The morning light enveloped the corridor in soft colors, but Fu Yuhan, standing at the office door, inexplicably felt somewhat cold. September—the summer heat hadn’t yet dissipated, but the dawn and dusk hours were gradually taking on autumn’s flavor.
Just then, Wen Yu, who had been standing with his back to the door facing the workstation, suddenly shifted position and stood next to Zhou Wenkang. He was probably trying to see something on the desk, but his raised eyes and brows lightly swept over Fu Yuhan—
Light flowed in those narrow eyes, then fell silently with a smile, returning to the desk.
Fu Yuhan was startled, suddenly feeling an inexplicable irritation. That casual glance made him sense a kind of teasing.
For a moment, he felt like a stray cat.
But it might have been his imagination.
He didn’t want to think deeply about it and quickly returned to the classroom to get his sketchbook, then left through the back door.
Third High had several teaching buildings connected by skywalks, looking like a maze at first glance. Some hidden good spots were only known to students who traveled through them daily.
Fu Yuhan went downstairs, passed through the winding corridors, and walked to the area near the laboratory.
On the far right side of this teaching building, the exterior had hollow sections for aesthetic purposes, which happened to allow people to look outside through the small platform at the stairway corner.
Fu Yuhan curled up his legs, sat on the ground, and opened his sketchbook.
This was his usual corner. There was no particular reason—in summer, the corridors were always hot, but this place was shaded and often had wind due to its structure, making it relatively cool.
After sitting here for a long time, he discovered that from this spot he could see over the school fence to the street trees and passersby outside. An old painter had once told him that if he wanted to quickly improve his ability to capture forms, he should find a corner to sit and sketch people.
Pedestrians were always moving. Even when they stopped somewhere, it wasn’t for long, and they wouldn’t maintain one position for extended periods like life drawing models. This required him to outline the general shape in an extremely short time, with some details needing to be filled in based on his understanding of human anatomy.
Another reason was that this corner was very quiet, allowing him to forget everything else and immerse himself completely.
But today there was an unexpected interruption.
When he was working on his second sketch, Fu Yuhan heard a somewhat familiar voice behind him: “Here again?”
His pen tip paused.
He turned around: “…Teacher Yao.”
The person was the Student Affairs Director, surnamed Yao. He was about fifty or sixty years old, with graying temples. Though he had a kind face, because he was in charge of discipline and stood at the school gate every Monday morning checking uniforms and appearance, students were somewhat intimidated when they saw him.
Fu Yuhan wasn’t particularly intimidated, but he hadn’t expected to run into him here.
This place—unless there were lab classes, neither teachers nor students came here much.
Director Yao tapped the watch face on his wrist: “If I’m not mistaken, it’s class time right now, isn’t it? Tell me yourself, how many times have I caught you now?”
“…This is the first time this semester.”
“Smart mouth.” Director Yao wasn’t angry; instead, he smiled. “School just started a few days ago—how can you say that with a straight face?”
If he dared to skip classes, how could he be embarrassed about being a smart mouth?
Fu Yuhan didn’t make a sound.
Director Yao looked at him, his gaze falling on the open sketchbook in his hands. The white paper reflected a subtle pearlescent gleam under the natural light, with the youth’s crisp strokes forming a street scene.
Unlike his own cold demeanor, Fu Yuhan’s brushwork wasn’t light or shallow. Particularly in the shadowed areas, his strokes were especially bold and vigorous, using contrast to clearly outline the silhouettes of figures illuminated by sunlight.
Using black and white contrast to create a sense of light wasn’t very easy. Even from a layperson’s perspective, it was a very good piece of artwork.
“Actually, I’ve seen you here several times,” Director Yao suddenly said. “I talked to your Teacher Zhou about it. He told me you’re a student with very special circumstances. I saw he had his own ideas, so I never came to catch you.”
His cool, calm eyes were like strings on an instrument, lightly plucked. Fu Yuhan lowered his eyes, then raised them again, turning half his face to look directly at Director Yao.
He was waiting for him to continue.
“You might wonder why I came today—it’s actually because you’re seniors now.” Director Yao continued. “You’ve been studying since freshman year, so entering senior year might not feel particularly special. You might even find it annoying when teachers constantly emphasize ‘senior year is important.’ But this really is a very important year. Even if the college entrance exam can’t determine a person’s entire life, it will change many things. I hope you…”
“I don’t find it annoying,” Fu Yuhan suddenly spoke.
His gaze dropped, looking somewhat listless, his voice unconsciously lowering. “Teacher Zhou has talked to me many times, but…”
“Feel like it’s not very easy?”
Fu Yuhan made an affirmative sound.
His slender fingers turned the pen half a circle and lightly tapped the paper twice: “Sometimes I also feel…”
“What?”
Fu Yuhan licked his lips and shook his head: “Nothing.”
He wasn’t good at laying himself bare. Some words would instinctively make him feel ashamed as soon as they reached his lips.
Asking for help seemed like the behavior of the weak. Teenage boys could do anything, but they absolutely wouldn’t want to lose face.
However, young people always had this misconception, thinking their disguise was perfect, not knowing that facing teachers who had lived decades longer, that bit of hesitation was quite easy to guess.
Director Yao pondered slightly: “Feel like you can’t find a goal?”
Fu Yuhan fell silent.
This reaction seemed like acknowledgment. Director Yao smiled: “I heard that during the volunteer survey at the end of last semester, you turned in a blank form… You don’t know which school you want to apply to, right?”
