhi himself couldn’t hold back and chuckled outright: “Lu Yun, you’re always sleeping through morning study. It’s gotten so bad even Autumn God suspects you’re sick.”
Even Xu Zhi joined in the joke, and the class stopped muffling their laughter.
One student burst out, and soon waves of laughter rippled through the room.
The dim morning outside seemed tickled by the cheerful sound, and the sky brightened completely.
The little episode ended. Lu Yun wasn’t sick or feverish. His explanation was, “No way. Your hand was cold as ice, suddenly reaching over—if I didn’t react, I’d be a robot.”
Shan Jiqiu replied, “You were sleeping so deeply, how was I supposed to know?”
Lu Yun flipped open the English book on top, eyes fixed on the page, brows faintly furrowed, his tone impatient, “Didn’t sleep well last night.”
To Shan Jiqiu, it felt as if he were deliberately avoiding her. Today, he seemed like a different person, nothing like his usual self. Even keeping distance shouldn’t mean reacting so dramatically.
“You this morning—”
“Riiiing…”
Lu Yun snapped his English book shut with a loud pa and suddenly stood up. Scratching his brow, eyes fixed straight ahead, he barked at the air:
“Nature calls. Bathroom.” He kicked his chair aside with long legs and strode toward the back door. On the way, he grabbed Tan Junhao, who happened to be walking past, and pushed the bewildered boy out with him.
Shan Jiqiu watched his every move, his tall figure disappearing through the back door, leaving her with an indescribable strangeness in her chest.