Today was Kevin’s first day at school.
He knew his academic record was poor no chance at a good university.
But he still wanted a white-collar job, so after much discussion, my aunt and uncle had asked Dad to find him a school in Riverford with an accounting program.
Kevin took the clothes slowly, his head lowered, as if hiding something.
His eyes darted nervously.
Dad helped him adjust his collar, speaking earnestly, but Kevin only nodded mechanically, forcing a stiff smile.
His gaze occasionally flicked toward Mom, carrying a strange, unreadable glint, quickly masked as he resumed his obedient act.
Then came the monotony of school life: wake up on time, put on the uniform, grab the backpack, and join the crowd flooding into campus.
The classroom buzzed with familiar noise students chatting about weekend adventures or the latest gossip.
I dropped my bag at my desk, pulled out my textbook, and began another day of lessons.
In Chinese class, the teacher droned on about the text’s central theme and literary techniques.
The blackboard filled with dense notes.
My eyes wandered aimlessly around the room, watching classmates buried in their books, yet my mind felt hollow.
Those ancient texts, those awkward classical phrases they were like lullabies, lulling me into drowsiness.
In math class, faced with complex formulas and graphs, my mind went blank.
The numbers and symbols danced like scattered notes, forming no melody.
I tried to focus, but my eyelids grew heavier, my thoughts drifting far away.
The rest of the day followed the same pattern.
Teachers repeated the same lectures.
Students copied notes robotically.
The classroom was thick with boredom.
During breaks, classmates gathered to play or talk about games and celebrities.
I felt no interest.
I just wanted the weekend to come wanted to run across the basketball court with my friends, sweat pouring down.
At lunch, the cafeteria was packed, the noise deafening.
I ate quickly, then retreated to the library, hoping for peace.
But even there, it wasn’t as quiet as I’d hoped.
Students scribbled homework or read, the air filled with the rustle of pages.
I picked up a book, flipped a few pages, but couldn’t concentrate.
The afternoon dragged on.
My head felt stuffed with cotton.
The teacher’s words entered one ear and left the other.
I just wanted the bell to ring, to end this dull day.
Day after day, I repeated the same routine class, break, homework, eat, sleep.
Life felt frozen, devoid of excitement.
I began to miss home the taste of Mom’s cooking, the sound of Ze’s laughter.
Though the cameras showed no unusual activity, I couldn’t shake the worry: What was Kevin doing at home on Saturdays when Dad was away?
That week felt like an eternity.
… When the Friday dismissal bell rang, I practically sprinted out of the classroom, desperate to escape the long, tedious week.
Friday night.
The sky draped over the city like a vast black silk sheet.
The city’s noise had softened, leaving only the occasional low rumble of passing cars.
I dropped my heavy backpack onto the sofa with a thud, then collapsed into its soft cushions, sinking deep.
I closed my eyes, but the classroom noise and teachers’ voices still echoed in my head.
The lessons tangled like a knotted mess, giving me a pounding headache.
“Back already?” Dad asked, adjusting his glasses.
“Yeah… finally, it’s the weekend!” Dad chuckled, shook his head, and returned to his seat.
Soft light bathed him, highlighting his focused expression.
He held a newspaper, his eyes scanning each line through black-rimmed glasses.
Sometimes he frowned, perhaps troubled by a news story; other times, a faint smile appeared maybe at something amusing.
The paper rustled softly in his hands, whispering of the world’s chaos.
Soon, Mom’s car rolled into the driveway.
The door opened.
“Sweetheart, time to get out we’re home!” Ze jumped out, clutching a little craft he’d made at school, eager to show Dad.
Mom followed, smiling.
She looked tired, but her eyes sparkled with love for her family.
Inside, Ze darted like a playful monkey to Dad, proudly holding up his craft.
“Dad, look!
I made this at school.
Cool, right?” Dad set down the paper, gently stroked his head.
“Very nice, buddy.
You’re so smart!” Mom stepped in.
Today, she wore a lace sheer blouse so thin it was almost transparent, clearly revealing her nude-colored bra.
The bra tightly hugged her full, round breasts, outlining their shape and deep cleavage.
Her pink nipples peeked through, faintly visible.
The intricate lace patterns wrapped around her like a web of desire, barely concealing her white skin.
Through the gauze, one could see the delicate lines of her arms and the faint indentations left by her bra straps, adding a private, intimate allure.
Her lower half was clad in a tight black pencil skirt, the elastic fabric hugging her plump, round hips, showcasing her perfect curves.
The skirt barely reached above her knees, exposing a stretch of smooth thigh, creating a striking contrast with her black thigh-high stockings.
The skirt hugged her waist tightly, emphasizing her slender waist and full hips, forming a flawless S-curve that radiated mature femininity.
Every time she walked, the skirt swayed slightly with her steps, as if silently inviting attention.
Her legs, wrapped in premium black stockings, were a vision.
The fabric was smooth, like the finest silk, clinging to her long, shapely limbs, adding a hazy layer of sensuality.
Under the light, the stockings shimmered with a soft sheen.
They dug deeply into her upper thighs, leaving a pronounced crease that highlighted their fullness.
Her calves were sleek, her ankles slender, forming a breath-stealing arc.
On her feet were black pointed-toe heels, ten centimeters high, elongating her legs and making her appear even taller, even more seductive.
As she walked, the heels clicked against the floor a crisp, rhythmic sound, like notes plucking at the heart.
Mom sat beside Dad, softly recounting Ze’s school stories.
Laughter filled the room.
Then the front door opened.
Moments later, Kevin walked in, wearing a simple, slightly goofy smile.
After greeting everyone, he found a seat and sat down.
No sooner had he settled than he launched into a loud, enthusiastic monologue about his school experiences clearly trying to capture everyone’s attention.
He animatedly described his “outstanding” performance in class, proudly boasting about small rewards he’d received.
I sat quietly, listening, unimpressed.
True excellence didn’t need to be shouted.
His act just felt fake, nauseating.
Dad and Mom listened politely, occasionally chiming in with courteous responses.
Ze, however, was captivated eyes wide, hanging on every word.