Some people chose schools based on rankings, some based on majors—Fu Yuhan was interested in neither.
At the time, staring at that blank survey form, Fu Yuhan himself found it amazing. He thought for an entire class period and ultimately turned in a blank sheet.
“I’ve seen you skipping classes to draw outside several times,” Director Yao asked. “Why not consider art school?”
“…” Fu Yuhan paused. “Training is required before the exam… my mom wouldn’t agree.”
“We can work on the parents! What can senior year teachers do? Isn’t it to help you solve problems? Once you find your path, go ahead and walk it boldly. When you encounter difficulties, tell your teachers—only then can teachers help you.”
Director Yao was indeed someone who had done student work for many years—his tone when persuading was completely different from when lecturing. At least in this moment, Fu Yuhan didn’t see the shadow of the “demon” who caught people dyeing their hair at the school gate. Instead, he was very… earnestly persuasive.
Just like Zhou Wenkang.
“However—” Director Yao’s tone shifted, “even if you’re taking the art exam, you still need a foundation in academic subjects. If you want to get into a good art school, you need to pass the minimum scores for Chinese and English, right? 75 points for both subjects—are you confident about that?”
Fu Yuhan: “…”
“Then why aren’t you hurrying back to class?”
“…”
“So after all that talk, you’re still here to catch me.” Fu Yuhan sighed, closed his sketchbook, and slowly stood up from the ground. “Teacher Yao, your tactics are getting deeper and deeper.”
“I didn’t scold you, didn’t deduct points, didn’t give you disciplinary action.” Director Yao laughed and scolded. “Be content! Getting a good deal and still acting cute.”
Whether it was a good deal or not, Fu Yuhan didn’t know. He only knew that today’s sketching session was ruined again.
But—
It didn’t seem too bad.
He had been sitting at the corner between the second and third floors. Class 6’s classroom was on the third floor of another building. He said goodbye to Director Yao and walked upstairs holding his sketchbook.
There was a wooden door between the staircase and the corridor. Since no one came here, the door was always ajar. Fu Yuhan pulled open the door and was about to walk through when he suddenly froze.
He instinctively looked back—Director Yao had already gone downstairs and left.
“What are you doing here?” Only then did he speak, closing the wooden door behind him as if trying to hide something. “Isn’t it class time now?”
Wen Yu had his arms crossed, back against the wall beside the wooden door, his two long legs crossed and extended forward. Hearing the question, he tilted his head slightly, stared at Fu Yuhan for a while, then smiled: “Aren’t you here too?”
“How is that the same? I…” Fu Yuhan paused.
Wen Yu asked back: “What’s different about it?”
One was supposedly a good student with excellent grades who transferred directly into the key class and was praised by teachers from all subjects upon arrival; the other was the bottom of Class 6 who skipped classes every few days—
Of course they were different.
But Fu Yuhan didn’t want to personally voice this disparity.
He remained silent, then thought again—Wen Yu skipping class didn’t really have anything to do with him.
It was just a bit strange… no need to investigate deeply.
“Nothing.” His long, dense lashes fluttered twice. Fu Yuhan said, “I’m going back to class.”
He lifted his foot to leave. Wen Yu clicked his tongue and grabbed his arm.
Fu Yuhan was forced to stop, somewhat impatient: “What?”
“Just now in the office, you looked at me twice.” Wen Yu smiled. “I thought you might have something… you wanted to say to me.”
The office?
Fu Yuhan was stunned.
Except for that glance back when leaving, he had been looking at Wen Yu with his peripheral vision the whole time. How did Wen Yu know he was looking at him?
Wasn’t he talking to Zhou Wenkang?
“I have nothing to say.” Fu Yuhan unconsciously licked his lips. “I wasn’t looking at you either…” He suddenly realized something was wrong and frowned. “Wait, you didn’t follow me here, did you?”
Wen Yu raised an eyebrow.
Then his eyes curved, smiling as happily as could be: “You finally noticed.”
Fu Yuhan: “…”
Fu Yuhan: “Why are you following me?”
“It’s fun.” Wen Yu said. “If I hadn’t followed you here, I wouldn’t have known you had such elegant hobbies—skipping class not to play ball, but hiding in a place like this to draw. Hey, I have to say, this place is pretty good. I’ve been standing here for half an hour, and except for Director Yao who came to catch you, I haven’t seen a single living person…”
“Are you a voyeur? You can watch here for half an hour?” Fu Yuhan frowned. “And why didn’t Director Yao lecture you?”
Could it be that good students didn’t get in trouble for skipping class? That was too much of a double standard.
“Guess?” Wen Yu tilted his head.
His innocent appearance looked particularly annoying in the eyes of Fu Yuhan, who felt he was being treated with double standards.
Fu Yuhan yanked his arm back and glared at him.
“Guess my ass.” After saying this, he strode away.
Fu Yuhan was tall with clean, sharp contours. His figure fell in the middle of the long, empty corridor, gradually moving away.
Wen Yu watched his two long legs alternating forward, his moving waist pulling at his school uniform, creating straight creases back and forth, and finally laughed softly.
This wasn’t the smile Wen Yu used to show others—it was a genuine desire to laugh, so it was very shallow and light.
“As expected,” Wen Yu thought to himself, “compared to dejected depression, an angry expression suits him much better.”
—Vivid.
##
